Chapter 26 #2
The Tagus River echoed again with cannon salutes for Wellington’s triumph at Vitoria.
They navigated through a press of sailors, hawkers, and barefoot boys trailing fireworks, while Mr. Belvedere kept her hand tucked firmly into the crook of his arm.
“Somewhere in this city there is a man with a seal and a quill who will oblige us. Do you think the Portuguese word for notary is notario?”
Sophia gave him a look of incredulity. “I doubt it.”
“Ah, we should stop here, I think.”
“What—is this a notary already?” Sophia looked into the dim little shop. “It’s not. I think it’s—”
“A barber. I did tell Sir Mark—er, Mr. Knapp—that I should get my hair cut on arrival. I really think I must keep my word.”
“Mr. Belvedere—”
“You know, my love, I much prefer Theo, or Theodore to Mr. Belvedere. Such a mouthful! And I realize a visit to the barber seems frivolous in the extreme, but the truth of escapes is not flight; it is staying in places you will not be expected. Changing one’s appearance is a happy bonus. Ah, senhor!”
Through charades and miming he communicated what he wanted, and before too long, he was seated in a chair.
The proprietor bowed Sophia to a bench in the back, no doubt thinking them an eccentric couple.
The barber knew his business, however, and he even knew British fashion.
When Mr. Belvedere—Theodore, she reminded herself—made a chopping motion and asked for a Brutus, the barber mimed a salute and laughed.
It was a common style among army men. Soon Theodore’s locks graced the floor and he looked quite different.
His hair lay short and close to his head, a little chopped and messy in the Roman style.
It also appeared darker, giving him a very altered appearance.
He tipped the gentleman handsomely, and they continued on their way. “Now, there is a church away over there,” he said, “and I understand there is often a notary near a church.”
And indeed, they found a notary’s office just off the Rua dos Fanqueiros. It was dark with wooden shutters thrown wide. The smell of ink and wax spilled into the street. Inside, a middle-aged Portuguese man with pince-nez spectacles looked up from his ledger. Tabeli?es de Notas, the sign read.
“I’m not certain, but I think this is it,” said Theodore. “We shall have to experiment. I wonder if he speaks any English.”
“We don’t have an appointment… or any documents.”
“Appointments are for diplomats. We are fugitives,” he murmured. “Smile as if we’re shopping for wedding cake.”
“Senhor?” The notary stood as they entered. His front room was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of thick, bound books—registers, probably. “Senhora?”
Mr. Belvedere bowed. “Notary? Public notary?”
He shook his head. “Sim, n?o falo inglês. Nao falo inglês.
“Marriage,” Mr. Belvedere announced. “Contract. Husband. Wife.” He mimed a ring on his finger, then pointed to Sophia, who blushed crimson.
The notary frowned.
His assistant—a wiry young man with ink-stained cuffs—piped up in hesitant English. “You want—marriage contract?”
“Yes!” Theodore said with relief. “Now, please, if it’s at all possible.”
The assistant rattled off rapid Portuguese to his master. The notary pursed his lips, looked them over, then shrugged in a Latin gesture of “why not?” and motioned for them to sit. An iron grille covered the open window, and they sat before a scarred oak desk.
“You join soldados—the soldiers?” the assistant asked. He held a pretend musket and fired it. The Portuguese were very lively with their hands. “You Englishmen—need contract because not Catholic.” He crossed himself.
Mr. Belvedere grinned. “Another lover of charades! What luck. Yes, that’s it. I want to get it all legal before I join the army.”
The assistant took Sophia’s hand and kissed it. “Muito romantico. You have money, senhor?”
From an inner pocket, Thedore removed several crowns and half crowns. “I have English money, but not reals.”
The boy exclaimed like it was golden treasure, “Ah! Yes, very good.” He spoke in Portuguese with his master, and then picked up one crown, pushing the other coins back toward Theodore. “We need witnesses.” He held up two fingers. “Two. You wait.”
“Right you are. I love this boy.”
The assistant disappeared into the street, and Sophia felt awkward waiting with the notary who looked vaguely amused. “I suppose the exchange rate is very good—do you think that’s why he exclaimed?”
“I suspect it is. I think I heard that one pound is worth nearly three thousand reals, or three milreis, as they call it. They might be overcharging us—they almost certainly are—but I don’t feel the need to haggle for this.”
The notary went back to his work, copying something that might have been a death certificate into a bound book, but eventually the assistant popped up again. He had with him a small, dapper man with a silk cravat.
“I am here to translate,” he said brightly. “Manuel da Costa, at your service. I speak the King’s English very nearly as well as I drink it.”
Theodore shook his hand. “Splendid. My fiancée and I wish to contract marriage under Portuguese law.”
Sophia flushed at the word fiancée, though she had insisted upon this herself. She felt very much like a conspirator in a play.
“I am happy to help, sir. A small fee—the boy says you are willing?” They easily agreed on terms, a half-crown for his assistance as interpreter and witness.
“We will need one more witness,” he said.
“Of course.” Theodore stuck his head out the open door. “You there—an honest gentlemen for a quick signature? A shilling in it for you, sir.”
A British seaman—an enlisted man, not an officer—stumbled over from a nearby wine shop. “What’s all this then?” he asked amiably.
“We need another witness to our marriage contract,” Theodore explained.
“Ah, right enough! Congratulations.”
The notary pulled out a blank contract form and a stick of sealing wax. He spoke slowly, and the translator helped relay their information. “Names? Ages? Widow or bachelor? Will you live as husband and wife?”
They paused now and again as he wrote it out. “Agree… property… consent.” Each time Theodore nodded and said “Yes, yes,” until Sophia elbowed him in the ribs to be patient.
The notary read the civil contract in sonorous Portuguese when it was done.
Manuel murmured each line in English, including their names, nationalities, Sophia’s widowhood, Theodore’s gentlemanly status, and their mutual consent “to live as husband and wife.” There was even a token dowry clause, which Theodore had grinned and listed as five pounds.
The notary’s quill scratched; thin wax seals were pressed. The sailor scrawled a few characters which might’ve been Smalls or Simons, and Mr. da Costa signed in an elegant hand.
At last the notary handed them a copy. Manuel translated his instructions. “Now you are… legally bound, in Portugal. They wish you to understand that it must be blessed by the church to be fully recognized. Here in Portugal, that would be the Catholic church; in England, your own church.”
“Yes, we understand,” Theodore said. “But this is legal—if I died—”
Manuel translated the question and answer from the notary.
“Yes. The senhora would inherit everything. The notary also says he does will and testament—if you so desire? Also, he urges me to remind you that children will be legitimate and impossible to repudiate, even without the blessing of the church—”
Sophia flushed even hotter, as Theodore quickly assured them that he understood.
Sophia stared at the paper. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it,” Theodore said. “Thank you all very much. Obrigado.”
The assistant grinned and murmured muito romantic again while Theodore tucked the document inside his coat.
Between leaving the consulate and their time in the barber shop and notary’s office, more than four hours had passed. Sophia was surprised to find her stomach growling despite the fact that she had just—legally—bound herself to Mr. Belvedere.
From somewhere north of the city, a volley of fireworks exploded. Redcoats staggered by, singing “Rule Britannia,” and no one gave a second glance to a British gentleman and his wife emerging from a notary’s doorway.
“I expected this to be harder,” she said. “All of it.”
“As Virgil would say, fortune favors the bold. And today it favors us. You don’t regret it?”
“No.” Sophia leaned lightly on his arm. “You must know I fancied you from that first evening on the Lady Mary. I took myself to task for it—and I tried very hard to be aloof when you began to suspect me—but I was never indifferent. Quite the opposite.”
He pressed her hand and looked very much as if he wanted to kiss her, and improper as it was, she might’ve allowed it—except that they were interrupted.
“What in the world—what are you doing here?” Caroline gaped at them. “Is Captain Smythe with you?”