History of Sofia - Part 1
Any tale of her childhood must begin with her father.
Robert Knightley came from Enchancia, the third surviving infant born to Hubert and Marie Knightley, and ultimately one of five children. Hubert Knightley was a laborer who dug ditches and broke rocks in exchange for a sack of meal, or a length of cloth, or, if he were lucky, a small coin - whatever he could earn. Marie was a tidy housekeeper who could prepare a feast from a wild rabbit and a few apples. Poor as they were, they managed to keep their family fed and sheltered, and were as content as could be expected.
I should apologize now for a tale which may seem nothing more than a catalogue of sickness and death, but I know very few people whose lives are not measured off by the lives lost around them. Robert Knightley was five years old when his mother and two of his sisters were taken by whatever disease was depopulating Enchancia that summer. His infant sister, Joanne, had been sent for her own safety to an Aunt and Uncle in Fairburn, and there she remained after her mother's death, since her father had no means to care for her. Hubert Knightley kept his two sons, but Richard, the elder, who had always been lazy and troublesome, ran wild without a mother to guide him and, within a year, had run off to join the army, or go to sea, or become some other drain on society, and was never heard of again.
This left Robert and his father with no one but each other. Robert was a stout lad, unafraid to take on the heaviest loads, young as he was. He kept house for his father and, though he burned his share of suppers and broke his share of dishes, the two of them settled into a happy, bachelor existence. Until the day when, digging in the hot sun, Hubert Knightley fell dead in the street, his shovel clutched tight in his hands.
Robert Knightley was nine years old, and was packed off at once to the Aunt and Uncle in Fairburn, to be reunited with a little sister who had no idea who he was. When the Aunt and Uncle had taken in baby Joanne, they had just begun a family of their own. By now, however, there were enough hungry mouths around the table that Robert's was not a welcome sight. Within a matter of days, he was apprenticed and put out to earn his own way in the world.
Fairburn, as you may know, is famous for its woolen trade, and Robert was apprenticed to a weaver named Henri Bernard. Bernard was a good master, and taught Robert everything he knew about wool. Robert was an eager student, and a diligent worker, and Bernard was pleased with his progress. So much so that he brought the boy to the attention of Bill Lockhart.
Bill Lockhart was a cloth merchant, one of the richest men in the town. Sofia remembered knowing him when she was a very little girl. He was immense, to her sight, and moved very slowly, like a drowsy bear. He had no hair, his nose was as broad and flat as his mouth and his skin was as dark as the night sky. He had a low voice, that seemed to be buried somewhere in the earth beneath his feet, and she could remember him bowing to her with a solemn air and asking, "How are you today, Sofia?" He would wait until she had answered, "Very well, sir, thank you," as Papa had taught her, then he would nod and say, "Good," and go on about his business. He was never anything but kind and gentle toward her, but she was always a little afraid of him.
He was one of the richest men in town, but you wouldn't have known it to look at him. He worked hard to present an image of frugality, and strove to convince everyone that he was a close, tight-fisted man with a heart of stone, but he was always undercutting this front with the most startling acts of generosity. For instance, there was the story of José, a young man who had come all the way from Castille with his wife and little else. He had found work as a shepherd on a farm in the neighborhood, but had died within a year of his arrival. His widow had no family at hand, and spoke English only haltingly, but Bill Lockhart just happened to come to the conclusion at about that time that he required another servant in his house, and that José's widow would suit his needs as well as anyone. She became a favored maid to Bill Lockhart's jolly wife, and to his four merry daughters, and learned to speak the local tongue, though always with a charming accent. And you shall hear a little more about her, later.
Now, having met Robert Knightley and heard Henri Bernard's glowing reports of him, Bill Lockhart began to watch the boy's progress. Coming into Bernard's house one day, Bill Lockhart made a great show of going over a bill of sale he had brought with him. Frowning and squinting and looking down his nose at the scrap of paper, he had called Robert over and said, "Make that out for me, boy; my eyes aren't what they used to be." Robert answered that he could not; he did not know how to read. Bill Lockhart exclaimed that this was a fine situation, and demanded of Robert how he had managed to live so long without knowing one letter from another. Declaring the whole sorry state of affairs a disgrace, and taking a winking Bernard to task for neglecting the boy's education, Bill Lockhart arranged on the spot for Robert to go to a tutor three times a week and to learn to read and write and do figures. This was not a common practice, and Robert knew it well, but the more he tried to thank Bill Lockhart for this kindness, the more the old merchant insisted that it was nothing of the sort, that all apprentices were thus educated, and Bernard was a scoundrel for not having taken care of it himself. One way or the other, the result was that Robert did learn. And, by the time he was twenty, he was an educated man who knew everything anyone had ever known about wool, and he was working (and prospering) as Bill Lockhart's assistant.
Bill Lockhart's wife had died by this time, but the Castillian housekeeper was still there, and she became, if not a second mother to Robert, at least a doting Aunt. It was she who was the friend of the farmwife, Mrs. Chesterfield, and she who introduced Robert Knightley to Mrs. Chesterfield's daughter, Miranda.
Miranda Chesterfield was not what the townsfolk would call a great beauty, but as farm girls went, she was quite charming, with her sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. Robert Knightley was taken with her at once, and she with him. It was a lengthy courtship, since Robert did not feel right about marrying until he could support a wife and family as generously as they deserved. Bill Lockhart gradually nudged him in that direction, however, and Robert and Miranda - nineteen and seventeen respectfully- finally stood up before the local priest, and settled down in a cozy house of their own.
Being a farm girl and not a fine town-lady, Miranda considered herself quite capable of keeping a house and a husband without a royal retinue of servants, and Robert, with his own humble beginnings, and the modest example of Bill Lockhart before him, deferred to her judgment. They hired one woman, a country widow with the constitution of a plowhorse - and a bit of the look of one as well, which had earned her the nickname of Pony. She was a help when it came to the heavy tasks, but Miranda, who was an efficient housekeeper and an excellent cook, took pride in doing nearly everything herself.
Miranda and Robert had been married for almost two years when they found themselves expecting a child. You'd think they were Adam and Eve and no one had ever had a baby before, for all the fuss they made. Miranda was anxious, even though she had Pony at hand, and her own mother not too far away to come in from her farm twice a week. Bill Lockhart stepped in, as well, and lent her his old Castillian housekeeper. The woman was wise in the mysteries of childbirth, and had successfully delivered all five children born so far to Bill Lockhart's own daughters. Her knowledge and attention did a great deal to calm Miranda's fears, and, when the baby came at last, in the wee hours of a July morning, it was the old Castillian woman who caught the child in her hands and joyously exclaimed, "Ah, such a beautiful little girl!"
The old Castillian woman swore by the saints that Miranda's had been the easiest delivery she'd attended in years, and her plump, rosy infant was a marvel of health, but Miranda was so convinced that the midwife had performed nothing short of a miracle that she insisted on naming the baby after her, and Robert, so relieved he would have fainted if he'd been a weaker man, gladly agreed. The old Castillian woman, you'll have guessed by now, was called Sofia.
Thus she had been born on the 22nd of July, and that is how she was christened Sofia Cecile Knightley. It will come as no surprise to you that her earliest memories are of food. She was always in the kitchen, whether she was wanted there or not, with her hands in everything and everything in her mouth. Her mother often took her along to the market, one apron string tied around her wrist so she wouldn't lose her, although Sofia was never a "running off" sort of child. She was a faire child, charming enough to please the vendors, who were always offering bits of fruit or bread or cheese for her to nibble on - mainly as a deterrent to her helping herself.
Papa possessed something almost as fascinating to her as food: Papers. He was not a scholarly man, he never read for pleasure, but he kept his books and accounts and bills of sale, and sometimes, when he was not too busy, he would let his daughter sit in his lap while he went over his Papers. She knew enough to keep her hands to herself and not disturb him, but one evening, while she was sitting with him, she began to wag her tiny finger at the markings on the paper and mutter softly to herself. He stopped and asked her, "Sofia, what are you doing?"
"Nothing, Papa!" She answered promptly, stuffing her fists in her lap and pressing her lips tight shut. "No, you're not in trouble," he laughed. "Tell me; were you reading?" Sofia shook her head and said, "No, I was counting."
"Do you know your numbers? What is this?" he pointed to a "2" and she told him. She told him all the numerals by sight, 1 to 10. Counting by tens or hundreds, or doing figures she had no concept of, but could recognize the numerals, and she knew how many of her fingers they represented. Sofia could recognize a few letters and small words, "laine" (wool) chief among them. Papa took a scrap of paper and wrote and spelled out for her, S-O-F-I-A. And, from then on, she asked everyone she met if they would like to hear her spell her name.
At this point, the market vendors began giving her food to shut her up.
He never said so, but she thought Papa must have been a little sorry that she was not a boy. He was proud of her cleverness, but it must have seemed something of a waste to him. A boy could be a scholar, think great thoughts, make great discoveries, perhaps alter the course of history, itself. A girl, on the other hand, was confined to the domestic sphere, and too much learning was not becoming in a young lady.
Bill Lockhart had gone to his reward when she was six. He had a funeral so elaborate the extravagance would have sent him off in a fit if he hadn't already been dead. Half the town turned out for it, and all she could recall was the scratchy black dress she wore, and how very long and boring the whole business was. Sofia, the Castillian maid who had brought her into the world, was passed on like a family heirloom to Bill Lockhart's oldest daughter, and went to live with her in Caen.
There is very little to say of her mother's family. Her father died the summer after Sofia was born, and her brother, who was quite a bit older and not very close to her, took over the farm and took care of their mother. She remembered Grandmere a little; she had soft, brown eyes, and smiled a lot, and always brought them the most delicious cakes. She was four when she died. Her uncle, who had never married, and had always dreamed of abandoning the farm for travel and adventure, gave up the property and left for just that. Like Papa's brother, they never knew what became of him. Papa was never close to his family in Fairburn, not even his sister, Joanne. They were strangers to him, and he had little in common with them. Joanne married, Sofia didn't remember when, and went away, she didn't know where, and that was the last she knew of her relations.
If her childhood so far sounds idyllic, well, it was. Papa insisted they weren't rich, but they were certainly well enough off. He had no stomach for affectations or vanities, but he was generous in providing for they're comfort. They were as content as could be, right up through her eighth Wassailia. Then, they're lives took a dreadful turn. Papa's life had taken so many turns already, this was just another one for him. But, for Sofia, it was the first real trial she had faced, and her cozy, complacent existence to that point had done nothing to prepare her for it.
When she was nearly six, her father had an attack - she didn't know what else to call it - that laid him in bed for a week. The physicians who were called in could not explain it, and her father ended up coming through it with no help from them. He resumed his old life, and seemed all right at first, but from that point, his health began to decline. This did not happen all at once, you understand; nor in a matter of days, or weeks, or even months. This happened slowly, over the course of almost three years, one step, or drop, at a time. He went from walking, to stumbling, to hobbling with crutches, to losing the use of his legs entirely. His hands, once so skillful, stiffened, and shook, and lost their senses; he would crush an egg in his fist because he could not tell how tightly he was holding it. His sight and hearing faded a little, but, mercifully, were never wholly lost. Worst of all was the toll on his mind and spirit. As his body failed him, and he became more and more dependent on his family for his physical needs, he became more and more like a little child, sometimes cheerful, sometimes petulant, fretful, forgetful, asking the same questions over and over, always needing things explained an extra time or two before they sank in. Eventually, he demanded constant attention. She couldn't begin to describe her mother's patience and gentleness in dealing with her father, or the pleasure she took in finding little ways to comfort him.
Pony was still with them, and tried to take up the slack in the housekeeping, but nothing she did now was good enough for her father, who hated not being able to manage things himself. Eventually, the servant, not angry, but sad and tired, decided that this was not the job she had signed on for, and left to go live with some relatives in the country.
Mama talked about hiring another housekeeper, but Papa had grown anxious about "strangers" in his house. He trusted his wife and daughter, and a few old friends who were kind enough to visit once in a while, but he was wary of anyone else. With Mama having to pick up the slack in their household funds by taking over her husband's business – something unheard of at the time – it was left to little Sofia to handle the household chores.
Miranda could not read or write, and had invented her own rough, but adequate, methods for keeping track of things but under her guiding hand, the business flourished. Papa, however, had taught his daughter the basics of numbers and figures, and Sofia took great pride in making up and keeping her own detailed accounts. She was nine when she took on the task of going to the market alone. Mama was generous with the housekeeping money, but she felt a responsibility to manage it wisely, and always planned carefully for what they needed, and what it should cost.
Many of the market vendors were the same ones who had fed her as a toddler. They respected her father, and understood their situation, and dealt fairly with her. Then came the day, when she had just begun going to market alone, that her usual apple-seller was ill. Her mother wanted apples, though, and they had to come from somewhere, and so she had to deal with another woman, one she did not know well, and who did not know Sofia. A little shy, but putting on her best attempt at a businesslike demeanor, Sofia approached the woman and asked the price of six apples. Her answer was more than she was used to paying, but, with the competition off the field for the day, Sofia accepted it, and took out the money. Besides, the woman had smiled and called her "dearie," which had calmed her initial anxieties, and she was glad to have the deal done so easily.
The apple-seller took Sofia's money and started handing her apples. They were the most pitifully small apples she had ever seen. "I'm sorry," She had gulped, refusing to take them, "but I'd like some bigger ones." She had them; they were clearly visible in the bin.
"My, my," she tittered unpleasantly, putting back the stunted fruit. "What does such a little girl need with big apples? Never mind," she brushed off her own question, and asked for some more money.
"I've already paid you," Sofia said.
"But you paid for the regular apples, not the large ones."
She squirmed and weighed her purse. The timid child with the sick father and too many tasks waiting for her thought for half an instant of taking the puny apples and being done with it. But an indignant voice, just a quaver short of firmness, came out of her mouth from who knew where and said: "I won't pay good money for those; they're not big enough to choke a pig!"
The apple-woman gaped at her in amazement. "What did you say?!"
Sofia was short for her age, of course, but already sturdy and she squared her shoulders and declared, "If you can't give me anything better than that, then give me back my money."
Heaven knows she wasn't as brave as she hoped she appeared, but Sofia was emboldened by the knowledge that her friend the Dairy-man had noticed what was happening, and was looking their way.
The Apple-woman twisted her mouth into a bitter smile and said, "You drive a hard bargain, Miss. Here, let me pick out some nice big ones for you."
Victory! Sofia restrained herself from either cheering or fainting while the woman carefully selected some of her largest apples. Sofia reached up and took the first one she handed to her, and her heart sank. She did not put it in her basket, but handled it thoughtfully.
The vendor saw the girl's frown and said spitefully, "Now I suppose that's too big!"
"No, Ma'm." She glanced at the Dairy-man, who was close enough to hear, and thought, 'well Sofia, might as well be shorn for a sheep as a lamb'. "It's too soft."
"It's what?!" she snarled.
"It's mushy," Sofia insisted, showing the indentation her thumb had left. "And that one," She pointed at the apple in the woman's waiting hand, "has a worm hole in it."
With a barely-suppressed squeal of frustration, she snatched the first apple away, so roughly that it burst into a handful of pulp in her grasp. The Dairy-man laughed out loud.
"I'll thank you to keep out of this," the Apple-woman snorted at him, wiping her hand on her skirt.
The Dairy-man came up beside them and said, "Let Miss Knightley choose her own apples. Or do you want the whole town to know you tried to cheat a little girl?"
She glared at him for a moment, but some of the other vendors and their customers were by now growing curious, and she saw that it would do her no good to hold out.
"All right," The woman snapped at her under her breath. "Take what you like, rob me blind, you little brat. Just be quick about it."
Sofia did not know she was shaking until she felt the Dairy-man's hand on her shoulder, holding her still. He stood right beside her while she picked six, healthy, medium-sized apples from the bin, then he said, "Come along, Sofia; I have some cheese I'd like your opinion on."
She did not know the apple-woman well enough then to be aware that she was generally disliked by the other vendors, but she soon found out. For days after that, the story circulated of how Sofia had stood up to her, and all the good folk she usually bought from praised her and teased her and called her "Brave Sofia," and "Sofia the Ogre-Slayer," and all manner of embarrassing names. She fretted over what Mama would say if the tale of her boldness ever reached her, but if she heard about it, she never let on that she knew.