by Lisa Fiedler
Juliet eyes the fig with interest. “I have heard old Montague spends dearly to water his land. Clearly, ’tis a successful enterprise.”
“By all means then, cousin, indulge!” I toss the fig; she makes an effortless catch, as though she is secretly dying to taste it. “You are as Eve in Eden,” I tease. “Partaking of forbidden fruit!”
“I have never been this wicked,” she whispers earnestly, pinching the fruit. A glistening smudge of its juicy flesh darkens her fingertips.
“Taste it!” I urge.
I sense my young cousin is struggling with a temptation far greater than figs. In the next moment, she has popped the thieved fruit into her mouth. She savors the plump sweetness.
“Good?”
Juliet nods. “This sweetness is unrivaled. ’Tis as though its sugar goes direct to my blood.”
“That, cousin, is the taste of triumph.”
With a grin, I take her hand, and we walk toward a most magnificent flower garden. Centered there is a grand marble fountain with a large oval pool. In the middle stands a statue of a slender nymph fashioned of pink-white marble veined with gray. Her hair flows in a solid cascade of shimmering stone, and her torso is wrapped in a tunic, carved with folds. A stream of water glistens like diamonds in the fading starlight as it pours from a tilted urn cradled in her arm.
I remove my small dagger from its soft leather sheath against my hip and with it begin to cut the heartiest blossoms that surround the fountain. Juliet, who is too cautious to carry a blade, pulls the plants up by their roots.
For a moment, I am so overwhelmed by the flowery scents I do not hear the footsteps on the hard-baked earthen path.
“Roz!” whispers Juliet. “Someone approaches!”
“At this hour? Impossible.”
But she is correct. I hear the sound of whistling coming from behind a tall privet hedge. Juliet gasps, dropping the broad handful of lilies she’s collected. The whistling grows clearer. I grip the stalks of my flowers so that they bleed their cool nectar into my palm.
Juliet’s eyes are round with terror. This playful prank has become suddenly a dangerous quest. There is no telling what sin a Montague guard might choose to deliver upon us.
“Hide!” I command. “Quickly.”
Without a second thought, Juliet flings herself behind the fountain. I bend to retrieve her lilies then make to join her, but the toe of my slipper catches in the hem of my gown. I stumble, landing on my knees on the stone-scattered path. In the next moment, squinting across the shadowy distance, I see not a guard but Romeo himself, rounding the corner of the hedge. My only hope is that in the dimness, he will not know ‘tis I. But Romeo, it seems, has committed my very outline to memory. He stops a moment, then hurries toward me. A more awkward circumstance I have ne’er known.
“Rosaline?” He smiles. “Ah, my sweet Rosaline!”
“I am no one’s Rosaline but my own,” I mutter, rising from the ground with as much dignity as I can muster. I consider righting my neckline but realize, from the way Romeo is staring, that it is already too late for modesty.
“I am as honored as I am stunned, dear lady,” he says with a gallant bow, “to find thee here awaiting me.”
“Awaiting you?” The humiliation is unspeakable. He believes I’ve come in search of him! “Nay, sir, I—”
“In truth, ’tis most satisfying to know that you have at last sought me out.”
I hold up one hand to slow his approach. “Good Romeo, sir, you are quite mistaken.”
He hears me not, but takes my hand and presses the knuckles to his lips. “’Tis the answer to my greatest prayer,” he whispers. “After weeks of my pursuing you, you come now in search of me.”
I gasp at his assumption. In fairness, though, I cannot fault him for thinking thus. What other reason could he imagine for my appearing uninvited in his garden?
He smiles. “Please do not turn bashful on me now!”
Such dancing eyes hath he, such lovely hair, and what a handsome smile. And yet, his assets work no magic upon me.
“Come, m’lady, there is a gardener’s cottage behind that hedge. We can seclude ourselves there and—”
“How darest thou!” My words come out in a righteous shriek.
Romeo blinks, sincerely confused. “So you have not come here to dally with me in a garden shed?”
“Most assuredly not!”
He bows his head, ashamed. “Forgive me, love. ’Twas a most insolent supposition.”
I let out a rush of breath, which flutters a tendril near my face. “As long as we are here,” I decide aloud, “we may as well have a talk.”
He grins now, and leans against the rim of the fountain. “Talk, aye. Let us talk on any topic you wish, for the sound of your voice to me is an intimate caress.”
From the opposite side of the fountain, I hear Juliet giggle. Romeo glances over his shoulder, but I swiftly turn his attention back to me. “’Tis a conversation long overdue.”
“Go on, dear one. I ache to hear the verdict. Dost thou want me?”
Only to go away, I think, but will my expression to remain soft. “I am sorry, my lord. I do not.”
Again, he lowers his gaze. “I have disappointed thee somehow. I am unworthy.”
His dejection is palpable, and despite my frustration, I wish to comfort him. “Do not blame thyself,” I say. “’Tis not thou … ’tis I.”
“’Tis not I, ’tis thou?” Romeo repeats, frowning his puzzlement.
A coughing sound from round the fountain cuts him off. Before he can investigate, I take his hand firmly in mine. ‘Tis time he knew the truth. For e’en did I think Romeo right for me, I would still see fit to rebuff his advances. “I’ve no wish to be loved, sir, by any man. ’Tis purity I strive toward, chastity I choose.”
He is at first without words, but of course that condition is fleeting. “You fear only what you do not know,” speaks Romeo, a warm look in his eyes. “I promise thee, angelic one, that once you’ve tasted of my passion, you will only crave more of the same.”
Clearly, the expanse of his ego blooms as mightily as his garden. I let out an unladylike snort, but he ignores it, continuing his rebuttal.
“Passion is far preferable to purity,” he confides, “and to be chaste is naught compared to being cherished. Love me but once, fair Rosaline, and you will love me forever.”
“Alas, good sir, I am forsworn to have none of thee.”
“Having none of me would make a nun of thee.”
“’Tis one way to look at it,” I concede.
“But I have given thee all the words of love I know.”
“Words,” I sigh. “So many and yet so few of consequence!”
Romeo is momentarily lost in contemplation. I glance backward o’er my shoulder to Juliet, who is crouched low in the grass. When she catches my eye, she feigns to stab a delicate finger into her mouth as though to gag.
I turn back quickly so as not to burst into laughter. Romeo, it appears, has reached some degree of comprehension.
“So what you are saying is that you do not find my nearness unappealing—’tis simply that you have chosen, instead of love, a life of chastity?”
I nod.
Romeo gives his head a doleful shake. “So if you shall not marry, what then? Will the most beauteous Rosaline join a sisterhood?” He reaches forth to touch my hair, then pulls back, perhaps afeared an avenging angel might swoop down to lop off his hand. “Mayhap ’tis blasphemy to say so, but to cloister such beauty as yours shall be a sin most unspeakable! Beauty to a nun is none too beautiful.”
He offers this wordplay with a smile so charming I imagine most damsels would indeed be tempted by it.
“I beg of thee, Rosaline. Conceal not thy loveliness in the dimness of an abbey cell.”
I would not last five minutes in an abbey, but of course, Romeo could not know that. And as it would not do to have this impetuous boy tell all of Verona that I will one day be known as Sister Rosaline,
I explain.
“I have no plans to enter a convent, nor any manner of religious order. Think back, my lord, to the night we met. What service did I render to your fellow Petruchio?”
“You did patch him up,” Romeo recalls. “Quite skillfully.”
“Well, did you fancy that mere chance?”
The Montague shrugs. “I thought it fortunate for Petruchio that in the true Healer’s absence we found awaiting us such a lovely lady to tend his wounds.”
I draw a long breath to hold on to my patience. “The fact is that I have spent years engaging myself in the scientific study of medicine, the art of healing.”
“Ah.” Romeo strokes his chin. “Well. ’Tis nice for a girl to have a hobby.”
On my oath, I could slap him. I grind my teeth. “This hobby, sir, shall be my life’s work. ’Tis my belief that I will best serve this world by wholly and undividedly pursuing my study of this noble discipline.”
In a gesture most dramatic, Romeo lifts his arms toward the east, where red ribbons of light have just begun to show themselves. “She throws me over for the love of medicine?” he wails, dropping to his knees. “Ah. So be it, then!” Gazing to the heavens he beseeches the unseen sun, “Sinister star in your fiery firmament, burn me, I beg of you. Blister my brow, scathe my skin, dry up the very blood in my veins to dust, for ’tis only by suffering such hellishness that I shall persuade this lady to give me her attention.” He throws me a desperate look. “And if Apollo will not malign me from above, I shall take the earthly course and ingest a fatal poison. Or stab myself repeatedly, so that you will be compelled to come near to me, if only to stanch the bleeding.” He rises, turning his melancholy eyes to mine. “If illness is what you require of me, lady, then beginning here and now I will be sick.”
Truth be told, I’ve begun to feel a bit nauseated myself! I roll my eyes, and from behind the fountain, I hear Juliet groan.
“What is that noise?” he asks, casting his gaze to the fountain.
“Noise, sir?” I lift my unclothed shoulders, hoping to distract him. “I hear no noise.”
“A groan, lady. Methinks I heard a groan. There. Beyond the marble statuary.”
“’Twas only the sound of the water,” I tell him. “Bubbling in the fountain.”
“No, ’twas a groan, most distinctly.” Romeo’s eyes flare. “Is it a man?”
“A man?”
“Have you come hither to discourage my courtship by claiming a chaste existence, while concealing your lover behind this cursed hunk of marble, to witness my humiliation?”
“No, sir. You insult me!”
“I shall insult him,” he says, withdrawing his rapier, “with the point of my sword!”
“You are mistaken, Romeo,” I tell him, breathless. “No one is there.”
“I shall see for myself,” he barks, sidestepping me, then hollers, “Show thyself, man!”
I reach for him, miss, and stagger. There is a splash, and of a sudden I find myself backside-first in the fountain pool! My legs dangle over the rounded rim. To keep from submerging completely, I reach upward to grasp for the nymph’s bare shins.
At the sight of me, Romeo forgets his supposed rival; he merely stands and gapes.
Much as I hate to request his aid, I find myself unable to remove myself from the fountain without it. “Assist me, please!” I entreat through gritted teeth.
Mutely, he sheathes his sword, then reaches into the fountain. I clasp his wrist, he tugs, and—Hell’s teeth!—he topples backward, pulling me down with him. In the next moment, he is pinned to the ground beneath me. We are nose to nose, my gown’s soaked skirts pressed against him!
A gasp comes from beyond the fountain.
Remembering his rage, Romeo rolls slightly, tilting me from his person. Depositing me into the grass with a thud, he springs to his feet. With one hand on the hilt of his sword, he stomps round to the far side of the fountain and halts.
I await Juliet’s shriek of horror, but it does not come. Romeo holds a moment, then lowers his weapon. “My apologies, lady. You are true. There is no one here.”
I breathe.
“It was vile of me to mistrust you, my love—”
“Call me not your love,” I fume, rising from the ground. “For I am not nor shall I ever be your love! You worship my face and nothing more.”
Romeo blinks, truly stung. “’Tis not true, lady,” he tells me. “I much admire your figure as well.”
I am aware that in my soaked gown, every curve I possess is evident. The heavy fabric clings to my torso, my bottom, and my legs. I clamp my teeth tightly, to keep from screaming.
“Leave me!”
“Leave you?”
“Please. Now.”
“But …” Romeo glances around the place. “We are in my garden.”
“I am conscious of that fact, my lord. But I very much require your absence, and quickly.” I indicate the muddy smudges upon my skirt where my knees rubbed in the dirt. “I wish to return to the fountain in order that I might rinse the dirt from my gown, and I fear that in so doing I may inadvertently reveal an ankle.”
Silly, that, as my throat and shoulders have been bared since the onset of this meeting. But at present, I can think of no other way to rid myself of Romeo.
He begins to back away, gazing upon my countenance. “I shall not give up, dear Rosaline. My love for thee shall never cease.” He bends to gather my scattered flowers to take away with him.
Juliet emits another groan, this time from beneath a leafy grape arbor to the left of the fountain. But Romeo has turned the corner and does not hear.
“He is gone,” I report.
Juliet crawls out from behind the thicket of grape vines. Her lips carry an indigo tint; there are similar smudges on her fingertips.
“More forbidden fruit, cousin?” I tease.
“Aye, but Montague’s grapes aren’t near as sweet as his words. God’s truth, the boy is pitiful.” Juliet sucks the knuckle of her thumb, savoring the remains of grape flesh. “Doth he dream that any female would fall for such frivolity?”
“’Twould appear that he does,” I reply, brushing at the mud on my skirt.
Juliet is thoughtful. “I imagine that when love is true, an entire volume could not contain the scope of it, and that the greatest of love is conveyed in a single glance, the smallest touch. Wordless love is love most expressive. A prayer unspoken. A wish one dares not utter.”
For a moment, I but stare at her. Such poetic wisdom from one so untaught.
“I fear Romeo is more in love with love than anything,” I remark, taking the blackish grape she offers. It bursts against my tongue and teeth, filling my mouth with its flavor. “But didst thou see him? He is fine to look upon.”
“The statue did block my view,” says Juliet, “so I saw naught but the bare backside of a nymph.” She sighs. “Odd, but I am told to hate a boy on whom I’ve never cast a glance, and who hath never set eyes on me.”
Taking in Juliet’s slightly tilted eyes, her plump, pretty mouth, and her elegant bearing, ’tis doubtful their hatred would last long should they ever encounter one another face-to-face.
“Let us be gone from here.”
Juliet is disappointed. “Without our flowers?”
Her lilies bob in the fountain pool where I dropped them. I smirk, pretending to mistake her. “Dear friend! I myself am as possessed of my flower as ever I was before, although young Montague did determinedly endeavor to talk me into parting with it.”
Juliet blinks at me, confused. In her innocence, she is slow to understand my wordplay. When she does, her cheeks flush near as purple as the grapes she has pilfered. “Oh, you are wicked, cousin!” She laughs now. “This corrupt humor from one who hath just sworn to live a life of chastity? Were I one to wager, cousin, I would surely bet against your succeeding at that goal!”
“’Tis a wager you would lose,” I tell her, gathering up my wet skirts as we hasten from the garden.
&nbs
p; BENVOLIO
One more morning mourning among the sycamores west of the city where the leafy silence echoes the lonesome song of my soul. Oft do I come to this place, with turbulent thoughts to think. Thoughts I dare not share with even my dearest fellows, the rash and rugged Mercutio, who finds an icy edge of humor in all things, and good Romeo, my cousin and friend. Mercutio thinks not at all on the softer emotions, while Romeo thinks on them far too deeply.
In truth, until now I have been much the same as Mercutio. My doings with the fairer sex have been breathtaking and brief, magnificent and momentary. I promise nothing, and no female hath ever had the courage to require otherwise. I am told it is partly my eyes, which (to my disgust) are generally likened to a fawn’s, and my smile, which I have heard these same ladies call crooked and disarming. Oh, I did learn quickly to use that smile to my best advantage, as a means to coax e’en the most demure maiden into bestowing her charms upon me.
Alas, this tactic hath become somewhat old. And empty.
Among the sycamores, I find the honesty to admit that of late my long-hidden heart seems as filled with longing as ever was the impetuous Romeo’s.
God help me, I want to be in love. Would that I knew how.
I have tried, tried much, to fall into the state. And I have, on occasion, stumbled near to it, and soon thereafter tumbled … but a tumble is far removed from love. And as much as certain ladies wished to catch me falling, ’twas with scarcely a glance backward that I took my leave of them.
And still these ladies, when they greet me in the square, seem more than willing to allow me a second chance. Regrettably, there is not one among them that inspires me toward anything permanent. Mayhap if one of them, upon my cool exit, had demanded that I stay. But no. Every last one did lower her lovely eyes and allow me to leave. And so I did.
Long did I consider myself lucky to be so unbound by expectations.
But now such empty departures leave me wanting more.
Now in the distance, I sense movement, a gentle bowing of ferns and the rustle of low branches.
