sharing a house.
But not sharing, not really. After the wedding, Juliet will have the household keys; Juliet will be in charge of the servants. Juliet will order the meals, the flowers, the servantsâ livery, the evening entertainments. And Sarah Anne will be the extra woman.
The pieces of ice make a grinding noise as they crash against each other and the bridge. Although the tall brick houses that crowded the bridge in Sarah Anneâs childhood were pulled down several years ago and no longer hang precariously over the water, the view remains the same: downriver the Tower and a forest of masts; upriver the Abbey and Somerset House. The floating ice greatly menaces the thousands of ships waiting to be unloaded in the Pool. It is of this that John and Christopher speak. Manly talk: will ships be lost, fortunes destroyed? Meanwhile Juliet chatters and Sarah Anne is silent, scanning the sky for birds.
Wrynecks, white-throats, nightingales, cuckoos, willow-wrens, goatsuckersânone of these are visible, theyâve disappeared for the winter. The swallows are gone as well. An acquaintance of Christopherâs mentioned over a recent dinner that on a remarkably warm December day, heâd seen a small group of swallows huddled under the moldings of a window at Merton College. What were they doing there? Sheâs seen them, as late as October, gathered in great crowds in the osier-beds along the riverâvery late for young birds attempting to fly past the equator. In early May sheâs seen them clustered on the largest willow at Burdem Place, which hangs over the lake. And in summer swallows swarm the banks of the Thames below this very bridge. Itâs clear that theyâre attached to water, but attachment doesnât necessarily imply habitation. Is it possible that they are still around, either below the water or buried somehow in the banks?
If she were alone, and not dressed in these burdensome clothes, and if there were some way she could slip down one of the sets of stairs to the river bank without arousing everyoneâs attention, she knows what she would do. Sheâd mark out a section of bank where the nesting holes are thickest and survey each hole, poking down the burrows until she found the old nests. In the burrows along the river bank at home sheâs seen these: a base of straw, then finer grass lined with a little down. Small white eggs in early summer. Now, were she able to look, she believes sheâd find only twists of tired grass.
The wind blows her hood over her face. As soon as she gets home, she thinks, sheâll write another letter to Linnaeus and propose that he investigate burrows in Sweden. Four times sheâs written him, this past summer and fall; not once has he answered.
Christopher and Johnâs discussion has shifted to politics, and she would like to join them. But she must talk to Juliet, whose delicate nose has reddened. Julietâs hands are buried in a huge fur muff; her face is buried in her hood. Well-mannered, she refuses to complain of the cold.
âYouâll be part of the wedding, of course,â Juliet says, and then she describes the music she hopes to have played, the feast that will follow the ceremony. âA big table,â she says. âOn the lawn outside the library, when the roses are in bloomâwhat is that giant vine winding up the porch there?â
âHoneysuckle,â Sarah Anne says gloomily. âThe scent is lovely.â
She can picture the wedding only too clearly. The other attendants will be Julietâs sisters, all three as dainty and pretty as Juliet. Their gowns will be pink or yellow or pink and yellow, with bows down the bodice and too many flounces. The couple will go to Venice and Paris and Rome and when they return theyâll move into Sarah Anneâs large sunny bedroom and sheâll move to a smaller room in the north wing. The first time Juliet saw Sarah Anneâs room, her eyes