Page 7 of The Phoenix Bride
She doesn’t point out the lie, although she must recognize it. As time has passed, it has become more and more difficult tothink of her. It is not that I resent her for what has happened, but rather that I resent myself when I am around her. I have made her into a fault of mine, one I must do penance for.
“I really am sorry, Sara,” I say. “For everything.”
“I know,” she replies.
—
When I return home, Elizabeth Askwith is arranging flowers by the staircase. She curtsies perfunctorily and says, “A letter came while you were gone, David Mendes. On the table.”
I thank her. In the kitchen, I see the letter, and I lift it up before I notice that the door to the garden is open. Outside, my father is sitting on the bench; Elizabeth Askwith must have helped him downstairs. He smiles to see me. The wind shuffles the gray-black hairs of his formidable eyebrows, and his hands run rapturously over the wood grain of the bench. What he lacks in physical strength is compensated by the ease of his joy, which comes swift and undemanding. He has a capacity for happiness I have always envied.
“You are home! The air is good today, Davi,” he tells me.
“Yes, it is.”
“The breeze moves quickly. It stirs the heart. Look at the lavender! A good crop this year.”
“Are you cold?” I ask. “I could fetch a blanket.”
He flaps his hand dismissively. “I have a scarf.”
“Is your chest—”
“Honestly,” he snaps. “Must we speak only of my ill health?”
Chastened, I go to sit beside him, the letter still clutched in my hands. The evening is warm but overcast. In the filtered light, everything is darker and deeper than usual. The soil is the color of dried blood, the green of the plants shadowed to a velvetgloom. Father is wearing his old silk doublet, a lurid slash of blue and black and white. “Who sent that?” he asks.
I look down at the letter, which remains sealed and untouched, pressed with red wax. It looks expensive. Breaking the seal feels somehow heretical. I open it and glance at the message.
“What does it say?” Father asks, impatient.
“A request for consultation.”
“Obviously, Davi. From who?”
“A wealthy family, aligned with court. It is…surprising.”
He frowns. “Where are they based?”
“Saint James’s. The household of Lord Eden.”
“Will you go?”
I reply, “Yes. The pay is generous.”
“I would expect so.” He sighs. “Perhaps not generous enough, considering what you risk.”
“I will do nothing more than prescribe some well-tested medicines. And if they prove successful, my work might attract attention from others in the area…”
“Attention is good, for a doctor,” he replies. He needn’t continue with the disclaimer, for I know it as well as he does: but not for aJew. Success must come to us as foxglove is administered to a patient. We may take enough to live, to thrive, even; but one ounce too much, and we are purged.
“I will be cautious,” I say.
“See that you are,” Father replies. “For the sake of all of us. Our community couldn’t survive the blood of a lady on our hands.”
“Yes, I know.”
I understand his concern, but Father needs a good number of medicines for his heart, poultices for his joints, too, and his love of good wine leaves our purses lighter than I would like. We are not struggling yet, but the money can do us nothing but good.We could lose everything we have in an instant, after all. What if England decides they don’t want us here, and we are forced to flee again?
