After the truth she's just been told, I am certain she will need me!
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I find Jules sobbing on the bed. Her gown is bunched into a yellow knot around her legs, and her hair is a cloud of darkness sprawled o'er the satin pillow cover.
“How did I not know it? When I heard him speak, 'twas the voice from the garden. Yet I refused to believe it could be Romeo.”
I sit down beside her.
“Doff thy gown, cousin,” I say softly. “You will surely ruin it, rumpling it this way.”
“What care I for a silly gown?” she asks into the feathery pillow. “I would much prefer to doff my name.”
I sigh. “The word
Capulet
is offensive to thee now, is it?”
“If it be offensive to sweet Romeo,” she wails, “then aye, it is repulsive to me as well.” She sits up, pushing aside her tousled locks so I might see her tear-stained face. “'Tis almost comical, is it not?” she asks on a laugh that is near hysteria. “You and I, who, in all modesty, could likely have our choice of any men in Italy, doomed to love two Montagues.”
I allow a small smile. “I take this to mean that Paris is now out of the running.”
“Do not tease me, cousin,” she begs.
“Forgive me.” I touch her cheek. “But, Jules, you do realize the Romeo for whom you weep tonight is the same Romeo at whom you laughed this morning? I will admit, he is handsome, but dost thou not remember those hopeless, hollow declarations of love he showered upon me?”
“He spoke quite differently to me,” she whispers. “I felt the truth of it, Roz. Every word came from his heart with full honesty.”
“How can you be certain?”
She shrugs, looking impossibly young. “I just am.”
“O, Juliet. I do not wish to hurt you, but I must speak my mind to thee, whom I love like a sister.” I fold my hands in my lap, praying for the harsh words to come gently. “Dost thou truly believe that the boy can be genuinely in love with thee, when just this very morning he professed to be eternally devoted to me?”
Her eyes narrow. “You are jealous!”
“Because of Romeo?”
“Aye, Roz, you are jealous. For all you spurned and scorned him, you are jealous that he has transferred his attentions to me!”
“No, Jules,” I assure her. “I am merely wary. He loves me when the sun is up and adores thee after moonrise. He is too fickle by half!”
“Is it not possible,” she says pointedly, meeting my gaze, “that he's merely experienced a change of heart?”
My words. She uses them against me, and I cannot help but think she makes a worthy point. Just this morn I believed myself immune to love, and now â¦
Again, she drops face first into the pillow and cries. Absently, I rub her arm, thinking long and hard before I speak again.
“If 'tis Romeo you love, then I shall do all in my
power to help you have him.” Before she can react, I add, “But know you this, cousin. I am deeply worried for this match. You are both so very young, and unknown to one another. One kiss, for all the magic it carries, is little to go on. As I warned thee earlier with regard to Parisâ”
“Who?” she asks from the depths of her pillow.
“My point precisely,” I mutter, then sigh. “I ask only that you move slowly, Jules. Take the time to know Romeo and allow him the privilege of getting to know thee in return. Will you promise?”
She turns to me sharply. “I shall, if you agree to follow the same course with Mercutio.”
I laugh. “Tybalt is right, you are an urchin!”
“An urchin in love,” she croons with feigned drama.
I rise from the bed, removing the sapphire necklace and placing it on the night table before heading for the door that leads to her balcony.
“Should my mother send a servant round inquiring as to my whereabouts, have your nurse report that I am here with you, asleep, and shall spend the night.”
I step out onto the balcony, which overlooks the orchard. Juliet follows me out there.
“What are you going to do?” she asks in a nervous tone. “Jump?”
“No, I am not going to jump.” I hoist up the skirt of my gown and throw my leg o'er the side of the wall. “I am going to climb.”
“Roz! You will break your neck for sure.”
“No chance of that,” I assure her. “Why, Tybalt taught me to scale this wall when I was but nine in years. We did it all the time. Did you not ever wonder how you came to awaken on the morning of your eighth birthday with half your hair cut short?”
She gasps. “You?”
“No, Tybalt. He was angry with thee for setting free his pet frog.”
She plants her hands on her hips and glowers. “He told me my hair was sheared by minions of Satan as payment for the wicked beauty their dark lord had bestowed upon me!”
“And thou boughtest it?”
“I was but eight,” she grumbles.
I hug her. “'Tis a most beautiful night. Why don't you remain here on the balcony awhile and enjoy it? Mayhap some stargazing will take your mind off Romeo.”
“Perhaps I will.”
“Where are you going?”
“I must speak to Mercutio.”
Lowering myself over the side of the balcony, I find familiar footholds in the rough surface of the wall. The trick still comes easily to me, and soon I drop deftly into an adjacent tree. In moments, I am on the ground and running for the gate, into the street in search of Mercutio.
S
he is Rosaline, and Romeo loves her.
Alas, I love her as well, and mayhap more, but Romeo did spy her first. 'Twould be dishonorable to pursue her now. 'Twould be also pointless, for 'tis Mercutio she desires.
Unjust, that, and stupid, for he is unworthy. But the lady hath chosenâpoorly, aye, but chosen nevertheless.
Fortunate, lucky, unworthy bastard!
The Capulets' house is empty now, but for those who dwell there. Romeo and I left some time ago, but I have since doubled back and loiter near the entrance to the grounds in the hope of seeing Rosaline when she makes her exit. Here in the street, the revelers disperse in high spirits, the jubilance of the night's festivities still clinging to them as they stagger homeward.
Now, in the periphery of mine eye, methinks I see the form of Romeo, running at full clip, toward the Capulets' orchard. So he hath returned as well, has he? No doubt he too hopes to spy fair Rosaline, who loves Mercutio.
Hah. We are both, Romeo and I, quite pathetic.
Now someone calls, “Benvolio? Is that you?”
I turn in the direction of the gravel-voice and find Mercutio, seated in the dirt, sprawled comfortably against the outside of the orchard wall.
“Come sit with me, friend,” he slurs, “and share a drink. A flagon of wine stolen from the enemy's table.”
With a heavy sigh, I join him and accept the bottle, which is nearly spent.
“Careful,” he warns. “'Tis mostly spit and backwash.”
I toss the flagon; it shatters against a stone.
“Was that Romeo?” I ask. “I thought I saw him come this way.”
Mercutio shoots me a sly look. “Mayhap he is avoiding thee, having seen you, his good friend and beloved cousin, dallying with his girl.”
“'Twas no dalliance, I assure thee,” I grind out through my teeth.
“But not for want of trying, eh?” Mercutio laughs.
“We'd best both give up,” I inform him coldly, “Romeo and I. 'Tis you she wants, though I have duly warned her of the peril inherent there. Still, she is determined to have thee at any cost.”
“More's the pity,” he grumbles. “She is far too good for me.”
“Aye, she is.”
“Too good for you too, Benvolio.” He laughs again. “'Tis no secret that you are as shameless a womanizer as I. You, with your doe eyes and ready smile, would surely break her heart as thoroughly as I would.”
“Do not count on it,” I mumble. “'Tis a moot point, anyhow, for Romeo saw her first, and even if she wanted me, I could not betray him in that manner. We are friends, Rosaline and I.”
Mercutio lets out a snort. I smile in spite of myself.
“You must be truly drunk, my friend, for you giggle like a girl.”
Mercutio totters to his feet. “I am truly drunk but not nearly drunk enough. And so let us find that Romeo and go forth to increase my measly inebriation.” He leans heavily upon my shoulder. “Call for him, wilt thou?”
“Romeo!”
I holler.
“My cousin Romeo! Romeo!”
We listen for his response and receive none but the sonorous echo of mine own shout.
Mercutio sighs.
“He is wise and, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed.”
I shake my head.
“He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall. Call, good Mercutio.”
“Nay, I must conjure him.” Again, he snorts.
“I conjure
thee by Rosaline's bright eyes, by her high forehead, and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh ⦔
I do not like the path his wit has taken.
“If he hear thee,”
I snarl,
“thou wilt anger him.”
Mercutio looks askance at me, for he knows that it is I who am angered by his bawdy talk of Rosaline. He releases me to stand wavering on his own.
I find that I no longer wish to find Romeo, for I fear I will see in his eyes a reflection of my own fragility. Suddenly, I am eager to get myself home, where I may pine in private. With a show of false humor, I clap Mercutio on the back. He stumbles.
“Come, he hath hid himself among these trees to be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love, and befits the dark.”
As does my own.
Mercutio agrees, and we begin our journey homeward. As we traverse the cobbled streets, I glance behind me once. Methinks I hear the sound of delicate footfall in pursuit of us. And the swish of a heavy gown?
'Tis impossible. I am only wishful.
M
y exit from the orchard through a neglected and overgrown gate places me on the south road, and by some miracle, 'tis there that Mercutio and Benvolio have paused to call for Romeo. When he does not reveal himself, they quit the search and begin their trek homeward.
Keeping to the shadows of trees and dwellings, I follow them at a comfortable distance. There is a looseness in Mercutio's stride that tells me he is even drunker now than he had been at the feast.
They cross the vacant market square, and soon turn onto a street that winds gently upward. Odd that a rogue like Mercutio should live on such a quiet, homey lane as this. The walls of the buildings have been freshly whitewashed and seem to glow in the moonlight. Above,
balconies hemmed with ironwork drip flowers and trailing vines. All but a few of the arched windows are dark. Finally Mercutio and Benvolio halt beside a broad doorway and bid one another a good night.
When the heavy door closes behind Mercutio, Benvolio hesitates as though he senses someone near. I hold my breath until he turns and continues on up the hill and I am alone on this pleasant
via
. The air goes blossom-sweet as a warm breeze troubles the mass of roses climbing the face of the house toward the upper terrace. A window on the second story suddenly blooms with golden candlelight.
The glow floats onward. A moment later, the balcony doors swing open, and the candlelight wafts softly into the night. Mercutio brings the taper onto the balcony and turns his face toward the silver circle of the moon.
He speaks. “Oh, Romeo ⦔
Romeo!
He looks to the moon and whispers
Romeo?
My jaw goes slack with surprise, and no small amount of panic, until Mercutio speaks more.
“Romeo, wherefore art
thou
the fortunate man who first glimpsed and chose fair Rosaline?”
Panic turns to joy! 'Tis me he thinks upon fondly and Romeo he resents for claiming me first! I spring from the shadows to stand beneath the balcony and call out in a whisper, “Mercutio!”
He starts at the sound of my voice from below. “Who is there?”
I step into the pale puddle of light spilling from his candle. “'Tis Lady Rosaline,” I announce as loudly as I dare.
He frowns. “How earnest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?”
“I came,” I explain, stepping near to the rose trellis and taking hold, “by following you on your wobbly walk homeward.” Testing the tenacity of the tall trellis with a tug, I plant one foot on the lowest crossbar and lift myself. “If thou canst not guess
why,
then thou art surely more intoxicated than I imagined.”
I reach upward, grasping a vertical slat and hoisting myself higher, placing my foot securely upon a higher lath. The thorny vines snag the brocade of the gown, tearing at my palms and wrists.
“God's bodkin, girl!” Mercutio bends over the rail. “What in holy hell art thou attempting?”
I continue my ascent, easily scaling the leafy lattice, hand over hand, feeling for the safety of slats beneath my slippers. 'Tis no time before I have reached the balcony. Mercutio and I are face-to-face.
I smile. Mercutio does not.
“You climb this wall like an insect,” he observes.
Of a sudden, I conjure a vision of myself as I must appear to him, clinging to the outer wall of his home upon this rose-festooned trellis. A most preposterous image, that.
I laugh. Mercutio does not.
“But then, a woman can be very much like a spider,” he muses in an icy tone. “Spinning pretty webs in which to trap her victims. Didst thou imagine, Rosaline, that I would tumble o'er the side of this balcony in a lovesick haze to run off with thee into the night?”
In truth, I had hoped something of that very sort might occur, but his disdainful tone has me reluctant to admit it.
“Or dost thou intend to join me here in my bedchamber?” He laughs now. His breath reeks heavily of wine. “Oh, no, that cannot possibly be so, for thou art the
chaste
Rosaline.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Or ⦠art thou?”
Before I can summon a reply, he reaches forward to grasp my shoulders and pulls me closer to the rail. An unsettling cracking sound comes from somewhere near my ankles.
“Dost thou offer to lie with me, and didst thou lie to my friend Romeo when you told him you were pure and intended to remain thus?” His nose is touching mine. “Innocence is a curable disease, you know. Virtue, like honor, is merely an airy word. Mayhap your favors can be had for naught more than the cost of a promise?”
In the next breath, he has crushed his lips hard upon mine. âTis a severe kiss, a kiss filled with anger. I do not at all like it and am relieved when he releases me at last. His breaths come in shallow gasps. O'er the sound of them, I am vaguely aware of a noise like twigs snapping underfoot.
“Be gone, temptress,” he grumbles. “For e'en if I had use for love, I would still needs keep my distance. Romeo
saw thee first.” For a moment, he but stares at me. His next words are colder still. “Away with thee!”
With that, he spins on his heel, enters the house, and slams the balcony doors behind him. I feel the force of their impact vibrate through the stone wall, and now, blending with the echo of the slamming door, comes the sound of splintering wood. The trellis gives way with a succession of loud cracks, separating from the wall, coming apart in jagged splinters. I fall backward, still clutching a handful of spent wood and thorny stems. I squeeze my eyes shut, and a shriek rises in my throat, for I expect to crash upon the cobblestones in a bloody heap.
But that is not to be. For I do not meet the ground.
Instead, I am caught.
Caught and cradled in an embrace both sturdy and sweet.
I need not open my eyes to see who the catcher is.
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“It seems you are a lady who requires more than the usual share of rescuing.”
Benvolio lowers my feet to the ground. When he is satisfied that I can stand on my own, he releases me and takes a step back. “I take it things did not go well up there on Mercutio's balcony?”
I shake my head, giving him a pinched little frown. “And if you dare to say âI told thee so'â”
“Tossed you right over the rail, did he?”
“Tossed
me? Of course he did not
toss
â”
âTis not until I see his grin that I understand he is teasing. “No, sir,” I say, smoothing my skirts. “He did not toss me. I jumped. I found I was unimpressed with Mercutio's sloppy style of kissing, and so I simply dove from his balcony to avoid more of the same. 'Twas a full somersault with a twist. Didst thou not see it?”
“I regret to say I did not. I was too intent on placing my person between your lovely body and these hard cobblestones.”
“Aye.” I nod with mock solemnity. “The landing has always been the part of the trick I most dislike.”
He laughs, and I find I like the sound a good deal. “Come, Lady Rosaline, I shall see you home ⦠again.”
“'Tis too warm to go home,” I blurt out, surprised by how greatly I desire his company. “Might we ⦠I do not know ⦠might we seek out someplace cool?”
Benvolio studies me carefully for a long moment, then he takes my arm and we start down the hill. At the bottom of the street, he heads west.
We discuss the feast as we walk. He remarks that the port was of especially good quality. I tell him I did not have the opportunity to partake of any.
“I did, however, discover that your good friend Romeo and myâ”
I stop in my tracks, interrupting my revelation regarding his cousin and mine when I see the place to which he has led me.
“The forest,” I remark, rather stupidly.
“A grove, actually. I often meander here when I feel the need for solitude. 'Tis dense enough to provide concealment, yet not so dense that moonlight may not penetrate its leafy canopy.”
He speaks true. Ribbons of moonglow unfurl from above, casting a shimmering blue radiance into the labyrinth of slender trunks and graceful limbs. I can smell the earthy coolness.
Benvolio indicates a narrow pathway; I duck beneath a low branch to enter the magic of the silent wood and follow the leaf-scattered trail. Together, we weave through streamers of silver light until we reach a fallen tree; by some chance it did land balanced across two large stones, forming a sort of rounded bench.
“Here is my customary spot,” he says, lowering himself to sit gingerly upon the trunk. “Join me?”
Smiling, I do so. The trunk rocks ever so slightly as I settle upon it.
“Pray thee, lady,” he says when I am seated, “may I inquire exactly what âstyle' dost thou enjoy?”
I look at him quizzically.
“Of kissing,” he clarifies. “Earlier you did mention that you were not particularly moved by Mercutio's style of kissing, and I merely wondered just precisely what style you are used to.”
I do not open my mouth, for I know I will only stammer like a fool. What an unthinkably improper conversation! I find I cannot wait to hear more of it!
“To my mind,” he goes on breezily, “I prefer soft, slow kisses.”
“Soft, slow kisses?” I repeat haltingly.
“Yes. The softer the better. You know the sort.”
Alas, I do not know. I lift one shoulder, a tiny shrug.
“I suppose you could say I like to linger when I kiss,” he confesses.
“Linger?”
“Mmm, yes. Take my time, savor, enjoy. After all, what cause is there to rush a kiss?”
“None, I suppose,” I reply in a whisper.
“Mercutio, I deduce, is not a lingerer?”
I shake my head, very slowly.
“A shame, that. There upon the balcony, with the enticing scent of roses, and the hot breeze through your hair, it would have been a fine setting for that sort of soft, slow kiss.”
Soft and slow again. I believe I actually feel those words skimming o'er my skin. I remember back at the feast, when Romeo with saintly sweetness did bring his mouth to Juliet's, brushing her lips with his. And here is Benvolio beside me in this mystic grove, with only the sycamores to see. When did he put his arm about my waist? I wonder, though I have not thought to insist he remove it.
Soft and slow.
Linger â¦
Enjoy.
My face turns up to his, and a band of moonglow falls across his eyes.
You know the sort.
Alas â¦
Soft.
And slow.
“Show me?”
“Gladly.”
Benvolio's hand at my waist presses me nearer to him, and I turn a bit, placing my hands tremulously upon his shoulders. He lowers his face to mine, closing his eyes. I lift my chin â¦
Alas, before our lips can meet, the tree trunk upon which we sit shimmies once, rolls, then tumbles off its rocky platform, spilling us with a muffled thud.
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To the moss we topple backward, falling gently, head o'er heels. Mayhap to land so safely on such softness is the way love truly feels.