Page 33 of The Phoenix Bride
“Oh,” I say, confused. “Then how…”
“My family was forced to convert during the Inquisition,” he replies. “But we continued to practice in secret for many generations.”
“Surely that was very dangerous. Why didn’t they leave?”
“They had many reasons. They had lives there, family, a community. To leave would mean incredible uncertainty. But…”
“But?”
He sighs. “I also often wonder why they stayed. I left when I could, as have many others. Perhaps I simply lacked the courage to remain. I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t seem a matter of courage at all,” I say. “YouchoseLondon. I think that is brave. It is a frightening place. I am quite terrified of it.”
His expression softens at that. “You have been brave, also,” he says. “If foolhardy. Have you no money?”
“None.”
“Where do you intend to go?”
“Well, back to the townhouse, eventually. I have no other choice.”
His nose wrinkles. “Where you must meet your suitor.”
“Yes.”
The bloodied leaves of lamb’s ears are still clutched in his fist. He drops them. They float slowly to the ground, the breeze scattering them across the path; one falls into the water and spins in a pirouette.
“I wish I could do more to help you,” he says. “Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to be forgiven.”
“I’m not certain of that. In truth, I already knew—”
A voice calls “David!” from behind us, and I turn around to see a man approaching us. He is tall and ginger-haired, walking with a loping stride that is somehow both elegant and ungainly. He stops in front of us, frowning at Mendes. “I have been looking everywhere for you,” he says. His accent is foreign, perhaps northern European—markedly different, at least, from David’s. “I thought we were to meet by the fountain.”
“Pardon, Jan.”
The man notices me then. He gives me an assessing look. “Oh, Isee.” He grins and bows to me. “Good evening, mistress. My apologies for the interruption. I am Johannes van Essen.”
“Cecilia Thorowgood,” I reply, curtsying.
“Cecilia is an…ex-patient,” Mendes explains. He has gone a little pink.
“You are Master Mendes’s friend?” I ask Van Essen.
He nods eagerly. “You know, David and I were to head to Temple Bar soon. You are welcome to join us.”
“Temple Bar?”
“There is a coffeehouse there. It is quite marvelous. In the evenings there is lively debate, and music, also.”
Mendes makes a sound of aggravation. “Jan—”
Interrupting him, I say, “Are women permitted there?”
“Indeed. There are all sorts at Temple Bar. Jews and Dutchmen, too.” He grins again. “Well, Mistress Thorowgood? What say you?”
Had I been asked before I saw the park, when my vision of London was solely filth and fear, I would have likely declined. But now I find myself gripped by curiosity. I have never had coffee before, and I would like to try it at least once.
