O, Juliet (16 page)

As I hurried out, she called after me, “You’ll speak to Cook?”

“No worries, Viola!” I called back.

Then I was on the stairs and at once I heard my mother’s voice and Romeo’s at the table. I had tarried too long with my hair and clothes and girlish chatter.

I was late.

Then I heard his laugh, deep and rich in his throat, and my knees all at once turned to jelly. I slumped on the stair
.Was it fear I felt? Too keen an anticipation? Or was it memory? Groping breathless in the shadows. His fingers on my thigh, my—

“Juuu-li-et!” It was my mother’s merry call. “Is that you on the stair? Come down. Our guest is waiting!”

Mama is the key,
I thought. Through skillful scheming I must make her an accomplice—no,
the mastermind
of my joining with Romeo. She must believe it her own idea, and then use her wiles on Papa to convince him thusly.

“Coming!” I called back.

When I came round the arch to the dining room, I received a further shock. I had known Papa would be absent—he ate most midday meals at the factory. But the sight of my beloved alone with my mother at our table, and in such a state of easy grace, took my breath away.

She was chatting as she was wont to do, of small things, with the deepest earnestness. But where my father would merely tolerate such banalities, attend with only half an ear—Jacopo’s boredom was barely hidden—here Romeo was facing Mama full, nodding in agreement, his eyes alight with interest. Was he sincere
,
I wondered
,
or was he playing her, charming her with false concern? If he was, I could not fault him, for moments ago I had harbored a scheme of my own to play my mother. But no. I recognized the look on his face. I’d seen it before—when he’d attended his own mother, his beloved mother.

And I’d seen it when he’d looked at me.

He was
listening
. A man listening earnestly to a woman speaking. It shook me to the core. And another thought: as the men of Greece and ancient Rome were said to hold in highest esteem the love of other men and beautiful boys, here was a man who appeared to love the whole of womankind. I guessed he might have borne affection for grandmothers and little girls as well.

Then he looked up and saw me. He jumped to his feet. “Lady Juliet.”

“There she is,” my mother cried as though a long-lost cousin had appeared. I took my seat and turned to Romeo. “I could hear you working from my bed. What a racket you made.”

“That garden is strewn with rocks.”

“Will the olives grow there?”

“Not as large as the fig near the balcony,” he said, holding my eye. “That is a beautiful tree.”

I found it hard to keep a straight face.

“Capello tells me it is the oldest in all of Florence,” my mother said. “Juliet, you must pick a basket of figs and send them home to Mona Sophia.”

Romeo turned back to my mother. “How kind of you, signora. She adores that fruit, and we have none of it on our farm.” He placed his hand on hers and his voice softened. “You made her so happy with your visit. She smiled for days afterwards. Spoke of her new ‘lady friend.’ ”

My mother’s eyes glittered with joyful tears, and she clutched Romeo’s hands in hers. “I felt the same . . . although I called her ‘sister.’ ” Now Mama’s warm gaze fell on me. “The ladies of my
brigata
have all gone their separate ways, and I have longed for such a friend.”

“Well, it seems you’ve found her,” I said, then turned to Romeo. “You should bring your parents here. Let us entertain you. Maybe on John the Baptist’s Day.”

“We could go to Mass together,” Mama suggested, alive with ideas. “View the procession. Then come home for a meal.”

“A feast,” I corrected, happy at the turn this talk was taking.

“We will bring the Monticecco wine,” Romeo said, with mock solemnity.

“Cook can make her pigeon tart,” my mother added, clapping her hands delightedly.

“And one of her famous confections,” I said, smiling gently at my mother. “What a lovely day it will be.”

Cheerful as the midday meal was, I claimed the need to rest in the afternoon, thus avoiding a sewing session with Mama. She would need her concentration for finishing the drawstring bag in time for Romeo’s departure, I suggested, and she readily agreed.

He went back to work in the walled garden, I to my room. Speaking with him alone from my balcony—even after our cordial dinner—would be thought untoward. I was still, after all, promised—if not yet betrothed—to another man. My hopes of Mama’s help in bringing our family and Romeo’s together were for this moment just that—simply hope.

But the sound of Romeo’s labors so close with no sight of him was torture. A way must be found to waste none of his precious presence. Then I saw it—the means to my salvation. I went to my writing table where it had always stood, on the wall near the door, and made to move it. Small as it was, the wood was stout, and even the smallest repositioning scraped loudly on the floor. Mama would hear.

Lift I must.

This was no task for a gentlewoman, but a burly man, and as I wrapped my arms round its corners, bent my knees, and with a grunt felt it lift off the ground, I had to laugh at myself. What a sight I must be! But a demon had seized me and I
would
have that desk in sight of Romeo.

A few inches was all I could manage at once without a great crashing down at the end. And so in increments I lugged the thing all across the room, thinking that at such a rate Romeo would have finished and gone home before I had seen success.

Finally I settled it at the garden window with a sigh of satisfaction. The chair was easy after that. I sat quite ungracefully, warm from my exertions.

There he was, right in view—my Romeo. I marveled at how excellent were all his parts. How his manner was so lively, yet devoid of arrogance or, like my cousin Marco’s, overmuch levity. When he spoke, he was dignified, maintaining intelligent thought, though lacking pretension. But what I found most marvelous was that, by a single word or gesture, he full understood the mind of another . . . and cared to dwell on those thoughts. And though he could not pass the test of constancy—for our time had been so short as yet—I believed him without duplicity or craftiness. Women were forbidden gambling, but if I could, I would stake my life on this man’s faithful nature.

Now as he wiped his brow, he looked up at my room, boldly stared with a gaze that anyone could see was a longing one. When he finally looked away, I found I had not breathed for the full length of his stare. I gasped in air.

Then, like a revelation, I saw the paper there before me, and the quill. I took up the feather in hand and sought the inkpot with uncommon trepidation. Slowly I set my eyes on Romeo in the garden below. This time the sight unloosed the words, and like the Arno at flood tide, they came pouring forth.

As hours passed, I watched as one by one, with gentle care, he set his charges in the ground, judging the shade that would fall upon them, pruning a wayward branch. But there he did not stop. With amazing industry he set to work cleaning the long-overgrown path that wound through the garden so that a person could again walk there. And lying on his back under the fountain, he brought it to life again, so that water came splashing merrily from the spigot.

I nearly wept when he pulled on his doublet and gathered his tools to go. All his excuses to stay in my view, in my garden, had run their course.

One last time he raised his eyes to my room.

Feverish, I went to my basin and splashed cool water on my face, my neck. I smoothed my skirts. Went out of my room. Descended the stair.

At the door Mama was saying good-bye, handing Romeo a wrapped package that would be the embroidered bag.

“There you are, Juliet,” she said. “I was going to call you.” But I wondered if she would have. She seemed distracted, her eyes soft with affection.

“Lady Juliet,” said Romeo in the humblest tone, “your good mother tells me this embroidery is your work. Mama will be grateful. Her fingers are sore and getting twisted. She can no longer sew.” He turned back to my mother. “But you knew that, Mona Simonetta. I am grateful for your kindness to her. And now I’ll take my leave.” He smiled warmly at the two of us. “My reluctant leave.”

He took Mama’s hand and kissed it. Then took mine. Under such close scrutiny he dared only graze it with his lips, and never even met my eye.

Then he was gone.

Mama and I stood unmoving near the door, silent and stunned by the loss of Romeo’s light.

“I am fond of that young man,” she said in a quiet voice. “So fond . . .” Then, never meeting my gaze, she turned and left me.

Slowly I climbed the stairs, hope rising with every step.
Mama loved him. Loved Romeo like a son. Perhaps a son-in-law. She wished him for me. I was sure she did.

“Juliet!” Mama called from below. She’d come back to the stairs.

I peered down to see her looking up with consternation. “The figs,” she said. “You forgot to give him the figs.”

Once in my room I hurried to the balcony door and threw it wide. I stood at the rail staring ruefully down at the prettily restored garden, the silver green leaves of the new olives glittering in the afternoon sun.Yet without my love’s presence it was empty, cold.

I wished to recall the verse I had written of him and turned back to my room, to my writing desk. That was when I saw it.

A cloth package on the balcony ledge below the fig tree’s stout limb
.

I walked slowly across the stone as if to my destiny. A foot square, the thing was wrapped in clean jute and tied with thin cord. I touched it. It was soft. I took it in my arms and went inside. Then I locked my bedroom door.

The knot was easy to untie. I laid aside the cloth wrap and found my gift from Romeo. Carefully folded—a long white shirt, a gray doublet, breeches, a pair of men’s shoes, a flat cap. Beneath the hat a note.

“Midnight,” it read.

T
he household was long asleep when I rose from my bed and lit a single lamp. The wait had been interminable, my mind afire with excitement and worry. I listened for Mama and Papa to fall into silence in their room, the servants to close and bolt the front door.

Feeling quite the outlaw, I donned the clothing Romeo had left me, first the lawn shirt that smelled of soap and lavender, then the breeches. Before I pulled the fustian doublet on, I thought,
These must be his clothes.
I brought the garment to my face, inhaling the faint manly scent that was certainly his, one that I would in future years better come to know.

The slippers were large on my feet, but not so much that lacing them tighter could not make them do. I had loosely braided my hair and found that the large cap covered it all. Taking the candle, I walked—as a man—across my bedroom floor, feeling strange and vaguely silly. I opened the balcony door and peered into the dark.

What was Romeo thinking, having me dress as a boy? And at this hour? But of course there was only one meaning. He was coming for me, and he meant to take me out in the streets of Florence. But why? This would put me in danger, and if he loved me
. . .

My restless heart began its hard pumping again. My nerves were so frayed that when the campanile bell tolled the first of its twelve chimes, I came nearly out of my skin.

Then I heard a faint rustle at the garden wall. A low thud. All was in shadow but the sounds grew nearer. The crack of a twig. The soft scrape of shoe leather on bark. Creaking wood. I stood at the balcony door certain that crossing this threshold at midnight would alter the course of my life.

Altogether.

Irrevocably.

In the instant I stepped through, down from the overhung branch dropped my outlaw partner, landing light on his feet, then rising to his full height before me.

“Romeo,” I whispered, but he put a quieting finger to my lips.
Don’t speak
, he mouthed silently. He went into my room, returning with the lamp. He held it before him and took in the sight of me from head to toe. He smiled, less amused than approving.

He took my hand and led me to the balcony ledge. I shook my head—I could not climb the fig; of that I was sure—but he bade me look down with the lamp’s light and I saw that there, firmly propped, was a garden ladder. I looked back at him. His face was alive with adventure. His eyes urged me to trust him.

I nodded my agreement.

He grinned and slowly—so to demonstrate what I must soon do—threw one leg over the wall. He beckoned to me and, holding the lamp, had me watch how his foot had been placed on the ladder’s first rung. Then he swung his other leg over, moving down, making room for me above him.

Fearful as I was—for I had never moved my body so—I did not tarry and lifted my leg, twisting and clutching the balcony wall. I felt a hand on my ankle helping me place my foot on the rung. Then with a leap of faith I swiveled and threw my leg to follow the other. That, too, was guided by Romeo’s hand and suddenly I stood, both feet on a ladder rung outside my bedroom balcony.