Page 98 of The Phoenix Bride
He takes my hand in his own, shakes it warmly. “You have my word, Cecilia,” he says. “No matter what else happens; that tree will outlive us all.”
It is the twenty-seventh of May.
I have yet to hear back from David.
I will go to meet him, all the same.
Sam stares out the window and says, “I think it might soon rain. Do you want to take the carriage?”
“It’s only a short walk, Sam,” I reply.
It feels as if I ought to be panicking more than I am. The lion’s share of the anxiety seems to have fallen to my dear husband, who is muttering to himself and pacing fretfully as I dress. Meanwhile, I fiddle with the laces of a gown that I purchased in preparation for our return: It is the color of a dried rose, with gold at the sleeves. My wedding pearls glint in my ears, and I curl my hair into a cascade of bronze and gold. When I look at myself in the mirror, I realize I have never felt more beautiful.
Sam continues to insist about the carriage all the way to thefront door, where he finally relents after one of my sternestlooks.His expression is as if he is seeing me off to war. He seizes my wrist and releases it. “He will be there,” he tells me, but it almost feels as if he is reassuring himself, rather than me.
“I hope he is,” I reply. “But if he isn’t—we must have champagne tonight, regardless.”
I descend the steps; the closing of the gate feels louder than thunder.
As I step into the street, I glance nervously upward, wondering if Sam’s advice had some merit. The cloud cover is not entire—patches of sunset-blushed sky peer through cracks in the gray—but still, there is something distinctly ominous about the darkness of them, the bruise-colored blackness. I hope they don’t herald disaster.
As I begin to walk, a voice calls my name. I turn around to see that Margaret is standing some distance behind me, staring at me with wide eyes.
My sister looks as well as she did when last I saw her—perhaps even better; there is a flush to her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes that I have never seen before. She is clearly on her way to some event, in an extravagant green gown and a hat dripping in silver ribbons. She looks lovely.
“Cecilia,” she says once more when I don’t respond. “Hello.”
“Hello, Margaret,” I reply.
She comes closer and raises her arms as if to embrace me. I take a wary step back, and her arms fall.
“I…” she says. “I am so happy to see you. I wanted to visit, but…”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” I tell her. “I mean—I wasn’t ready to see you yet.”
She winces. “You received the portrait?”
“I did.”
She clearly expects me to thank her, but I don’t. We are left in an awkward silence.
“I have somewhere to be,” I say.
“Oh,” she replies, her expression drooping. “But—how is your husband?”
“Fine,” I reply. “But I really do need to—”
“I must tell you something,” she says quickly. “Something very important. Have tea with me?”
“Margaret…”
“It will only take a moment. A few minutes, even. We don’t have to drink tea if you don’t want to. Just—please, Cecilia. I beg you.”
I look again at the sky. I am running early—the restlessness of anticipation—and I had intended to spend the afternoon wandering the park. I could easily sit with her, if I wanted, and still have time to spare.
“Very well,” I say. “Lead the way.”
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