Page 95 of The Phoenix Bride
The snow was thawing that afternoon, the sun bright and warm. There was a linden tree at the edge of the estate, and I went to see it. The tree wasn’t blooming, not yet, but it would soon.
I went the next day, and the next, and soon it was a ritual of mine, come rain or shine: I would go to see if the linden had bloomed.Not yet,I always told myself,but it will.
And then, one day in early March, it did. A tiny thing, aloneand barely born; but it was a flower all the same, on one of the lowest branches, trembling in the breeze. So I sat beneath it, stooping on a gnarled root—the branch above me, with its single, bud-green passenger—and I took my paper and my pen and began to write a letter.
David,
At sunset on the twenty-seventh of May, I will be in Saint James’s Park…
—
On the morning we intend to leave for London, Sam misplaces his favorite hat, and we spend far too long attempting to find it. Eventually we discover it—thankfully unburned—within the fireplace of the first-floor parlor.
“I put it there to prevent myself from losing it,” Sam tells me, sheepish, as we clamber into the carriage. “I believe my logic was that the placement was so absurd I would be sure to remember where it was.”
I pat his shoulder consolingly. “Sound reasoning,” I reply. “Perhaps somewhere less perilous next time.”
We pass the journey playing cards, and soon London sweeps us into its grasp, clumsy and eager. Were I a wiser woman, I would be approaching our return with something resembling temperance and dignity, considering I am now a lady of stature. Instead, as we reach the edges of Saint James’s, I lean out of the window and nearly fall out of the carriage as I try to peer upward. Scaffolding has erupted from the city’s center, like buds on a bough.
“Look!” I say, and Sam leans out of the window on the other side, giving a cry of delight. Then his wig flies away from hishead, and I start laughing as he frantically demands that the driver stop so it might be retrieved from the blackberry bush it has tumbled into.
Here is how we have prepared for our return: Sam has packed no less than a dozen cases full of our clothing, including an entire bag simply for Duchess’s things, and he has bought us a new carriage with padded seats for the journey. He has had the harpsichord in the townhouse tuned; he has secured us invitations to a number of society events, including a play next week that the king shall be attending; and he has told me, over and over, that all will be well. I want to believe him. Sometimes, I do. But the city has memories, and I still fear they will swallow me whole.
We continue into London, and soon we reach the townhouse. I had forgotten how near it was to the Thames. Did the river always glitter like that? Perhaps the reduction of the fire has caused the buildings to cast fewer shadows upon the water; in the noon sun it glows brighter than anything I have ever seen. From the window of the first floor, it looks like molten silver, poured into the earth. I point this out to Sam. He is taken by the image and writes an awful poem about it, then informs me he has invited a number of his court friends to come on the barge this evening.
“Already?” I ask him. “We’ve only just arrived.”
“To see the city after all the rebuilding! Come, Cecilia, aren’t you curious?”
“I am,” I reply. “Very well, then.”
“And perhaps tomorrow, we might meet with Master van Essen, as he has invited us to a coffeehouse—well, not a coffeehouse, but itcouldbe one, you see, if—”
“See Jan?” I ask. “But…”
“It would only be him,” Sam says. “No one else.”
No one else.Of course not.
—
By the time the sun is setting, we are sailing along the water—in much different circumstances than the last time I was on the Thames.
On the bank, London is a palimpsest, new built over old. People walk through the charred remains without pause, weaving beneath scaffolding, talking and laughing and living. I feel strangely privileged; so few across history will see the city like this, cocooned and metamorphosing.
As we continue past the city center, toward Aldgate, I lean over the edge of the boat, peering out at the wharf where we had stopped the night of the fire. Beside me, Sam presses his hand to my back.
“All is well?” he asks me.
“Well enough,” I reply.
This back-and-forth has become a constant between us, and usually it is enough that he will leave the matter be. But this time, he says, “You’re nervous.”
“Yes. I…” Swallowing the lump in my throat, I wrap my fingers around the edge of the barge. The water sprays a light mist against my knuckles. “How many times can someone fall in love, do you think? Does it become impossible eventually? Do we run out of affection to give?”
“I don’t think so,” he replies. “If David doesn’t— I think you will love again, if you wish to, no matter what happens.”
“I don’t know if I wish to. It’s been so long, I…I don’t know. David never replied to me, and perhaps I’m a fool to still go to meet him.” I pause. “You’re certain Jan gave you the correct address?”
