Page 65 of The Phoenix Bride
Sam, flushing a little, gestures to me. “Your Majesty, my betrothed, Mistress Cecilia Thorowgood.”
“Charmed,” he replies. “I hear you are the sister of Margaret Eden?”
I feel as if I shall faint. “I—I am, Your Majesty.”
“Hm. You look very little alike. But you have made the better match, I should think, as Sir Eden is about as interesting as blanched gruel.”
I glance over at Robert; if he heard the comment, he hasn’t reacted to it, staring disinterested into his port glass. I ought to reply with something witty, but I am so nervous I can’t think of anything. I manage a respectable, “I quite agree,” which produces a ghost of a smile on the king’s face, but then his eyes flit away, and I realize he is already losing interest. I can’t tell if that is a relief or a disappointment.
“John,” the king says, turning to another member of the crowd, “you and Lizzie, then…”
Sam draws me away from the group. Once we are beyond the reach of the king’s eyes, I gasp as if I have been struggling for air. “Oh, I did make a fool of myself—”
“Nonsense. You were perfectly composed.”
“I was not!”
Sam makes a dismissive gesture. “Everyone is like that the first time. You’ll get used to it.”
Margaret elbows through the crowd to find us. “You ought to have informed me,” she snaps, frustrated. “I would have introduced you myself.”
“Why shouldn’t Sam have done it?” I reply. “He is my fiancé, after all.”
Margaret opens her mouth, but then closes it; she knows she has no worthy response. We are left in an awkward silence. Sam, shuffling nervously from foot to foot, perks up when someone from the other side of the room calls his name. A gaggle of rakesare competing to pluck flaming, brandy-soaked raisins from a crystal dish without burning themselves; they want him to participate. Delighted, Sam gives me a pleading look, and I roll my eyes and gesture for him to go.
Once he is away, Margaret says, “You ought to stay with me for the rest of the evening. I will introduce you to the other ladies.”
I glance over to the small group of court ladies by the tea table, Mistress Myddleton among them. They are giggling to themselves about something. As I look around the room—feeling the insistent press of the dark wood furnishings, the oriental rugs, the half-naked women in the portraits on the wall—I suddenly feel terribly out of place. This is my sister’s habitat, not mine. I am a country widow with a broken heart, pretending sophistication. If I try to speak to anyone here, they will surely realize that. I suppose that is why my sister wants to speak for me. Why she wants to wear me at her side like a piece of jewelry, show me off, glittering and silent.
“I…will take another glass of port,” I say, and lunge away toward the banqueting table, leaving Margaret behind. I pause there, stomach rolling—I couldn’t drink another glass of port, even if I wanted to—and then I notice that there is a spinet in the corner. The lid is open; there will be musicians performing later on. I wander over to it and press a key lightly. No one seems to notice, and the sound is quickly disguised. The chatter in the room is raucous. The rakes shriek as they snatch at the burning raisins, the women laugh, the king and his cortege compete to speak the loudest. I am simply another piece of furniture.
I play a light fugue—I hear some murmurs of appreciation from the women nearby, which does something to improve my confidence—and so I continue to play. I find the fuguebecoming a toccata: Froberger’s Second, the same I played with David by my side. A lifelong rival, this piece, one I have never been able to conquer.
As I whittle away at it, I allow myself to imagine that instead of standing here, I have left the party entirely. I imagine that I am walking away from this Mayfair townhouse and its scrubbed-tile doorstep, and I continue walking away until I have pierced the heart of London. I walk with the Thames threading its needle beside me, by the banks with my skirts in hand, and the summer breeze pulls the pins from my hair while my silk slippers go dirty with dust. As I walk, I can hear the sounds of a wedding pageant, drums and dancers, laughter and light. I picture the coffeehouse at Temple Bar and the soaring cathedrals and Covent Garden with its flautist, and I imagine the street leading toward Saint James’s Park, with its wattle-and-daub houses. I see the gate, the canal, and the lamb’s ears, and then—inevitably—I imagine David standing on the other side of the water, his hair tied back as it was when we first met, and his case clutched in one hand: sturdy boots, sage-green jacket. He would see me, and for a moment he would be perturbed—his brow furrowing, his fingers clenching the handle of his bag—but then he would understand. He would drop his things.
Querida,he would say, and I would hear him, even with the canal between us.
The toccata flies away from me, too high, too quick, notes trilling like a bird, my fingers swooping upward on the keys.
Querida,he says again.David,I reply, and I walk toward him—he offers me his hand—I reach for him—
My little finger hits the highest key. I can go no further, and my hand skitters against the side of the harpsichord. The daydream fades and dissolves, my mind clears, the song stops. In the empty space the music has left, the room is entirely silent. Thewomen are not laughing, and the rakes are not shrieking, and even the king himself has gone quiet. I look up from the spinet to find everyone watching me.
“Cecilia,” Margaret sputters, horrified, from where she stands beside the tea table. Her face is pale. And for a moment, I share in her horror, and I truly believe I have done something terrible—that I have been horrifically rude by playing the spinet without asking. My stomach sinks, my hands begin to shake. Bile rises in my throat.
Then someone begins to clap. The remainder of the roomjoins them, and I am applauded for a performance for the first time in my life.
The king says, “Brava! Brava!” his voice booming through the crowd. And then, once the clapping finishes: “What a beautiful melody, madam.”
“I…Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Froberger’s Second, was it? A fascinating interpretation.”
“It is imperfect still, Your Majesty, but I am grateful for the praise.”
“Imperfect!” he repeats, astonished. “I can’t fathom how it might be improved.”
My eyes dart nervously around the room. Behind the king, Sam is smiling at me; Margaret, relieved, is smiling, too.Everyoneis smiling at me, even the king. This moment is something I have always wanted. It is everything I aspired toward as a child playing make-believe with her sister, without the weight of her grief pinned to her shoulders. And all I can feel is disappointment: that I didn’t play well enough; that I will never see David again; that—in all the distant years that stretch before me—I will never be able to remember this day without knowing my triumph was hollow.
