Page 41 of The Phoenix Bride
“Sir Grey’s mother was Robert’s sister, may she rest in peace. And now he is Robert’s heir,” she says. “Until—until we have a child of our own.”
Margaret bites her lip, turns away from me. Her lashes lower, her shoulders hunch. Perhaps she expects me to interrupt her now, to twist her vulnerability into a knot to bind her—as she would me—but I cannot. I recall instead the last time I saw her this way, when she first showed me the house, years ago, after she had moved in: a small room not far from my own, the door usually kept locked. It contained a large wooden cot, with a mother-of-pearl inlay in the headboard; a large chair for a wet nurse to sit upon; a small, almost childlike rug, with an oversized and insistent pattern of rose vines; and Margaret herself, lashes trembling, as she told me,Perhaps someday.
“Cecilia,” Margaret says. “Sir Grey is in need of a wife.”
“And if I were to marry him, and Robert were to die, you would become our ward.” She flinches; I know I have struck home. “You would have your title and your status maintained,” I say, “because your little sister would become your guarantor.”
“Am I so wrong for wanting security?” she demands. “To prevent myself from living reliant on another’s charity, alone and unwanted?”
“Like me?” I ask her darkly, and she draws in a sharp breath, shrinking back slightly.
“Robert was the one who suggested it,” she says, voice shaking. “He thought— Sir Grey has struggled to find a match. It seemed a good idea.”
“And yet you failed to suggest it before I arrived here. Because you knew, perhaps, that I would refuse?”
“Cecilia, you are a widow!” Margaret cries. “A widow, and an impoverished one, at that. Here is a man our age, handsome, wealthy, willing to consider you—and yet you leaped out of awindow rather than meet him. It feels as if you would rather die than accept the help I have offered. Why? Do I not love you enough? Have I not given you enough?”
“When you invited me here,” I say, “I thought it was because you cared for me. But it was because of this, wasn’t it? Your marriage scheme.”
She says, “I do care for you.”
But she doesn’t deny it, either.
My chest tightens, and my ears roar. I hunch over and curl my arms around myself. My breaths have quickened, but my lungs feel slow; they push the air away before it is inside, like overeager bellows, putting the fire out.
“You are not in your right mind,” Margaret says quietly. “That much is clear. Once you have calmed down, you will understand that I have your best interests at heart. You frightened me today. I can no longer trust you to keep yourself safe.”
“Maggie—”
“You are not permitted to leave the townhouse again,” she says. “Accompanied, or otherwise.”
“Until when?” I exclaim. “You can’t keep me prisoner here.”
“You are not a prisoner. You are a patient, and you require treatment. I will ensure you are safe until you are well. You will take your medicines, and you will be polite and apologetic to Sir Grey, once he returns.”
“But—”
“I will have the windows locked. You can’t leave again. You could hurt yourself. And this time, to have to rely upon aJewfor ensuring your safety—I can’t countenance it.”
I bristle. “Mendes is—”
“I don’t care what Mendes is. He is irrelevant now. You must stay here, where I know you are safe. I can’t risk you disappearing. I was sofrightened.”
I begin to protest once more—opening my mouth to say her name—but then she makes a choked sound, and I realize she is crying. My complaints die in my throat. I haven’t seen Margaret cry since we were children. She wipes a tear from her cheek with the heel of her hand, then she steps toward me, crouches down, and gathers me into an embrace.
I could struggle, but what would be the use? Instead, I go limp in her arms. It feels as if I am the paper boat in Saint James’s Park, bobbing in the water, sent sprawling by the wind. It may be that Margaret is correct: I am a risk, a burden. I am capable of hurting myself, of making decisions contrary to my own well-being. I have never been much for temperance, nor self-control. That was how it was with Will; they call it falling, but with him it was a slide, a slip—a gentle slope, only realized once I reached its end. I never had a choice but to love him, even when he was engaged to someone else. And now David—
And now David. Whatever I feel for him—nascent as it is, uncertain and breathless as it is—it heralds danger, for both ofus.
Perhaps if I am not imprisoned, I will take myself to the gallows.
Margaret continues to cry. Her hands press against my back like brands. I close my eyes, and I pretend I am beside theThames once more. Night sky, summer breeze. David beside me, and the moon a pearl above us.
—
The next morning, I beg permission to go to the courtyard. Margaret doesn’t allow it until she has seen me eat every bite of the pottage I have been brought for breakfast. I do so far too quickly, stuffing my mouth full of it. I take my decoctions, all of them, even the one for melancholy, as I promised David I would. Andthen—once I am outside—I hide behind the linden to cough most of it up.
Margaret doesn’t notice my sickness. She waits in the doorway, reading a book of sermons clutched between whitened fingers.
