Page 59 of The Phoenix Bride
“But that is terrible,” Sam says. “There must be some other resolution. I shall ponder it. I am not a man of great wit, I must admit, but for a dear friend, perhaps I might find a flash of genius.”
I give him a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate the effort.”
“Will your sister permit you to go into the courtyard, do you think, if I accompany you?”
“I do not know.”
“I will ask her,” he says, standing. “I shall say I intend to propose, if necessary.”
He leaves me alone with Duchess. She rises from David’sjacket and paws at the side of the mattress until I lift her up. Once in my lap, she curls against my chest, snuffling at the fabric of my gown. I rub at her velvet ears. Sam has put a purple bow around her neck, to match the jacket he is wearing today. She seems somehow to sense my sorrow, and she leans her head into my palm.
Sam returns eventually, looking triumphant. “I am permitted to accompany you to the courtyard,” he says, and so he leads me with my hand in the crook of his elbow, like a grandmother down a church aisle, out into the corridor. Duchess follows at our heels, yapping.
After two days in bed, my knees are weak; I almost stumble down the steps. In the courtyard, the air is warm and still. I glance to the window of the first floor and see Margaret’s figure, watching us from behind a curtain. I suppose it would have been too much to ask for privacy.
We sit on the edge of the fountain. Sam laughs at Duchess, who is snapping at one of the streams of water as if she might catch fish from it. I watch him laugh and think he is beautiful, and kindhearted, and that he would be as good a husband as any gentlewoman could wish for. This revelation is more bitter than any decoction I have ever taken.
Sam tells me a story of court, something about laxatives and a bear and a gauche comedy that no one enjoyed. I listen only half present, watching the wind pass its hand over the linden. In the fading light of the sunset, its white blooms glow like clusters of stars. They are now mostly shed; soon the tree shall be entirely green.
I think of David. I think of Will. I think of Margaret. Partwaythrough his story, Sam seems to realize I am not listening, and his voice falters and stops. He reaches over to take my hand.
“All will be well, Cecilia,” he says.
I do not believe him. I look down at his hand folded over mine, skin pale as my own, nails bitten short.
And there is nothing in particular that does it: nothing new happens to cause my sudden realization. It is rather that I become aware of the sameness of things, how everything is just as it has ever been. I am sitting here, in the house I have been sitting in since I came to London in the first place. If I had not found his jacket beneath my bed today, it would be as if David Mendes had never been in my life at all. I went to sleep sodden and exhausted last night, stinking of vervain, for a memory I might never regain.
This place exemplifies my life. It is not even a prison; it is a portrait frame I have been painted within, as the world passes by outside.
How did it come to this? How could I permit it?
I owe Will more than this. I owe myself more than this, owe David more than this, after all he did to show the city to me. I must leave this place and start anew. There is only one path before me now, and so that is the path I must take. No matter where it leads, it is better than standing still.
You can find happiness again, Cecilia—but it can’t be with him.
“Sam,” I say.
“Yes, Cecilia?”
“I will marry you,” I tell him, and his grip on my hand loosens. “If you will have me, I will be your bride.”
—
My sister doesn’t weep to hear the news, but she pulls me into an embrace, fierce and thankful, and I know that this surrender has forgiven me the war.
Sir Eden voices no pleasure except a long, satisfied puff on hiscigar. Sam hovers at the door of the parlor wearing an awkward smile. He had asked me,Are you certain,until it seemed his throat was hoarse; but I am certain. I have made up my mind, and I will marry again. I hope that this husband will bring me less grief than my last, even though I know he cannot bring me even an ounce of the joy.
Later that afternoon—once Sam has left—Margaret sits medown to discuss wedding arrangements. The Edens are paying, of course, and so it is their decision; no need to put it off, shetells me, as a month is all that is needed to procure the license.
“I doubt the ceremony will be at Whitehall,” she says. “But you must meet some of the court beforehand, regardless. They at least ought to know who you are.”
The wordsmeet the courtfill me with an odd mixture of anxiety and giddiness. Margaret pushes the plate of biscuits toward me, perhaps mistaking my expression for nausea.
“The tailor will come tomorrow, to measure you for your dress,” she says as I nibble nervously at a biscuit. “And for jewels—”
“I don’t need a new dress, surely? I still have my gown.”
“You will be dressed in style, Cecilia,” she says firmly. “It won’t do to have the Edens appear stingy.”
