Page 42 of The Phoenix Bride
My wounds from the fall are already well healed. The leaves David used worked as well as any bandage. The scratches are now only thin lines, like strands of pink thread laid across my palm. As I walk my loops around the tree, I trail my hand across the bark, feeling the sting of the coarse trunk against the itching skin. It is painful, but the pain is welcome. It grounds me. I feel light-headed today, as if I might fade into nothingness.
David promised he would see me again tonight. Will he come?
Will I go?
Margaret calls my name. When I turn to her, I see there is a manservant standing with her in the doorway.
“Sir Grey has returned,” she says to me.
She marches me to my room and has me change into my primrose dress, which we must pin tighter, as its bodice is now too large. As she dusts my cheeks with rouge, she mutters to herself, “There. Much better.”
I ignore her. In the mirror, the woman who returns my gaze remains plain and uninspiring. My cheeks are hollow, and the yellow of the dress makes my skin look sallow. No amount of rouge will help.
After she deems me presentable, Margaret leads me to the parlor. I so rarely visit this room: it is cavernous, smelling faintly of tea and wallpaper paste. Sir Grey is sitting in one of the chairs, conversing with Sir Robert. He stands to greet us. He is wearing a chintz coat in orange and pink, so bright it hurts the eyes. I have a better impression of him in the daytime: he is pretty,boyish, with an impressive waterfall of a wig, and his smile is so wide and eager it seems to split his face in half. I realize he is likely younger than I am.
He bows. “Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” I reply, voice faint. Margaret jabs me in the waist with her elbow, and I fall into a stuttering curtsy.
We all sit together beside the tea service. Robert—who addresses Sir Grey with a coolness better befitting a schoolmaster than an uncle—inquires as to the health of his sister, and this somehow leads Sir Grey into an anecdote about crashing his barge into a wharf. He speaks without pause nor consideration, but he has a pleasant, high-pitched voice. It is airy, almost musical. It is easy to ignore the meaning of his words, hearing only the tones beneath them.
I fiddle with my skirts at Margaret’s side, saying nothing at all. Eventually, Robert stands, and with a pointed look offers Margaret his arm; I realize they intend to leave Sir Grey and me alone together—not quite an impropriety, considering we are technically family, but near enough.
“Maggie—” I say, pleading, but she shakes her head.
“We have an appointment at court, Cecilia. The servants are here if you need anything.”
“But—”
“Farewell, Sister,” Robert says to me gruffly; then he gives Sir Grey a somewhat pointed stare. Sir Grey blanches in response.
They leave, and we are alone. Grey smiles at me, folding a foot over the opposite leg, displaying the pristine sole of his shoe: an open-backed mule, high heeled and square toed. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he picks absentmindedly at his nails, rolling his fingers together as if he is weaving.
“Mistress Thorowgood, I am aware that this is rather odd,” he says.
I raise my brows, disarmed by his candor. “Yes, it is.”
“I know we are strangers, but…We have seen each other many times through the window. Do you remember?”
“Oh! That was you?”
“It was!” He gives me a little wave, in the manner of the silhouette I had seen across the road. “You see?”
“I see, yes. I…” Sighing, I continue. “Forgive me, Sir Grey, for disappearing yesterday.”
“Oh, it’s no matter. And you must call me Samuel. Actually, no—call me Sam. That seems much friendlier. May I call you Cecilia? Is that too forward? At court there is a great fashion for first names. Thomas—as in Sir Thomas Clifford—says it is reflective of the king’s egalitarian spirit—”
I have the sense he will chatter endlessly unless I stop him. “Cecilia is fine,” I say.
“Excellent. But regardless!” He leans forward in his seat, coat gaping open. It is lined with purple silk. He smells strongly of perfume. “What say you, Cecilia?”
“I…to what?”
“Uncle Robert thinks I ought to court you,” he says. “I know we hardly know each other. But Imusttake a wife, as Uncle Robert has insisted, and your sister has told me many wonderful things about you.”
I blink at him, quite in shock. After a long pause, his expression becomes pleading, and I realize he has taken my silence as refusal.
“In all honesty,” he rushes to say, “I know I am quite ill-suited to marriage. I am not a particularly enticing prospect, I accept that. But I hope you might consider it still.”
