Page 29 of The Phoenix Bride
I return the letter to the tray, and I find myself imagining a wedding: not mine and Sara’s, but another entirely, one taking place beneath the vaulted ceilings of a Christian church. I see the wooden pews, courtiers in their finery, priests and posies of blue flowers. A faceless man at the altar takes Cecilia’s pale hand in his, looping his fingers around her wrist. She looks at him with eyes hardened by resentment and resignation, then turns to me in the pews, where I am sitting as complicit and silent as the rest of the audience.
No man is a prisoner,she tells me,if he can escape.
I am accustomed to solitude. After all, in the months after Will died, I was entirely isolated. At first, I did have visitors; they were patient with me, as I was with them. My grief was as much surprise as anything else. I had a silence and a wide-eyed gaze that prompted earnest sympathy. They would take my hand and say, “Dear, dear, Cecilia.” They would bring me gifts and brush my hair. They swaddled me in kindness.
Then the shock passed, and I became difficult. First came the crying fits, interspersed with a dullness, a strange detachment. As weeks became months, I became both cruel and vacant, a bitter shell. My visitors were discomfited by it—offendedby it. I couldn’t answer their questions; when my replies were forced, they were too harsh, too resentful. I had become unworthy of the effort my presence required.
So I was alone, even more than I am now. And when the letter came from Margaret, it felt like providence. I had so efficiently pushed people away; but now my sister claimed thatshe missed me. The plague was over, she was returning to London, and shewantedme to be with her. It was miraculous. I had ruined all that was good about my life in the country. I had pushed away my friends with my temper and my cruelty, and I had turned that house into a grave. If I had stayed longer, the dirt would have piled over me, and I would have died in a coffin of my own creation. Instead, I left. Will’s brother has taken ownership of the house, and I can never go back there. I am glad of that. It was once a happy place for me, and the dregs of that happiness might still be there, under the floorboards, like dying flames. If I return, I might stamp them out.
So I must live in London with Margaret. I must rely on her charity and kindness. And now that my physician is gone, all is as it was.
I am alone again.
—
A week has passed since I played the spinet with David Mendes. Since then, the days have stacked themselves upon me, each heavier than the last. I stitch, and I read, and I take my decoctions. The tedium wears me away. The monotony of my life, the repetition of it, is ceaseless.
Today, of course, is no different: I stitch, I read, I take my decoctions. Once noon comes, I read a pamphlet about the war with the republic, and I draw a flower on the back of it. Then I sit at the desk, fiddling with an embroidery needle.
Eventually, someone knocks on my door. It is Margaret. She enters with a great profusion of fabric draped over one arm. It is an emerald silk, a gown I haven’t worn in months.
“Good afternoon, Cecilia,” Margaret says. I suppose it isafternoon now; I hadn’t noticed it had grown so late. “Are you well?” she asks.
“Yes.” I raise the needle in my fingers, as if to defend myself with it.
She casts a critical eye over me. “Your hair isn’t curled,” she says. “That’s a shame. I’ve brought you a change of clothes. We have a visitor, and I’d like you to look presentable.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
Margaret sighs, exasperated, and then she approaches me, taking me by the hand. “Cecilia, listen,” she says. “Sir Samuel Grey is here to call on you.”
“Who?”
“Of the Kent Greys. He owns the townhouse opposite ours. He is a very wealthy man, and newly arrived at court. Unmarried.”
“Unmarried,” I echo. “Oh. I see.”
“You must be respectful to him, do you understand? None of your usual nonsense.”
I have no idea why a very wealthy man, newly arrived at court, would have any interest inme,a widow without prospects. Still, I don’t care to find out. The thought of simpering to a foppish rake so my sister can sell me to him—it is unconscionable. I won’t do it.
“I can’t,” I say. “I am indisposed today. I should like to rest. Perhaps Sir Grey might return tomorrow.”
Margaret narrows her eyes in suspicion. “Come, Cecilia, don’t be difficult. This is an extraordinary opportunity, surely you must realize that.”
It is clear she will remain unmoved. I stand from the chair. My dress is only half laced, and the bodice gapes away from my middle. As I fiddle with the strands at my back, I say, “It’s only that…I don’t feel well. Shall we, perhaps, another time…”
“He isveryhandsome,Cecilia, and eager to meet you.”
“I need the pot,” I blurt.
“The pot?”
“Yes. My gut rumbles. Perhaps a mild dysentery. It kept me awake through the night, and I’d rather it didn’t trouble me in front of Sir Grey…”
Margaret grimaces, but she says, resolute, “Then I’ll wait outside the door.”
“But—I might—”
