Page 1 of The Phoenix Bride
Three springs had passed since the king’s return to England, when I married William Thorowgood. I loved him, and still love him, as a swallow loves the wind.
It was the first marriage in my family since my sister’s two years beforehand, and I was terrified and exuberant in equal measure. I felt as if I were weightless, as if too heavy a breath would send me spinning down the aisle. Meanwhile, Will was blissful and unafraid. He had always lived a life unflinching; his love for me was not diminished by the promise of its permanency. As the priest droned his sacrament, Will linked his hand in mine, and he drew his thumb over my palm in a silent vow.
We returned to the Thorowgood manor afterward to celebrate. I was wearing a gown of eggshell blue, pink pearl earrings, columbine woven into my hair. Will had a handsome navy coat and a gap-toothed grin. He’d never been graceful; he couldn’t have danced well if the king’s head had depended upon it. He whisked me about the grass like a housemaid with a broom. The musicians were breathless trying to keep up.
“I can hardly believe I have you, Cecilia,” he said as we spun across the daisies.
I could hardly believe I had him, either. Will was radiant that day, hair glinting guinea gold in the sunlight; I felt as if I held a treasure, one all the more precious for having almost slipped away. This marriage had once been intended for my sister, Margaret. Now she was watching and smiling from the crowd. Her husband—sneering, pork-faced Robert Eden—loomed behind her. He was wealthier and more high blooded than anyone else present, and his proposal to my sister had led to the dissolution of her betrothal to Will. Now I was marrying him in her stead. I pitied her for the loss, but I was grateful for the gift fate had given me.
I was far more grateful than sorry, and perhaps that was a sin of mine.
After the dance, we staggered to the cake, panting and laughing. I took a second slice, and then a third. At the table, I fell into competition with Will’s younger brother to see who could eat more. The second of five, Will was named for his grandfather, but his siblings were all burdened with virtue names. After his sisters—Pleasance, Clemency, and Honor—the well of inspiration ran dry, and the youngest was saddled with the delightfully terrible Good Thorowgood. Good was a sweet boy, if overcompetitive. He was fourteen years old at the time, and he had the stomach of a half-starved whale. He would have beaten me soundly, but by the fourth slice of cake, we were both giggling too much to swallow.
The combination of wine, food, and joy soon overwhelmed me. I’ve always had a sensitive stomach; I ran off to be sick in the heather. As I stood and wiped my mouth, I found my sister hovering at my shoulder. She rubbed my back, saying, “Temperance, Cecilia.”
“Hush, hush,” I breathed, half laughing. I leaned into her and dropped my head to her shoulder. “There are other days for temperance than this.”
“You shall take ill.”
“I already did.” I gestured to the bushes. “And now, I am not.”
“You are not?”
“Ill. I feel as well as any woman could.”
Margaret smiled at me, indulgent, petting my hair. “You are overjoyed,” she said. “Overwined, overfed, overloved.”
“Contented.”
“Yes.”
“I amsickwith contentment, Maggie,” I said. “I must be happier than the king himself. Restored! Just as he is. We are all restored now, are we not? Our family, pulled from the ashes?”
“Of course,” she replied. But when I turned and saw her face, her teeth were worrying into her lower lip.
“You are upset,” I said. “What is it? Are you unwell? Your menses?”
She was prone to such troubles: stuttered courses, painful cramping, even the cruelty of phantom pregnancies. It burdened her, and I was one of few she was willing to speak to of it. But this time, she said, “No, it isn’t that.”
“Then what?”
“Don’t trouble yourself upon your wedding day.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It is only—soon I shall go to London with Robert, but you will be here, without me.”
“We will visit.”
She replied, “Yes, I hope so. If you are not too distracted by your new husband.”
“I will miss you, also, you know,” I told her. “Of course I will. Forgive me for not saying so earlier.”
She sighed, pale lashes creeping like frost over the planes of her cheeks. “You needn’t apologize,” she said. “God made us two, and in doing so gave part to me, and part to you. It often feels as if I am missing some of myself when we are apart. I suspect it will always be so.” She took my hands. “Regardless, here is my advice to you, Cecilia, on your wedding day: Allow yourself happiness. Feel worthy of this, and worthy for all that comes after. You and Will deserve each other. You deserve a good life together. You have waited so long for it.”
I smiled at her. “Thank you.”
Margaret led me by my wrist back to the crowd. When we saw Will, she pushed me toward him; the shove was strong enough that I stumbled, and everyone laughed. We danced again together. Then Will pulled me away, to the other side of the gardens. Others smirked at us, but no one intervened. He kissed me by the rosebushes until I could hardly breathe.
