Page 99 of The Phoenix Bride
The inside of the townhouse is exactly as I remembered. I had not expected it to change significantly, but I did not imagine it would greet me as it does, with all the familiarity of a monarch’s portrait. In the foyer, the green wallpaper is exactly the shade of my memories. The sound of my feet pressing into the carpet recalls the moment I first came to this place, more than a year ago, still bloated with grief. The painting of the late Sir Eden on the wall seems to glare at me, as if blaming me for my absence. He was Margaret’s father-in-law, a general in the Cavalier army. I heard he died of dropsy while he was leading a siege. What irony, to fall on the battlefield, and yet find your killer your own heart.
Despite the gray skies, we go to the courtyard—perhaps moreout of habit than anything else. The linden here has flowered, too, and it perfumes the air, sweet and cloying. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend it is last summer once more.
For a moment, it is as if I had never left this place at all, and everything past the day I arrived—the fire, my marriage, Kent, David—was only a dream. My stomach lurches, and I pause, chest tightening, in the middle of the courtyard. When Margaret notices my distress, her composure entirely dissolves. Her face crumples and her hand covers her mouth. “Cecilia,” she says through her fingers, “I…I won’t keep you here, if you wish to leave.”
“I’ll be fine. Just—give me a moment.”
I go to lean on the linden tree, breathing deeply, tracing the bark with my fingers. I count the breaths, time them, measure them, until the churning of my stomach subsides.
Margaret has sat down at the table. I go to join her. At some point, a tea service was brought out; I hadn’t noticed. I must have spent some time recovering from my panic. When I sip the tea, I can’t taste it. There is only the scent of the linden blossoms at the back of my tongue, as if the branches have reached down my throat.
I return my cup to its saucer, porcelain clattering. “You said you have news.”
“Yes,” Margaret says.
“What is it?”
“I am pregnant.”
I am so surprised by this I give a little gasp, and Margaret smiles. “Really?”
“Yes, really. The physician confirmed it. You will be an aunt, Cecilia.”
Imustsmile myself at that. “I’m glad,” I say genuinely. “And Robert must be, also.”
“Yes, very.” Margaret shuffles her feet; there are tears suddenly welling in her eyes. “I’m so relieved,” she says. “I thought I couldn’t…I thought I’d never have a child. Robert was—he—he is relieved, also.”
I won’t pity her. I am determined not to. I tug at the lace at my sleeve, glancing at the clouds above us.
“And I am so relieved to see you now, also,” she says. “I have so much to say to you. I regret so much. I—what I did—it wasn’t right. I was so afraid, and I…”
She is the picture of contrition, hands fisted in her skirts, head bowed: penitent and prepared for forgiveness. “Whatwasn’t right?” I ask her.
“Pardon?”
“What are you apologizing for, specifically?”
“I failed to take care of you,” she says. “To keep you safe. I am sorry.”
Anger rises. I want to tell her how wrong she is, how she still doesn’t understand, even now, how she controlled me, imprisoned me, took my freedom and punished me when I tried to break free. I open my mouth to do so, to snarl and snap, and then—quite suddenly—the fury dissipates.
It may be that nothing I say will ever make her understand. Margaret and I have had years of this game: laughter, embraces, fury; arguments and catty remarks; milk and honey, sweat and tears. I think the only way to win is to refuse to play.
Margaret’s face remains a perfect arrangement of sorrow and confusion, soft cheeks drooping, mouth parted in a half breath. Her blue eyes are as lovely and wide as the sky, glassy with unshed tears. She is utterly transformed from the woman who once locked me in my own room, who hated David for no reason more than his very existence. It is almost enough to make me pity her.
Margaret says, “I often think about it, you know. That night here, when you stood in front of the tree shivering and soaking wet, telling me you were in love with a— With Master Mendes. That moment when you asked us to keep going, you looked at me with such defiance. And I felt so monstrous. I felt as if you could never forgive me for it. And…” She sighs, stares down at her hands. “I was correct. You can’t forgive me. I see it in your face.”
“I don’t forgive you,” I say. “That doesn’t mean I never will. I can’t make promises either way.”
She nods slowly, leans back in the chair. “I think that is fair.”
“Good.”
“I love you, you know.”
“I know. I love you, too. I don’t think anything could ever change that.”
“But…”
