Kitt and I sat in the chapel afterwards—a peaceful place for contemplation. That was when, for the first time, he unburdened his soul to me by describing a scandalous trial in which the defendant was a roguish army captain who had carried on intrigues with two married daughters of a nobleman, both of the ladies now with child.
He confided to me, “My mind was sorely troubled by the mean-spiritedness, the deceit and the perverse joy of the guilty parties. There is a lurking trait of disloyalty in many a human heart, and such duplicity bothers me greatly.”
A thunderbolt of shame struck me. There should be no secrets between us. Why had I lacked faith in Kitt, to trust that he would still love me once he knew of the disgraceful episode in my past? The time had come to tell him everything about my thievery and being Candelas’s girl. I willed myself to speak.
“There is something that I haven’t told you yet about my journey to Zaragoza.”
He nearly dropped his hat. Patiently, he waited for me to continue.
So, I just said it. “I had the great misfortune to come under the power of the bandit Luis Candelas.”
“What did you say?” He nervously looked round to make sure we were alone.
“This bandit took away my passports and walking-boots. He threatened all sorts of things, to cut off my finger, to rob me, to return me to Don Fausto, unless I did his bidding.”
He turned pale. “What did he make you do?”
“He made me his unwilling creature. He made me steal. The police shot at us, but we escaped.”
“Oh, dear God,” he murmured.
A thick unbearable silence followed.
“If he harmed you in any way …” He gripped the hat in his hands.
We both knew what he meant. I shook my head. Even so, I had been ruined just by being alone with Candelas and breathing the same air as him. And when Kitt heard how I had slept in the galera with Candelas, and about the bandit’s farewell kiss, he winced in pain as if my revelations had cut him deeply. Never again would he mention Candelas after that, but I sensed his gloom. Quiet and preoccupied he became. Three days later, he told me that he was leaving for Glasgow.
Heavy grey clouds portended rain. They shaped themselves into a combative Colossus who stood astride the harbor, his fists ready to guard the town-folk from intruders. The sea-coast of Yorkshire had turned bleak and dingy, and Scarborough, like other fishing-towns to the north and south, prepared itself for a good drowning.
“No!” I stamped my foot.
Kitt hopped out of the way to avoid a toe-crushing.
“Please, please don’t leave me.” I flung my arms round his neck.
“It’s for the best,” were his sober words. “These past three days I’ve thought it over carefully.”
“It’s not for the best.”
“I must speak to my father alone.”
“Why can’t I come with you? I want to see Glasgow.”
He rested his forehead on mine. “I’ve told you why. It will be more difficult for me if you do.”
“Your parents hate me. Please, Kitt, we don’t need their money.”
“We must be prudent. Come, now, I shall return in a fortnight.”
He resolved to have a marriage settlement in place for me and our future children in the event that something happened to him. His mind was made up, and nothing could shake it, not even my loud protests.
“The colonel agrees that I should go. ‘A very wise decision it is,’ he told me, concerned that you be well provided for and given the respect due to you as my wife.”
I remained unconvinced. “I’m being punished because of my connection to you-know-who, that bandit,” and, oh, how I wept on his shoulder.
His arms round me turned limp. “You wrong me there, if you believe I’m vindictive.”
“You’re not, oh, you’re not,” I replied, wanting his instant forgiveness and assurances, but none came.
His silent ire made me more desperate. Foolishly I put my foot in it again when I knew well enough that Kitt would stick true to those whom he loved.
“Margaret persuaded you not to take me with you,” was my bitter remark. Brother and sister had just returned from Cole’s Library, seconds before a downpour commenced. I came upon them speaking in hushed tones. And the day before that, they had strolled the cliffs above Cornelian Bay, our very own special place.
“Oh, Sofia, you wrongfully accuse her. She supports me in this.”
“Of course, she does. She despises me as well. It’s part of her plan to steal you away,” spoke my jealous heart.
With a monstrous sigh, he extricated himself from me. “I think you’ve said enough for now.” What he actually meant was, “I think you’ve said enough stupid and hurtful things for now.”
That morning, that afternoon, that evening, we remained at odds with one another. It couldn’t be helped, you know, in that two people both thought themselves right and the other person wrong. Whenever that happens, when two stubborn people clash, nothing is resolved.
Outside, a watchman’s sharp cry scolded me for my obstinacy. “Past nine o’clock—a cloudy and rainy night!”
Alone in bed, I hugged the bed-clothes to stop from shivering, though what good that did. It wasn’t the chill in the air that made me shudder, but rather, the remorse that plagued my guilty conscience. Why hadn’t I been more supportive of my husband? It was because I, Sofia-Elisabete, dreaded to be left behind, and I thought I could win over his parents with my sparkling personality—well, either that or make old Mrs. Munro hyp’d again.
Perhaps my husband had been right. I would ruin things for us in Glasgow.
Kitt quietly entered the room. He opened his writing-desk, and he scratched away, putting pen to paper for a goodly hour. When his candle was done, he came to bed. We lay there separate and apart in silence for a long while. Then came his faint sigh. Smothering a sigh of my own, I turned on my side, with my back to him, pretending to sleep. No sooner had I done this than he slipped his arms round me and he puffed warm words in my ear.
“Are you awake?”
I murmured out, “No.”
He tried to reason with me.
“Please, Sofia, I can’t bear the thought of you and our children not being safe and secure for the rest of your days. What if I can’t be there to help you? That’s why I have to do this. I must confront my father on my own. He can be obstinate and quick-tempered.”
I buried my face in the pillow.
“Querida mía, it’s our last night together for some time.”
This brought a lump to my throat, because I would miss our closeness and our night physic. Afraid of breaking the love spell, I lay very still, wondering how to urge him on.
“Don’t let’s have a quarrel again,” he pleaded in his soft voice, and he proceeded to do those little nibbling things that made me wild for him. Almost at once, my defenses broke down completely, and I turned round to kiss him.
Forgetting myself and my worries, I joined my husband in his vigorous love games. We had been sporting ourselves for some time, and making enough noise, apparently, with our cheers and whoops and huzzahs, when the colonel angrily rapped at our door.
“What the blazes! It’s York races in there.”
We young married lovers burst into breathless laughs.
The storm had subsided and, by daybreak, clear open weather prevailed. During our early breakfast, Kitt and I exchanged secret love-looks and sighs. Margaret ignored us. Her companion, the crimson-cheeked Miss Wilson, seemed particularly devoted to her tea and eggs this morning. Aggie sipped her spa-water, observing everyone. No one said a word.
The colonel rustled the two-days-old newspaper in his hand to gain my attention and Kitt’s.
“I dare say you could win the sweepstakes at York races with your relentless two-mile heats. Odsbodikins! I didn’t get much sleep, even with beeswax stuck in my ears.”
Just then, Margaret excused herself, as did Miss Wilson. They both wished to be gone.
>
“Did I speak amiss?”
Aggie shook her head at him. “Matters of a sensitive marital nature are not appropriate conversation in polite company, particularly where unmarried women are present.”
“Well, now, many an unmarried young woman accompanies her just-married sister on the honeymoon, and lives with the married couple afterwards.”
“Nevertheless—”
The colonel wore a sly grin. “Did not Miss Munro say that she will live with this newly-wedded pair? I doubt she is equal to the task now.”
Aggie tried to hush him up but to no purpose. Kitt cast me an apologetic look, which meant that everyone, except for me, had known about this.
Kitt pressed my hand to his heart, but I couldn’t look into his eyes without crying and causing a scene in public view. The gulls perched on the red-tiled roofs silently observed my misery. One gull took flight, then another, and then two more. Their plaintive caws nearly tore me apart.
“Promise me that you’ll wait here in Scarborough.”
“Promise me you’ll come back for me, Kitt.”
Words of love and sorrow stuck in my throat. Instead of sobbing out what I needed to say, I gave him a note with some lines I had dashed off, wherein I pledged my faithfulness, that I would never leave off thinking about him and loving him. I even forgave him for inviting Margaret to live with us, knowing he had done it with kindness, and I expressed my hope to become her friend.
Kitt gave me a packet of five letters bound up with a small string. “Read one each day until you receive my next letter, to be known as Letter 6,” were his instructions. Tenderly kissing my hand, he willed me to look at him. His gaze told me that I was the most important person in the world to him. And then he walked off with his sister and her companion to get into the Old True Blue, a diligence to Edinburgh.
Tears came, and the heartache, too, and I couldn’t stop them. In my miserable state, I threw back my head and moaned out his name so pitifully, not caring about my emotional display.
“Brother, come back!” Margaret cried out. “The diligence will leave without you.”
Kitt, upon hearing my doleful lament, had rushed back to my side, concerned for my well-being. He took me in his arms to comfort me. Then, throwing off his usual reserve, he kissed me very husband-like, very lover-like, in the way he always did when we were alone. He did this in plain sight of everyone.
“Brother, make haste!” Margaret was in a fret and fever to get him to Glasgow.
He spoke over his shoulder, “All right, Margaret, all right.”
After taking one last look at me, he raced back to the diligence, and not a moment too soon. When the Old True Blue disappeared behind the crest of a hill, I knew he was gone and I was on my own for the first time since we had married.
I was still touching my lips where Kitt had kissed me, amazed still at his boldness, when the colonel came forward. He took a firm hold of my arm as we walked, probably worried that I might stumble or, worse yet, collapse.
“A good soldier is deficient neither in constancy, nor in courage,” he reminded me of one of his favorite military maxims.
“I’m quite steady now, colonel.”
“There’s a soldier-girl,” and he patted my arm.
It seems I’m stronger than I thought. It helped, of course, to have the colonel’s companionship. That was how the two of us came to stroll the secluded north sands, the scene of so many of our shared memories from an age ago. It is here, amongst the serene reflective waters and the untamed sea-shore, that secrets like to reveal themselves, but only if you care to listen to them.
I stroked my necklace. “Red beads, what is it you need to tell me?”
They had been flashing hot and cold. Little did I know that the colonel had heard me mumbling to myself.
“Do your beads talk to you often?”
“Oh yes.”
“Should I be concerned about it, my poppet?”
I gasped upon hearing that old familiar endearment, the one he had used when he found me, the abandoned little girl, in a convent in York.
“What did you call me?”
He shrugged. No matter how hard I tried to get the colonel to talk about it, he refused to say anything more. Perhaps he feared that the memory of me—the four-year-old erstwhile foundling—would elude him again if he dared to utter a word? There was nothing for it then but to hope that the memory would stick in his brain, so that he wouldn’t be afraid of losing it (and me).
Gulls squawked overhead. The scavengers alighted on the sands where they squabbled over dead things that had washed up on the shore. We had almost reached Scalby Mill, a tea house nestled in the surrounding hills, when we came upon a swallow reposed on a tangle of seaweed. It lay on its back, its wings half-spread, its beak pointing to heaven. The bird had lacked the strength to join the flight of swallows to Africa for the winter. It preferred to die near the North Sea, instead of some lonely place along the migration route, and that’s exactly what it had done. We buried it deep in the sands, safe from the sea-shore scavengers.
Twelve longish days later, his Letter 9 arrived. Kitt finally admitted defeat. “My ain dear Sofia,” it began sweetly as usual. “The news here is not good. My father and I had another big row about the marriage settlement, which he refuses to give me unless I work for my uncle in Glasgow. I cannot tell him yet about my plans to study medicine, without making Brodie’s life difficult. My father has a very low opinion of physicians, surgeons and the like. You know me too well. I refuse to give up our dreams. Expect me soon, then, for I will fly as quick as a swallow. I miss you terribly.”
But he didn’t return a few days later by land or by sky, upon the heels of his letter, nor did he write again. The morning of the third day I knew something had gone wrong. Worried to death, I sent a letter to Margaret, concerned about Kitt’s whereabouts. When had he left Glasgow? We had received no reports of overturned coaches.
In my wretched solitude, I counted the passing hours of each day, anxious for Margaret’s reply. No word came. I was of a mind to go to Glasgow. The colonel said he would make the arrangements and accompany me. We would leave on the morrow. My trunk having been packed by Baillie, my efficient lady’s-maid, I soon became restless, with nothing to do. Everyone urged me to take a sea-airing and to drink the spa-water for my health.
So began my lonely ramble on the south sands, now peaceful in October with the season being well over. There, I observed some workmen with their horse-carts, unloading a cutter on the shore. Sniffing amongst the barrels and crates was a spotted dog. I had been staring at it for a while, my mind in a worry, when I heard someone approaching. The colonel’s step was heavy, his face grim. In his hand he held two letters sealed with black wax—the symbol of death. My red beads turned to ice.
“Mrs. Munro, the expresses just arrived,” he gravely told me. “One came from Glasgow, the other from London.”
“Glasgow—it must be from Margaret.” Hastily I broke the seal, my hands a-trembling.
“Dear Sister,” it began. “It grieves me to inform you that Kitt drowned at sea …” and then the words blurred. I crumpled up the letter, believing it a cruel joke. The black-edged letter said otherwise.
A deep chill entered my body—this alarming, frightening, overwhelming feeling Kitt would break his promise to return to me. Kitt Munro!—I wanted to shout out his name, to bring him magically back to life. The gulls circling above began to shriek, and I cried out with them, our scattered shrieks drawing the attention of the laundry-women at the cliffs and the boys catching crabs on the sands.
“Poor, poor girl,” said the colonel, who drew me to him, uttering assurances of some sort or other while he attempted to quiet me.
After a sad while, when the gulls had gone, when the laundry-women had laid out their washed linen, and the boys had caught their crabs, the colonel took the letter from my hand. He told me what the writer had said, though I still didn’t wish to hear it.
They had search
ed for days but failed to recover Kitt’s body, it having been swept out to the great Atlantic beyond. Kitt had expressed a desire to see Fingal’s Cave on the Isle of Staffa before he left Scotland. Ignoring the mariner’s warnings, Kitt threw himself into the sea, thinking he could swim straight into the cave, but the waters were too cold, too rough near the massive basalt columns. He vanished, never to resurface. Everyone was in deep mourning, their mother deathly ill at the loss of her son. Their dog Dryden howled for days.
The colonel gave me the crumpled letter.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. “Why would he go to the Scottish Hebrides at this time of year? And why would he, a deliberate young man, jump into the waters?”
“My man loves adventure and the sea,” and I melted into tears.
Had Kitt’s journey been doomed from the beginning? Had the dead swallow foretold death? I berated myself for letting Kitt out-stubborn me. I should’ve gone to Glasgow with him.
The letter, that bearer of bad news, slipped from my hand, and it sailed forth on a gust of wind, straight into the sea. The winds of death returned, twisting itself into a violent whirling mass, and it whisked me off, much to my horror, spinning me higher and higher, faster and faster, directly into a thin stratus. Suddenly I was screaming and sliding along the veiled layer of cloud, seconds from plummeting a thousand feet into the bay.
I know not how I came to be dangling precariously from a cloud, upside down, and blown to and fro by the sea-wind. It was then, in this strange pendulous state, that I heard Kitt’s voice chant the saddest of dirges—one written by his favorite poet by the name of Shelley.
Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Only Sofia-Elisabete Page 30