Romeo's Ex (16 page)

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Authors: Lisa Fiedler

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B
envolio 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.
M
y 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.
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.
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.
I
t 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.

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