Chapter Two

Destiny

MY FIRST MOTHER, thinks I, was she who gave birth to me, a bolero dancer by the name of Marisa Soares Belles. I dreamt of her often, this lindissima, she being a young beauty of eighteen years adorned with ribbons and spangles and a bright red flower in her dark hair. At the mid-night hour under a cold sleepy moon, she placed a baby girl in the roda – the foundling turnbox wheel at the convent – and she took her leave without a backward glance, snapping her castanets and dancing a spritely bolero under the beams of moonlight. ‘Olé!’ cried she, her arms raised in a graceful, defiant attitude. And here, at that very moment, my dream ended, but I dared not speak of it to papai out of fear he would become cross with me again.

After we quit Matlock – and with little regret, as papai would tell me, for he so much disliked his mother – we journeyed to the city of York, where we rented private apartments at Mrs Beazley’s boarding house, a timber-framed dwelling on Blossom Street near the crumbling Micklegate Bar. Papai said this was our half-pay home, what with the war being over and he being on half-pay. Together we strolled the tree-lined New Walk along the River Ouse, where I observed many a mother and father promenading with their brood of children. A cloud of wistfulness enveloped me, when I seized upon a brilliant idea.

‘Papai, can we buy a new mamãe?’

Papai laughed. ‘Where would we buy her?’

‘At the grocers.’

‘O, ho!’ Papai pointed his walking-stick at Mr and Mrs Hart, they being fellow worshippers at my chapel, as they strolled arm in arm in front of us. ‘You shan’t ever see me living in the Land of Henpeckism, ordered about by a wife. You see before you a manly man, unshackled and free, and in that state I shall remain until I die a fusty old bachelor.’

The Harts must’ve heard papai’s speech, because they turned round, casting him a look of disdain, and when he tipped his hat to them, they acknowledged him not. Papai thought the whole thing a joke – he, a son of an earl, being given the cut by the ‘middling sort’. I wondered what a middle person was, and I recalled Lady Matlock having mentioned that I had sprung from a low creature.

‘Papai, am I a low or middle creature?’

‘Truthfully, you are neither because you are my creature.’ Papai winked at me.

The day next, after papai reclaimed me at the convent school where I was a day-pupil, I begged him to take us to Tuke’s Grocers, a Quaker-run shop on Castlegate where we could buy Tuke’s Superior Rock Cocoa – pure cocoa and sugar shaped into cakes – which Cook would use to prepare chocolate for breakfast. My papai, being obliging most days for his sweetest little girl in the world, as he was wont to call me, hired a hackney and away we went.

There, at Tuke’s, I stood before the display of chocolate, pretending to admire the superior rock cocoa, cocoa coffee and rich cocoa, the earthy-beefy-sweaty-honeyish aroma tickling my nose. Beside me, and far more interesting, stood Mr Tuke’s young niece, who busied herself with arranging the cakes of chocolate. I scrutinised this gentle Quakeress with her kind grey eyes.

‘Miss Tuke, how much are you?’

She started at my question. ‘I beg your pardon, little miss?’

‘I wish to buy a new mamãe.’

‘Well, now, mammas can’t be bought.’

I waved her off. ‘Papai bought a fresh, young thing once…’

Miss Tuke gasped. ‘Bless me!’

‘…for six bob. I heard him say so.’

‘Poppet? There you are. Off we go…’ Papai grasped my hand. ‘Now, there’s an odd thing. I could swear the lovely Miss Tuke just gave me the cut.’

On the ride back to Blossom Street, I observed the poor children begging on the streets.

‘Look papai.’ I pointed out the window of our hackney. ‘That girl has only one shoe. And that boy over there. And that little girl, too.’

‘Methinks that is the only shoe they’ve got.’ Papai patted my hand.

This bewildered me. ‘Can they buy another shoe at whippa-whoppa-gate?’

‘Whipmawhopmagate? They are too poor to do so, my dear child.’

I wiggled my toes inside the new leather shoes with ribbon rosettes that papai had bought for me the other day at Whipmawhopmagate, and I struggled with my conscience about giving up one of my pretty shoes and having to walk lopsided. In the end I decided that would not do. There must be a better way, given my destiny to be a nun like Sister Matilde, for I had resolved to join the sisterhood and ride a burrinho. Ai de mim! How I wished my destiny was chocolate instead. I imagined myself roaming the streets atop my piebald donkey, with my tin pail filled with the delicious chocolate that I would feed to the poor and hungry children who gathered round me, eager to fill their empty bellies. I congratulated myself on a brilliant plan, but how would I learn the secret of making chocolate?

Enter Agnes Wharton.

In mid-July, 1814, papai announced we would decamp to Scarborough, a seaside town on the Yorkshire coast, our travelling companions being the Bennet family and our cousin Georgiana Darcy, she being my papai’s ward, for he was joined in guardianship of her, this younger sister of cousin Darcy. I heard Mr Bennet joke with papai that we would lodge with Mrs Wharton, a really ancient and cripply widow who was nearly connected to the Bennets. When we arrived at a three-storey, red-brick house on Queen Street, no one stood outside the door to greet us. Just then, the door swung open, and a shadowy figure standing in the interior called out to us.

‘Why is everyone still dawdling on the street? Come in! Come in!’ beckoned the crusty old widow. ‘Symcox, where are you? Show them into the parlour.’

An ancient, decrepit butler tottered his way to the vestibule, and he led us to a neatly-furnished parlour.

Mrs Wharton seized his ear trumpet, and she held it to his ear. ‘I ought to dismiss you for making me answer my own door,’ she scolded him.

The impertinent butler burst into a guffaw ere he shuffled his way out.

Mrs Wharton gave a friendly laugh. ‘Ah, well, he never listens to me.’

I gaped at Mrs Wharton, who, being an ancient forty years of age, was still a handsome woman with reddish brown hair and sparkling green eyes.

Puzzled by this, I tugged at papai’s hand. ‘Is she the old tabby we come to see?’

Papai coloured as he tried to hush me.

‘Old tabby?’ Mrs Wharton held up a quizzing glass to inspect papai up and down, he doing the same to her sans quizzing glass, because nothing could intimidate a British officer like him.

‘Papai, you looked at her bubbies.’ I giggled into my hand.

Papai picked me up in his arms to give me a quick gooseberry kiss. ‘Your papai is an army man, and he cannot help himself,’ said he in a half-whisper.

I discovered then that grown-ups often do not make any sense, and there was nothing for it but to ignore them when that happened. Later, at dinner, papai stole many a glance at Mrs Wharton, as if she had bewitched him. I know this to be true, because the next day, I owned that I overheard the two of them whispering about what a lovely time they had last night. Ere long papai began to do strange things, such as getting his hair dressed, bathing twice in one week and wearing sandalwood scent.

‘Papai, are you flirting?’

‘Flirting, you say?’ Papai coloured. ‘Where did you learn such a word?’

‘I heard Mrs Wharton say so.’

‘Well, now, you see before you a man who’s flirting with Mrs Wharton and proudly so.’

On Sunday papai escorted me and Mrs Wharton to the Catholic chapel on Auborough Street where we celebrated Mass and where I thought I had a revelation. ‘Sister Lisbet, you came back for me,’ I embraced Mrs Wharton, who was all astonishment. Papai flinched at the mention of Sister Lisbet as he always does for some reason, and he turned so very pale. I had no sooner caused a scene during the middle of Mass, than Sister Lisbet appeared before me, and she begged me to hush. ‘Calai-vos,’ she whispered into my ear, and she promised to tell me a secret soon about Mrs Wharton.

One evening, when we had joined a party of pleasure to the town of Whitby, something singular happened. Snug in the cradle of papai’s arm, I pretended to sleep while he and Mrs Wharton held hands, gazing at the Northern Lights, which only they and I could see. That same night of our Northern Lights, Sister Lisbet appeared in my dream, her red capa flowing about her, her red roses tumbling from her hands, and she told me the meaning of the Northern Lights, but I shan’t tell anyone what it is – what she said of papai’s and Mrs Wharton’s destinies being united. Besides, you would never believe it unless you have a strong faith like mine.

Things being so, it bewildered me when papai announced in early August that we would decamp for Pemberley, thereby abandoning Mrs Wharton in Scarborough for ever. I made a fuss, but papai, with an officer-like coolness, remained firm and determined. ‘Adeus, Mrs Wharton.’ I sobbed in her arms, for I had to come to adore her. Adeus – that’s how we bid farewell to folks in Portugal. Then, a few weeks later, papai ordered me to pack my bags to decamp to York. All this decamping made my head spin like a teetotum, like a wooden top. Enough, I told myself. I bundled up my doll, and I ran away. ‘Adeus, papai, adeus!’ But Bixby picked up my scent, and he led papai to the stables where I had hidden myself under the straw next to Pie, my loyal donkey. Papai laughed as he pulled me out feet first.

‘Come here, you silly gooseberry.’

‘I a’n’t goin’,’ insisted I. ‘It i’n’t fair.’

Papai cupped his right ear. ‘Did I hear you talk like a stable-boy?’

‘I talks like you.’ I sat with my arms folded, petulant as ever.

‘O fie! I a’n’t one to talks like a stable-boy.’

When papai advised me of the real reason for our leave-taking, namely, to meet up with Mrs Wharton for York races, I threw a handful of straw up in the air with glee and cried out, ‘Adeus, Pie-O! I am for York.’ Now, having returned to York, I decided ’twas time to give a broad hint to my papai, so I began to call Mrs Wharton my mamãe, and sure enough, papai proposed to her, not once, but twice. Ai de mim! She rejected him both times, telling him that he was not ready for marriage and that he suffered from fits of jealousy. Furthermore, his ‘honeyed’ words, ‘Oh, hang it, I love you, Aggie’, would not convince her otherwise.

After mamãe returned to Scarborough without us, papai announced his need of French courage now that he was no longer cagg’d. I asked him what his cagg was, and he told me of a vow he had made of not getting drunk on brandy for six months. He shook his finger at me. ‘Don’t you know – my cagg is out?’ He sat in his bedchamber, singing a song in praise of the mighty roast beef of old England, and he swore again and again like a drunken soldier. ‘Ready. Present. Fire!’ And he would gulp down more of this stinking thing called French courage.

The next morning, having witnessed and smelt the effects of the wicked liquor on my papai, I wrote two letters using my best penmanship: one to cousin Darcy, and one to mamãe. I begged them to help me, because my papai was a ‘stinkin human bean’. Our landlady sent the letters by the post, and thereafter I prayed. Several days later, when cousins Darcy and Georgiana arrived at our boarding house, they heard me howling like a monkey, but unbeknown to them, I had been stung by a bee, and papai had been sucking the venom out from my wound.

‘Unhand her, you foul fiend.’ Cousin Darcy snatched me from papai. I could hear him and my papai shouting at each other as Georgiana carried me away.

‘Now see here, Darcy,’ papai tried to reason with him.

‘You cannibal,’ thundered cousin Darcy. ‘How dare you hurt your own child.’

‘You are a dolt,’ retorted papai.

‘Did you spit on my bespoke waist-coat? Well, now, prepare yourself to die, cousin.’

Ai! They had no sooner begun to fight at fisticuffs, than mamãe arrived at the boarding house. She tried to talk sense to them, but they much preferred to argue and wrestle. ‘Men!’ declared mamãe as she came down the stairs.

Their bout finally at an end, cousin Darcy and papai joined us in the parlour, unashamed of the red marks on their faces from having knocked each other down. Mamãe insisted that papai stop drinking and gadding about with a miscreant named Mr O. P. Umm and that he speak to Father O’Shaughnessy, or Father O as we called him. But papai refused. ‘I shan’t speak with a priest,’ he stamped his foot. My heart sank to my toes. Mamãe rose to leave, and I began to weep, believing we would lose her for ever. She had not taken more than three steps, when papai grasped her hand, and he confessed that he had sinned, and sinned again, and again and again, and that he promised to speak to Father O.

‘Papai, how many times have you sinned?’

He grimaced. ‘Too many times, my girl.’

‘God will forgive you,’ I consoled him.

‘Let us hope He will.’

And so we decamped once more, both of our cousins Darcy and Georgiana joining us, to return to Scarborough where papai could speak with Father O. It was then that mamãe surprised us by taking us to Bunberry House, her estate in Hackness, where she oversees a Catholic school for poor girls and where Father O celebrates Mass with them each month. While my cousins and I strolled in the garden, we overheard papai’s outburst on the other side of the yew hedges.

‘I beg your pardon. But you do…who do…what?’

‘Hush, Colonel. I said I have been financing trade with countries on the continent, and I have used the profits to sustain the school and maintain the estate,’ mamãe revealed to him.

‘My God! You’re a smuggler.’

‘Nay. I am a tradeswoman.’

‘I would rather you be a ruthless pirate,’ grumbled papai.

‘What? And not give you quarter every Sunday night?’

‘You minx,’ thundered papai. ‘Your feminine arts and allurements shall not beguile me this time.’

Just when their big row became interesting, Georgiana led me away to the main house. ‘Não, não, não,’ protested I, but obey Georgiana I did. At the parlour window, I stood on the watch, and from there I espied, with a glad heart, my papai and mamãe in the garden embracing each other. To be sure, all would be right in our world again. Nevertheless, I wished to hasten matters, so I summoned up my magical powers to cast a spell on my papai and mamãe to make them marry soon.

After dinner, we walked the trod to River Cottage, a hermitage on the estate, where we bedded down for the night – mamãe and Georgiana and I in one bedchamber, papai and cousin Darcy in another bedchamber, and Father O in the library. The soothing gurgles of the River Derwent promised us a deep slumber, when, of a sudden, papai cried out, ‘Riflemen! Riflemen!’; for, he had many a nightmare about the war. The next morning Father O and papai disappeared down by the river bank to have a long talk, and while they were gone, I discovered that mamãe knew the secret of chocolate.

Mamãe believes every woman, rich or poor, should learn how to care for themselves, which meant cooking, cleaning, &c. Here, at River Cottage, she reigned as mistress, housekeeper and cook. My cousin Georgiana expressed shock at seeing mamãe in the kitchen, but not I. Unlike Georgiana – she being a young lady of quality who would never go near the kitchen, much less know how to cook – I and the other foundlings at the Convento do Desterro had gathered onions, garlic, chile, potatoes and cabbage to prepare our sopa de peixe, a meagre soup, each day.

I stood there entranced at the kitchen-door as mamãe stirred the shavings of rock cocoa with fresh milk and some spices in a pot over a charcoal fire. She brought the pot to the table, where she began to mill the mixture, and once she had tossed some flour into the mixture, she milled it again. When she returned the pot to the charcoal fire, she added several drops of a magic potion that she kept in a phial, and she stirred the mixture.

‘Mamãe, what’s in the magic bottle?’

‘It’s a secret.’

‘What’s the secret?’ persisted I, my curiosity insatiable.

‘Love and forgiveness,’ revealed she.

When Father O and papai returned from their river talk to join us for breakfast, papai joked that he was in need of sustenance. I thought he was right, given his red-rimmed, watery eyes and haggard face. I kissed his hand to bless him, as was our habit each morning and each evening, and he mustered up a grin for me, but soon thereafter he closed his eyes, his lips quivering ever and anon. Father O clapped papai on the back. ‘God bless Soofia-Eee. All childher are special.’

I sat at table next to papai, impatient for Father O to get on with it and say grace, for I was a naughty child. Oh, how I coveted the silver pot sitting there on the table and the mystery therein. Once papai poured me a cup of chocolate and the liquid cooled enough for my tastes, I greedily slurped half of it down. When I had done, I proudly displayed my chocolate moustache to him, thinking he would find it droll, but he only sighed with an impenetrable sadness ere he wiped my moustache away.

While we breakfasted, papai glanced many a time at mamãe, and she at him, and with each forkful of food he ate, his humour improved.

‘Who prepared the eggs if we do not have a cook here?’ Papai swallowed a piece of poached egg.

‘I did,’ Georgiana proudly revealed.

‘W-w-what? Is it safe to swallow?’ Papai winked at his ward.

‘I can assure you that Miss Darcy’s poached eggs are safe,’ mamãe defended Georgiana’s skill.

Papai humphed. ‘Well, now, Georgiana, seeing how we have no servants, shall you be scullery-maid and clean the dishes?’ papai teased her.

‘Colonel, do you know what a pail of slops is?’ Mamãe’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

Papai hesitated, casting a suspicious look at her. ‘Is this fatigue duty?’ Whenever papai didn’t want to do something, he would always call it fatigue duty for some reason.

‘The Colonel an’ I will gladly clean the kitchen for ye,’ offered Father O.

‘We will, Father O?’ Of a sudden papai checked himself, grinning at me. ‘Ay, to be sure we will.’

It seemed papai would do almost anything for mamãe – even empty the pail of slops and scrub the kitchen – if only she would accept his hand. Ai! Two whole months passed ere my magic spell finally took hold. Papai seemed far less troubled, now that he read the Bible each morning and met often with Father O to discuss his long list of ‘frailties’.

Papai proposed again. And mamãe accepted his hand this time. She smiled and patted my cheek when I said my spell had worked. She explained that unlike his first two scanty proposals, his third proposal convinced her that he no longer desired to possess her, having understood that she belonged to God, as did we all. For some reason, knowing this gave him peace, as he said, and this peacefulness, in turn, helped to restore his faith in himself, and as Father O would remind him, he had the power, the love and a sound mind to address his weaknesses. My wee brain struggled to understand this grown-up talk, but I gave up. With an inward shrug, I remained convinced that my magical powers had brought change.

Father O, with a gladness in his heart, received papai into the Catholic Church, and thereafter my parents got married, first at St. Mary’s, the Anglican church, by the vicar there, and then at the Catholic chapel at Bunberry House. To our amazement, my avô attended the wedding ceremony at Bunberry chapel, this despite Lady Matlock’s objections to the marriage and me – I, Sofia-Elisabete, whom she still referred to as a foreign love brat and the natural daughter of a low creature. I had a new mamãe, but Lady Matlock’s cutting remarks reminded me of my unfortunate destiny, one where I was connected with the mysterious bolero dancer, this Marisa Soares Belles, who lived in a land far far away. And so I was.