by Lisa Fiedler
It is a week before we arrive in Padua, dusty and tired, and we go direct to the home of Trooch’s friend Hortensio. Before the servant Grumio e’en knocks upon the door, I curtsy to Petruchio.
“My lord, I thank thee for thy guardianship on this excursion. I shall leave thee to thy task now and set off to see to mine own.”
“You are most humbly welcome, Rosaline,” Trooch replies. He bows gallantly, then catches me in a hug. “Pretty child, I shall pray to the saints to guide you in your worthy pursuits. Study well, learn much, and I suggest you pay particular attention to the science of healing injured hearts, for lovely as you are, you will surely break your share of them here in Padua.”
His remark is merely innocent flattery, but I cannot help thinking of Juliet.
Grumio produces a crudely drawn map from his satchel—directions to the university. “’Tis not far, my lady,” he assures me.
“Thank you, Grumio, and good-bye.”
I turn to Petruchio and kiss his cheek. “Farewell, friend. I shall listen for news of a wedding. I hope thou findest thyself a lady who is—”
“Wealthy? Beauteous?”
“Smart!”
Trooch laughs.
I round the corner and pause to draw a steadying breath. Not far from here is the university, alive with the greatest, most gifted artists of our day. The University of Padua, with its Palazzo Bo and the Anatomy Theater, where miraculous operations called autopsies are performed for the purpose of academic advancement and scientific understanding.
Not far from here, I shall begin my future. Answer my calling.
Find my dream.
BENVOLIO
I wonder, is she warm enough? Does she sleep sufficient hours, or does she stay awake long into the night, studying scientific texts?
Before she left, I asked Rosaline to be my wife, but she denied me.
I understood. The tragedy was too fresh, the pain too deep when I knelt before her and professed my love.
They say timing is everything.
I am told, in letters from Petruchio, that my love does well in Padua. She is admired by her fellow scholars and has duly impressed the preeminent professors there. I am not surprised.
She has not written me herself That does not surprise me either. I fear, in her desire to serve the greater good, she has forced herself to forget me. Petruchio informs me in his communiques that my Rosaline has befriended his own lady love—Katherina, whom he candidly confesses can be something of a shrew. No matter. He adores her, and she him. I am glad for my old friend, but for myself, I suffer quietly.
Rosaline! Such an amazing girl! Nay, woman! O, I do ache for the loss of her, and not a day goes by that I do not send up a prayer for her return. In the meantime, I am busy caring for the twins. Sebastian’s cough is long gone, and Viola is being taught to dance, though she prefers books. She often reads to her grandfather and my lord before the fire while Crab lolls nearby, protecting us all.
The golden statues of Romeo and Juliet—impetuous lovers, young strangers—are newly completed and stand now at the center of the city. I pass by them often, though I try not to loiter in their shadows, which fall like grim memories as the sun sets upon Verona.
Mercutio is never far from my thoughts.
And Rosaline is always close within my heart.
ROSALINE
It is the year of our Lord 1599, autumn.
My years in Padua have been well spent. I have not been formally graduated. I fear ’twill be decades before the university, enlightened as it is, will have the courage to bestow a degree upon a lady. But I am well taught and confident. And I am at peace in my soul.
I arrive in Verona in the late afternoon. So different it is from the city I knew. Montagues and Capulets walk in pairs, conversing politely. No one insults his neighbor, and no angry flash of steel catches the last light of the soft, setting sun.
A crimson leaf, the first of autumn, floats by on a cool breeze. My thoughts turn backward briefly to Mercutio, and I understand for the first time that he, more than any of us, would have cherished this peace.
Two households, both alike in dignity in fair Verona …
Four years away have made me nostalgic for the place. I meander in the square although the day’s commerce has long since ceased. The Healer’s cottage stands unchanged. I shall visit her tomorrow, for there is much I want to share with her. At last I shall be able to repay her for all the things she taught me, by teaching her in return.
My mother is away, staying with friends in Venice. In her last letter, she did hint that she had met a most charming gentleman. Mayhap they will marry. I should like that.
I come now to the golden statues of Romeo and Juliet. God’s truth, seeing them angers me—better they were alive than fashioned of gold. I look upon them only long enough to note that the nose on Juliet’s statue is a bit too narrow, and Romeo’s chin, though golden, is not nearly as handsome as was the real thing.’ Tis a mediocre effort, I conclude. Sighing, I walk on.
As twilight comes, I make my way to Benvolio’s house. I find him in his father’s garden. He stands in profile, admiring a prolific grapevine that swags o’er the wooden arbor.
How beautiful he is, how manly now, e’en more so than when I took my leave of him four years past. The strength I remember is unaltered, the fine structure of his face and the broadness of his shoulders (which I did look upon in my memory every day of my absence) remain. My heart swells.
He does not notice me until Crab, the darling, begins to bark. Benvolio turns.
“I am home,” I say foolishly, but it is all I can think of. His eyes are distracting me. I reach down to scratch the dog’s ears but cannot remove my gaze from Benvolio. He smiles now. O, but it is the sweetest thing I’ve ever witnessed, and so sincere. He lifts his hand and gives me a small wave, as though I had departed only days before.
I take one dainty step and then I run, at full speed, to be collected into his arms. He crushes me to him, and I do not mind it a bit.
“I am home,” I say again.
“Aye,” he agrees softly.
As darkness falls, the rippling peals of church bells from the tower of Saint Peter’s seem to welcome the first stars to the sky. Glistening constellations. Stars, aligned at long last, and perfect in the heavens.
Stars to light our way.
Notes
1 Romeo of his crush, Rosaline (Romeo and Juliet, Act I, scene 1)
2 Capulet of his daughter, Juliet (Romeo and Juliet, Act I, scene 2)
Copyright © 2006 by Lisa Fiedler
All rights reserved.
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eISBN 9781466823617
First eBook Edition : June 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fiedler, Lisa.
Romeo’s ex : Rosaline’s story / Lisa Fiedler.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In a story based on the Shakespeare play, sixteen-year-old Rosaline, who is studying to be a healer, becomes romantically entangled with the Montague family even as her beloved young cousin, Juliet Capulet, defies the family feud to secretly marry Romeo.
ISBN-13: 978-0-8050-7500-7 / ISBN-10: 0-8050-7500-3
[I. Vendetta—Fiction. 2. Love—Fiction. 3. Healers—Fiction.] 1. Title: Rosaline’s story.
II. Shakespeare, William, 1564—1616. Romeo and Juliet. III. Title.
PZ7.F457Rom 2006 [Fic]—dc22 2005035692
First Edition—2006 / Designed by Jessica Sonkin
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