Page 22 of The Phoenix Bride
“As you have responded well to the medicines,” he says, “I doubt we need to meet again. It is my hope that eventually you will take the epithymum. I shall send more decoctions, once you finish them, but apart from that, there is little else I can do for you.”
“Is that all?” I ask, surprised. “You’re leaving for good, after three bottles of medicine and a brisk farewell? My sister’s money might have been better spent elsewhere.”
Rather than being insulted at this, he shrugs, as if it is a fair criticism. “If you seek further improvement, the best treatment would be a change in location,” he says. “I still don’t believe you are happy here.”
“Margaret takes care of me.”
“Does she,” he says in an unreadable tone.
“Yes, she does. If I were left alone—I don’t know what I would do. I am incapable of making myself happy.”
“Are you incapable of it,” he replies, “or has your sister convinced you that you are?”
I splutter in consternation. “You shouldn’t criticize her. She is the one paying your wages.”
“But you are my patient. Your recovery is more important than her satisfaction.”
“Thentreatme, instead of leaving.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to treat you.”
“I—” Sighing, I tip my head back. “I don’t know what I want. I would like someone else to do the wanting, for once.”
Mendes says, “Then this is my final prescription to you, Cecilia: freedom, in as large a dose as you can manage. Leave this awful house and go into the city. Find somewhere you enjoy being. Drink coffee, make friends, visit theaters.Live.”
“You say that as if it is easy.”
“It isn’t easy,” he says. “But it is possible.”
Possible for some. I snap, “Oh, indeed. I supposeyoumust be very happy, Master Mendes, with your perfect life, full of coffee and theaters and friends. I suppose your freedom has erased all the grief you have ever felt, and London has cured you of all the sickness you have ever suffered.”
I expect him to retort, but he doesn’t. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then goes quiet.
In the wake of his silence, I feel ashamed at my petulance. I tap mournfully at a spinet key. “Forgive me. I know…I understand why you feel I should leave. My life here is so small; I must seem so pitiful to you. But I was worth something, once, I swear. Before…before it all.”
“You are still worthy,” Mendes says.
I reply, “Not enough.”
He doesn’t respond. He is looking at me with something deeper than pity. In his expression, I see some element of understanding that feels unlike anything I have seen since Will’s death. I have a sudden urge to step closer to him, but I don’t. We regard each other in mutual regret.
“My husband’s name was Will,” I say. “He died last spring. Plague. It was—difficult. He suffered. I stayed with him the entire time, but I didn’t get sick at all.”
Mendes says quietly, “Plague is cruel, in that manner. It does not always share its burden.”
“You lost someone, too?”
He pauses, bites his lip. “A friend.”
The word seems to carry some hidden sort of weight, a second meaning I can’t fully comprehend. “What were they like?” I ask.
“He was…” Mendes sighs. “Good. Kind, and honest, and principled to the core.”
“Like you,” I reply.
He makes a shocked sort of laugh, as if I have said something utterly absurd. “And your Will?” he asks. “What was he like?”
“Good, also. Joyous and loving. He was so much better at being happy than I am.” My stomach twists. I hunch over the spinet. “Pardon. It hurts to remember him. I usually don’t speak of it.”
