Page 31 of The Phoenix Bride
Katherine sniffs and rearranges one of her bouquets. “A gentlewoman,” she says. “There’s plenty of ladies ’round ’ere, sir; I couldn’t rightly say which ones are blond or not.”
The footman mutters something to himself, and then there’s the clink of a coin hitting wood. My stomach sinks. “Has your memory improved now?”
Katherine pauses. She reaches over, presumably for the money.
“She went up Swallow Street,” she says. “In a right hurry about it, too.”
The footman thanks her and leaves. I crouch there for a good while before Katherine pokes at my shoulder.
“They’re gone,” she says.
I stand up, dust off my skirts. “Swallow Street?”
“Opposite direction of the park.” She points south, toward the river. “You’ll be wanting that way, mistress. And better be quick about it.”
“Thank you, Katherine. Sincerely.”
She shrugs and returns to her flowers. As I leave, she begins to sing again.
It is a short walk, but it takes me far longer than it should, as I become confused and turn myself around several times. Every time I see a man in red, my heart near stops, and I duck into an alley. By the time I reach the entrance of the park, the sun is low in the sky.
I stop by the gate and stare inside. It is vast, far larger than I’d imagined, a chessboard of grass, paths, and square-cut hedges. There is a square pool laid in its center: Its surface is almost perfectly still, reflecting the pink-red glow of the nascent evening. People promenade around its edges, some carrying lanterns. They are like fireflies, floating over the water. Strands of white gravel wind between them, and willow trees stoop above, making a canopy of green.
I didn’t know London could be like this, not really. When Will and I were here, we were always in townhouses and parlors. What little I saw of the city was from a carriage window, with the stench of horse dung rising from the cobbles below. But this is like a scene from a painting, or an engraving in a book. It is wonderful.
I enter the park and stroll slowly down the path. I am unaccompanied, and I earn some concerned looks, but no one stops me and calls me an imposter, despite my sense of displacement. The people here are quite extraordinary. Many wear foreignfashions I don’t recognize, oriental silks and blouses ruffled with French lace. I hear a dozen languages spoken, and I pass by a busker with a mandolin. He plays a capriccio I know for harpsichord. I wish I could toss him a coin, but I have nothing to give.
Pausing at the canal, I watch a pair of young boys folding an old pamphlet into a paper boat. They lay it gently on the water. It catches the breeze and surges forward. The journey is not a long one—the canal is only fifty feet or so wide—and soon the boat successfully reaches the other side, the prow bumping into the pavement. It tips over. The boys cheer, unbowed by its capsizing.
Someone bends down and rights the boat before pushing it back toward us. The boys call thanks and crouch to reach for it. I glance across the canal, then look again, astonished.
The rescuer is David Mendes.
His hair is down, he wears no jacket, but it is him, of that I am certain—he is not the sort of man easily mistaken for someone else. And I am not one to believe in Providence, but what else can this be?
I had sincerely believed we would never meet again, and I am surprised at how thankful I am that I was wrong.
He stands, smiling, and then he notices me, also. The smile falls from his face, to be replaced by shock. Our gazes meet across the water. I wave, but his expression becomes guarded.
His reflection ripples, stretching toward me, in defiance of the hesitation in his face. It seems likely he will walk away; why wouldn’t he? We both know I shouldn’t be here unsupervised, and that he would court trouble by acknowledging me at all. But I don’t want him to leave. It is a comfort to see someone familiar in a city of strangers. I would call out to him if I could, but he is distant enough that I fear he won’t hear me.
I turn to the boys. “May I try?” I ask, gesturing to the boat.
They are wary, but I give them a pleading look, and they hand it to me. I bend down to the water. I wish I had a stick of graphite, or something else to write with, to communicate more clearly. Instead, I settle for plucking a daisy from the grass, tucking it into the paper, hoping it will express my good intentions.
I don’t trust myself to aim it properly. “If one of you could send it back to that man, I’d be very grateful,” I say. The boys are sniggering now—they have noticed the flower—but they oblige.
The boat bobs over to Mendes. He has been watching us with a suspicious expression, eyes narrowed, but he still crouches to retrieve the boat. Pulling the daisy out from under the sail, he pinches it between thumb and forefinger. I can’t see his expression.
He pushes the boat back toward us, and he walks away. I sigh. Better for both of us, I suppose; we could both be punished for fraternizing without my sister’s permission.
“Bad luck, mistress,” one of the boys comments. Before I can reply to him, he snatches up his boat. Grabbing the other boy’s hand, he leads him away.
I watch them go, crestfallen, my solitude renewed. Unwilling to move, I stand there for a little longer, pressing the sole of my slipper against the water. The ripple expands outward like a firework, lanterns glittering in the shattered reflection.
A hand extends into my vision, a daisy in its palm. I look up to see Mendes’s frowning face.
“Good evening,” I say.
