Page 66 of The Phoenix Bride
I don’t know what to say to the king. I can’t thank him again,can’t apologize. So I curtsy—not too low, not too high—and I bow my head to hide my tears.
—
The party soon grows raucous. Margaret and Robert decide to leave by midnight, and it is testament to her pleasure with my newfound popularity that my sister permits me to stay—leaving one carriage with me, sending for another.Return with Sir Grey,she tells me with an indulgent pat on my cheek.
I converse extensively with some of the ladies, who are fascinated by my music. Many of them play harpsichord or virginal, but in the reluctant manner of those forced to by education. They seem to enjoy my passionate defense of the art, made only more impassioned by the wine that seems to flow endlessly from the servants’ pitchers. Eventually, however, the party proves too much for me, also, particularly when the men decide to go and approximate a game of tennis in the garden using apples as balls. Sam is delighted by this—he is always delighted by suchthings—but I am not. Red-cheeked and aggravated, in the impetuous manner that tipsiness sometimes causes, I decide to leave without him. It is hardly as if my sister will discover the lie, after all.
“I’ll take the carriage and send it back to fetch you,” I tell Sam, who is at least twice as drunk as I am, and is currently attempting to pick crushed apple out of the curls of his wig.
“You’re certain you won’t stay?” he asks me.
“I’m tired.”
“I’m Sam.” He giggles and presses the pad of his thumb to the tip of my nose.
I roll my eyes, squeeze his arm, and go toward the exit. At the front door, I hear someone call my name, and turn to see Mistress Myddleton coming toward me.
“Leaving so soon?” she asks, smiling dazzlingly at me.
“Forgive me.”
She laughs. “No, I understand. The menfolk have started their nonsense again. Regardless, I adored your performance tonight. Would you return next Tuesday? I am hosting a dinner. You ought to come. And bring Sir Grey, of course.”
“I—well—certainly,” I say, and her smile widens. “Who will be attending?”
“His Majesty, I expect, and whoever he deigns to bring. My cousin, and my husband—he ought to be returned from the estate by then.” She grimaces. “He was taken ill last year, and his recovery has been slow. I had hoped the country air would do him some good, but…”
“I know an excellent doctor,” I blurt out before I can think better of it.
“Oh? I’d be most grateful; nothing we’ve done has worked. You must send me his details. And anything else that comes to mind—I am a great collector of letters, you know.”
Someone calls her name then, so she gives me another smile and departs. I leave the house feeling giddy and exhausted in equal measure.
The coachman helps me to my seat without any reaction to my clear inebriation, rectifying my stumbling step with the practiced, unperturbed movements of a man who has seen and will see far worse. We set off at a blistering pace—or, at least, it feels blistering—with the wheels shuddering and jolting me back and forth like a bell clapper; ten minutes into the journey, I must rap on the ceiling to command him to stop driving.
I tumble out of the carriage and onto the dirt of a London road, pressing my hands against my thighs, resisting the urge to reacquaint myself with sweetmeats the hosts served this evening. Meanwhile, the coachman waits in patient silence.
As I measure my breathing, the sounds of the city surroundme. It is late, but not terribly so; the lamps are still lit, and I can hear yelling and laughter in the distance. The air is pleasantly cool and smells of river water. I drag it to my lungs in slow, grateful gulps, concentrating on the way the lace of my sleeves rubs against my elbows.
Once my nausea has passed, I stand up and glance around myself, taking better stock of our location. The coachman has stopped on a side road, but at its end I can see the main street. With pleasure, I realize that I know where we are.
“I’m going for a walk,” I tell the coachman. “I’ll be back soon.”
At this, he finally looks somewhat alarmed. “Mistress, I must insist I accompany you—”
“I just want to go around the bend. There’s a coffeehouse there that I once went to.”
“A coffeehouse,” he repeats skeptically, but I am already walking away. I fear he will follow me, but he does not, and soon I am on the main road of Temple Bar.
In a half jog, I make my way to the spot I recall the coffeehouse being, ignoring the stares of the others in the area, who are no doubt fascinated by the drunken aristocrat muddying her skirts in the dirt. It is nearly one o’clock in the morning, but it is open. Light spills in glowing puddles from the windows; the door is half ajar; inside, I hear a choir of laughter at a ribald joke. I cannot resist the temptation, and I go inside.
The air is heavy with the scent of rushes and fire and coffee beans, and the noise is inconceivable. I sidestep through the crowd toward the booths—I know who I am looking for there, although I refuse to admit it to myself—and a small gaggle of men in scarlet coats pause in their discussion to stare at me. I fear they will bother me, but they just smile, and one laughs a little to himself, then turns back to continue the conversation. It is as much as I could hope for, considering I am all in silks andpearls at a Temple Bar coffeehouse past midnight. My nursemaid once warned my mother I was so curious I was likely to cast myself into the hearth, just to know what it felt like to be burned. Perhaps I never shook the habit.
I look at the people sitting in the booths. David is not there, and I release a breath of disappointment and relief—because if hewerehere, what on earth would I do? Fall to my knees and beg him to carry me away? Apologize? Pass him a wedding invitation with my and Sam’s names on it, and say,He is a good man, David, but sometimes I dream that he is you; sometimes I think that every kiss I have from now until I die will be only an echo of the ones we shared; and I think I am being cruel to Sam by pretending I can forget you, cruel to Will’s memory by wanting you like this, but for the first time I understand why the poets liken love to fire and famine and war.
Someone calls my name. I turn, whip fast, to see Johannes van Essen staring at me from a seat in one of the booths.
“Cecilia,” he says, and he smiles, standing to greet me. “What Providence!”
