by Lisa Fiedler
I return to where Juliet lies upon the bier and kneel again beside her, leaning to rest my head upon the cool stones of the crypt.
Romeo’s hand comes to rest in a brotherly way upon my shoulder as he sits upon a nearby coffin to join me in keeping this solemn vigil.
BENVOLIO
By the blood of Saint Peter, this hath been the longest night of my life.
I sit in the grass of the churchyard waiting for Rosaline and Romeo to emerge from the crypt. I lean against the trunk of the yew and watch Viola with the lantern. She has been teaching herself to read by using the epitaphs upon the tombstones as her primer. The sounds of a summer night fill the cemetery. The darkness is like a ghost; the heat is everywhere.
Rosaline mourns in the tomb, and when she comes out, I shall be here.
ROSALINE
Odd, but one grows used to the stench. And the near-atrophy of one’s own muscles becomes a bitter kind of comfort. I have not moved for hours. I look upon Juliet, and tears sting my weary eyes, dampen my cheeks.
“Cry you for her?” comes Romeo’s voice o’er my shoulder. “Or for thyself?”
My reply is a small shrug.
“Tell me something, Rosaline,” he beseeches, tears welling up in his eyes. “Tell me something of her, this Juliet.”
“Your wife,” I remind him softly.
“My wife.” He drags one hand down his face in frustration. “And yet … and yet, I knew her not at all. O, but I loved her so and shall love her forever.”
“Never say it!”
My tone brings him up short and he stares at me.
“Never say it,” I repeat. The sound is thunderous in the quiet crypt. “Damned fool, how darest thou speak of love?”
I spring up from my knees with unexpected strength to glower down at him and sputter, “You! You, Romeo, who loves only with your eyes.” I narrow my gaze, letting it slide boldly and meaningfully downward to his midsection. “And with certain other parts of your anatomy.”
To his credit, the boy does flush. Still, I am not appeased.
“Love?” I roar, fists clenched. “Bloody hell, that word should leave a blister on thy tongue. Your recklessness, yours and Juliet’s, was an affront to true devotion, your irreverence dishonored love. You met and admired one another and impiously called it love. ’Twas quick and bright and dangerous and magical. But you did not think. You settled for desire, but did not allow time for love.”
“And now,” he concedes, “she lies here, dead, as would I, were it not for you.”
My bluster subsides, exhausted as I am. More silence falls between us.
“What would you know of her?” I ask.
He ponders a moment. “Her favorite flower to start.”
“Roses.”
He smiles sadly. “I’d heard her speak of them once. How, by any other name they’d smell as sweet.”
“And the girl could surely sit a horse,” I add. “Tybalt taught her to ride, e’en to jump. Her command of the Gallic language was legendary, but her mastery of Greek was poor.” With a laugh that is part sob, I add, “She liked figs.”
“I like figs,” says Romeo, and there is something both consoled and tortured in his tone.
Again, we wait a wordless while. The quiet stretches into minutes. Dust spirals in the stale air.
“I could not save her.” I do not realize I have spoken the words aloud until I hear them ringing a soft echo in the stony tomb. “I could not revive Tybalt when he fell, I could not unstab Mercutio, and though I nearly tempted Satan by trying, I could not make Juliet whole again with a borrowed heart. For all my wit and wisdom, all my study and sacrifice, I could not and will ne’er be able to undo death.”
“You undid my death,” he reminds me.
“You were not dead.”
“Nor is Juliet.”
“Nay, she is worse than dead. She is dying. Dying every moment she lives.” I drop my head into my hands and weep softly.
“Why do you suppose she hangs on?” he asks.
“I cannot say,” I answer honestly.
He studies her face, his tears falling unabashedly now. “Sweet spouse and stranger,” he says, touching her gaunt face, “I daresay I would have truly loved you, if only we had had time to learn what love could be. But then, who is to know if you would have loved me in return? Friar Laurence did admonish us, ‘Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast.’”
Now Romeo slips nimbly from the coffin to his knees and bows his head. I watch as one silken lock of his hair brushes gently across her cheek.
Sweet, so sweet, if only she could feel.
I expect to hear him offer up some prayer that she return to us. Some request to the Almighty Father that they be given a second chance. I expect him to implore our Lord to bring her back, to restore her life.
Instead, I hear him whisper this: “I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry.
No more, but enough. ’Tis but one child’s apology to another for a hurt which both are too naive to name.
The words fill the shadowy tomb and settle in my heart. I’m sorry.
Perhaps I say them aloud, or mayhap I only think them. I’m sorry, Juliet. Romeo is sorry, and I am sorry. The world and the stars and angels in heaven are sorry.
I kneel down beside Romeo, tears—his and mine—flowing afresh.
And here is how I know that Juliet sees fit to forgive us:
She dies.
Romeo and I step from the tomb to find Benvolio asleep beneath the yew tree. Dawn is breaking softly. Viola is curled kittenlike near his feet.
As I watch these two who are both so precious to me, a cool breeze comes up and trembles upon my face. As I take a moment to savor it, an idea seems to form itself, take shape from somewhere within the nothingness of the zephyr itself
I explain my plan to Romeo and give him a small part in its execution, which is to awaken Benvolio and bid him collect Viola’s brother and grandfather, and bring them with Viola to my mother’s house. Romeo agrees to relay the request to Benvolio. I thank him with a hug. “Where wilt thou go after?” I ask.
“To Mantua,” he answers easily. “I am dead here in Verona, and it seems that has done this city good. I shall find a life for myself away from here.” He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead. “Remember me fondly,” he whispers.
“I shall,” I say, and mean it.
With that, I hurry away across the churchyard and into the quiet streets toward home.
My uncle Capulet is quite surprised to see me in his hall so early. Viola stands beside me, utterly trusting, though she has no idea why I have brought her to this rich man’s home at sunrise. Sebastian is present, hanging back near the door, holding his grandfather’s hand. Benvolio too is present.
Tugging his richly embroidered satin dressing gown round his portly middle, my uncle lumbers down the stairs and into the great hall.
“Rosaline! What madness is this that makes you—” He just now spies Benvolio behind me. “God’s blood, be that a Montague in this house?”
“The feud is over, uncle,” I remind him tartly. “Or hast thou already forgotten the golden statues?”
He sputters a moment. “Aye,” he says at last. “You are welcome here, sir.” He nods to Benvolio. I can see it costs him much and feel a flutter of pride for him.
My uncle looks at me with a pompous lift of his chin, to indicate that he has, indeed, proven himself greatly changed. Then he spots the children. I watch his eyes fall to Viola. And I see precisely what I expected—leastways hoped—I would.
For a moment, he cannot summon words, and I know this is because Viola, with her shimmering tangle of dark tresses and shining eyes, looks so verily like Juliet did as a small girl.
“Who be these ragged waifs?” asks my uncle, in a booming tone that cannot conceal the catch in his voice.
Before I can answer, the door behind Benvolio swings open, and Romeo’s widowed lord enters, led by Benvolio’s own father.
“M
ontague?” cries my uncle in disbelief. “Feud or no feud, I can conceive of no reason that would bring you to my home at such an hour!”
Old Montague replies by turning up his palms. “Nor can I, but I have been dragged hence by my cousin here.” He motions to Benvolio’s father. “He wouldst not tell me wherefore—”
Montague cuts his thought short, his gaze alighting upon Sebastian. Unable to stop himself, he reaches out to roughly ruffle Sebastian’s silky hair. The boy favors him with a wide grin, which causes Montague’s lower lip to quake. “Such a fine young man,” he murmurs.
Now Lady Capulet hastens into the great space. She first takes in the unwarranted spectacle of three Montagues ’neath her roof Upon seeing Viola and Sebastian, her slender hand does fly to her mouth, but not in time to stifle the cry that comes up in her throat. The noise resonates with the sound of deepest loss—joy and grief, fused in one audible note. Her face flickers a thousand different emotions before she sinks to her knees upon the mirrorlike marble of the floor and opens her arms to the small strangers. Without hesitation, the twins run to her and all but dive into the circle of her motherly embrace.
For just a piece of a second, I allow myself to think of Juliet, so pale and still upon the bier, and then of Romeo, making his solitary way to Mantua.
“These children are orphans,” I explain. “They are destitute.”
I see Montague pass a glance o’er the twins; his eyes are soft with compassion.
“Henceforth, they and their grandfather shall reside in the home of Benvolio’s father. Benvolio is to become their guardian.”
My uncle nods his approval. “A sound plan.”
“But what has it to do with us?” my aunt inquires. She holds the children close to her as though she might n’er let them go.
I allow my eyes to meet hers, then my uncle’s, then Montague’s.
“You three,” I pronounce, “shall be their benefactors. You will provide for them. Food, clothing, education—whatever Benvolio deems necessary to their proper upbringing.”
The room goes silent.
“Do you understand,” I ask of Lord and Lady Capulet and Montague, “what I am giving you?”
My uncle mops his eyes with the back of his hand and nods. His lady smiles up at me o’er the heads of Viola and Sebastian.
’Tis Montague who speaks an answer for them all.
“A second chance,” he whispers.
ROSALINE
Benvolio is off to settle the boarders into their new home, a roomy suite in his father’s casa.
Walking home through the empty streets of Verona, I am glad to be alone. I could not bear to face Benvolio now. My heart aches, and I am sick with the sense of failure. My inexperience is to blame for Juliet’s death. Had I known more, I might have saved her.
When I return home, my mother is relieved to see me, and I fall into her arms, wanting desperately to be a child again. I lower myself to a damask-covered divan. My mother sits beside me and listens as I explain all that has happened since we were last together at Juliet’s funeral.
“Benvolio loves me,” I say, “and I love him too. ’Tis one of the reasons I am leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Mother …” my voice is thick. “Mother, what do you think of me?”
Her eyebrows arc upward slightly, and she smiles. “’Tis an odd question.”
“I would very much like to know.”
My mother draws a deep breath. “I think you are … unusual. Aye, thou art most unique, daughter.”
They are but kind ways of saying “strange.”
“I am sorry,” I whisper.
“Whatever for?”
I swipe at a tear that trembles in the corner of my eye. “It cannot be easy to raise a … unique … child.”
“O, it is not easy to raise any sort of child. But I can tell you that bringing up one with a talent and intelligence such as yours has been truly—”
“Difficult?”
“Quite.”
“Exhausting?”
“Mmm, yes.”
“And frustrating?”
“To be sure.”
“Embarrassing?”
“Never!”
“Never?”
My lady smiles and brushes a wisp of hair from my forehead. “Rosaline, my sweet. Don’t you know?”
I search her eyes for the answer. “Know what?”
“That you are a miracle! A miracle of grace and goodness. Aye, you are a difficult, frustrating joy of a daughter. As brave and as bright as thou art beautiful. That God saw fit to give you to me is the thing for which I am most grateful in this world.”
I swallow hard. “Father … he did not feel the same way, apparently.”
“We were very young.” Her eyes go soft, and there is forgiveness in her voice.
We stare into the fire, sharing the silence.
“Every corner of this city echoes with our recent losses,” I say quietly. “I will depart in the morning. For Padua, where I shall devote myself entirely to my studies. ’Twill not erase the bitter failure of Juliet’s death. But mayhap by returning to my resolute path, I shall arm myself against failing again.”
“How canst thou call thy courage failure?”
“Juliet lives no more.” I keep my gaze stern, steady, and address the flames. “What better definition of failure could there be? I have broken my own rules, lady, and now I find I cannot bear to be where Benvolio is. The feud has ceased, aye, but who is to say a new one won’t ignite? How can I know that Benvolio will not one day be injured in a fight, impaled by some malcontent’s sword? Or, e’en if peace reigns eternal, how do I know he will not be consumed by fever or trampled by a startled stallion or struck by lightning or drowned or choked or burned … ?”
“Fie!” My mother frowns. “You are too smart to speak so.”
“I am not smart enough. I am in love. And all love comes to heartache in the end.”
With that, I curl up on the small couch and sob until I fall asleep.
I awaken in the late afternoon, when a knock sounds from the entry. I hear my mother’s maid hurrying to answer the door. Sitting up, I recognize Benvolio’s voice greeting the servant.
Sadness wells up in me, laced with regret.
“Send him away,” I mutter, but ’tis too late. The servant is showing him into the salon and bows herself out of the room.
“Good morrow, beloved. I’ve a surprise for thee.”
Now there comes a noisy commotion from the entry hall. “What in heaven’s name?”
I turn to see Benvolio’s father lingering near the door. He seems to be concealing something ungainly behind him, and he is smiling like a little boy!
“Come here!” Benvolio commands in a firm voice.
“Benvolio!” I chide, in spite of my grief “Do not speak to your father in such a manner.”
“I was not speaking to my father. His tone softens when he repeats, “Come here.”
There is the clicking noise of dulled claws on marble tiles. The heaviness in my heart lifts, and I cry out, “Crab!”
At the sound of his name, the dog appears from behind Benvolio’s lord, scampers across the entry hall, and bounds into the salon. In the next second, the mutt has leapt onto the divan and is lolling in my lap.
“Hello! Hello, you beautiful dog, you!”
Benvolio reaches down to scratch Crab’s ears. “Seems being a hero agrees with the pooch.”
Crab barks his agreement.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Benvolio’s father quietly taking his leave. Benvolio strokes his thumb gently across my cheek, then nudges Crab away so that he may sit beside me on the divan. He kisses me softly, then again, and I accept the warmth of his lips greedily.
After some time, he leans away and studies me, tracing my chin, touching my hair.
“Dost thou know how proud you make me, Rosaline?”
I can only manage a whisper. “Thank you.”
“And ’
tis not just your incomparable beauty,” he amends quickly. “’Tis your sweetness, your unselfish desire to give to those who are in need. And of course, there is that boundless intelligence of yours.”
Benvolio hesitates, then goes down on one knee. Ribbons of sunlight shimmer in his hair.
“Now, then,” he says, with a small, silky smile, “as I find I am too impatient to await the moonlight, I suppose the glow of sunset will do just as nicely. We have just enjoyed a wealth of kisses, and here I find myself on bended knee …”
My eyes go wide as I recall his words the morning we awoke in the grove.
“All that is missing, it seems, is the unusually large gemstone I spoke of, but hold, what have we here?”
From a pocket sewn into the lining of his tunic, he withdraws a small, glistening thing. “Well, what dost thou know.” His smile broadens. “I just happen to be in possession of such a jewel after all.” He lifts it into a pale streamer of sunlight, and I see that it is a ring, and it does indeed contain a diamond of uncommonly grand proportions.
I can only gape at it.
“Marry me, Rosaline,” he says in a trembling whisper. “Marry me.”
My heart swells, my knees quiver.
My answer is a single word.
ROSALINE
My escort from Verona is none other than Petruchio. His ribs have long since healed, and he has not a scar on his handsome face. His man, Grumio, attends us on the journey. As we traverse eastward, the two men torment one another with a friendly fire of jokes and insults. Their comic banter soothes me some and helps to alleviate the despair I carry with me to Padua.
I sought him out, Trooch, having heard that he was leaving Verona to see the world and seek his fortune, which is to say, to find a wife. A rich one.
I on the other hand desire knowledge, and there is nowhere better than Padua, the Università degli Studi di Padova. I am hopeful that, although I am a woman, they will allow me to study there. I have heard tell that this fine university (guided, perhaps, by the light of Renaissance thinking) does not look unfavorably upon intelligent females.
