I awaken there upon the mossy ground, Rosaline beside me.
‘Tis nearly daylight. Her satiny cheek rests upon my chest, her hair tumbling o’er my shoulders, her breaths coming in time with my heartbeat. God’s truth, I would stay forever, but a moment later, she opens her eyes and recollects our whereabouts.
She bolts to her feet, inadvertently using my rib cage as a springboard. I utter a strangled “ummph!” and clutch my middle.
Rosaline has gone pale, nearly as pale as I, who am struggling for a blessed breath. I attempt to calm her with a word but can manage only an airless grunt, which
she ignores, unaware that she has pounded the wind from my lungs.
“O, Benvolio! What have we done?”
“We have slept,” I manage, rolling over onto my knees and standing slowly. “Prior to that, we but talked. I swear to thee, nothing more.”
She frowns in confusion. “Art thou certain?”
I grin at her. “Art thou not?”
Rosaline ponders a moment. “I remember … falling.”
“As do I,” I tell her. In love, I add silently. With you. “We found the moss most comfortable, so we remained there upon it, looking up through the leaves and twigs at the stars.”
The color returns to her complexion, her eyes show relief. “Aye, we talked. Of many things. Of my desire to become a healer. Of Mercutio’s legendary temper and the prince’s politics.” She smiles now. “And of your secret fear of very high places.”
“Which you promised ne’er to mention to a living soul outside these woods.”
“’Twas wonderful talk,” she says on a sigh. “I now know your favorite color is emerald—”
“And I know that you did accept the existence of fairies until the eve of your twelfth birthday, when Tybalt told you they were naught but fantasy.”
She laughs, and the sound fills the forest in a way that makes me wonder if there might be fairies after all.
“I especially liked the story of how you and Romeo once stole a quince tart from the village baker’s shop!”
“We were but seven summers,” I remind her. “And that thievery is nothing compared to what you and Juliet attempted yesterday in Montague’s garden!”
“Thievery?” she repeats, eyes glimmering. “Nay, ’twas just a prank!” Of a sudden, her expression turns sad. “I recall as well that we spoke also of how deeply you mourn for your late mother.”
“I have ne’er spoken of that,” I tell her, “to anyone.”
She steps forward to place a sweet kiss upon my cheek. “I thank you for trusting me.”
We begin to walk, enjoying one another’s reticence. I can hear the sounds of the town in the distance, coming awake, but I pay them no heed. A plot has begun to arrange itself in my mind, a ploy that might, should the heavens wish to smile upon Verona, put an end to the infernal feud that has kept me thus far from knowing Rosaline. If the elders cannot bend in their beliefs, then perhaps ’tis up to us, their progeny, to be the wiser.
We reach the grove’s boundary, stepping into the unshaded daylight, thick with heat. In the sunlight, the blue of her eyes is nearly too pure to be real. Before I reveal my plan, there are two things I must know.
“Speak true, lady. Dost thou still believe thyself to fancy Mercutio?”
Rosaline nibbles her lower lip. I realize I am holding my breath, awaiting her reply.
“I do not,” she says at last.
I would take her in my arms there and then but dare not. Instead, I clear my throat and inquire, “What of Romeo? Wouldst thou think me disloyal if I—”
“Romeo?” She smiles. “Oh. I did not have the chance to tell you. Romeo’s affections are now engaged elsewhere.”
“Art thou certain? Why, only yesterday the boy was racked with despair o’er your refusal to love him.”
“He has met another,” she informs me. “One he loves better.”
I suppose I am smiling like an idiot now, for this news removes the only obstacle to my pursuit of this celestial creature. I am more confident now than ever in my plan.
“Get thee home,” I advise, for I want too much to kiss her. “May I see you anon?”
“You may,” she says. “Then again, you may not.”
“Now, there is a risk I do not wish to take. Let us confirm a plan to assure me of your company.”
“Name the place.”
“The tavern called the Untamed Shrew.”
“I am not familiar with the establishment.”
“I did not expect you would be. It is an unseemly sort of pub, not at all suited to ladies of your ilk. But I have conceived of an idea.”
She smiles, amused and trusting. “Pray, what manner of scheme would lure me to such a compromising haunt as this Untamed Shrew?”
“You are as eager to end the feud as I, are you not?”
She nods.
“My strategy is this—I will bring Mercutio to the tavern around midday. You will arrange somehow for Tybalt to arrive there then as well. At that time, you and I shall make our announcement.”
She lifts one slender eyebrow. “And which announcement might that be?”
“That we are affianced.”
Her pretty mouth drops open at the thought of such a sudden escalation in our relationship. But, thanks be to God, she does not say no to matrimony straightaway! Finally, she finds her voice.
“Are you …,” she stammers. “Dost thou … is this … a proposal of marriage?”
“Not remotely,” I reply.
“And yet you say we are to be wed?” My beautiful, intelligent Rosaline needs only a moment to comprehend. “Ah, yes! ‘Tis a brilliant scheme. If Tybalt and Mercutio believe that we are to be married, they will be compelled to accept that the Capulets and Montagues are family.” She clasps her hands together and beams at me, going on in a rush of understanding and excitement. “’Tis a perfect inroad! The Montagues and Capulets, believing that they are to be united by the holiest of sacraments, will have no choice but to cease their warfare! Indeed, as you and I are enemies once removed, being merely the niece and nephew of the primary combatants, our union would not cause the sort of outrage that would, say, the marriage
of Romeo and Juliet, who are the most direct heirs to the hatred. The umbrage to such as that would be insurmountable. However, our union, being peripheral to the heart of the grudge, shall present a case for peace in such a way that neither side will need admit defeat.”
“Honor demands that family doth not kill family,” I add. “Even Mercutio, who scorns the concept of honor and, moreover, is not of Montague blood, will surely refrain from killing his great friend’s future cousin.”
“And Tybalt,” says Rosaline, “will likely be too concerned with what suit of clothes he should wear to our wedding feast to consider drawing his sword.” She rewards me with a smile. “Aye, ’tis brilliant!”
“Then you agree to meet me in the tavern at noon?”
“I do!”
Those words from her lips cause my heart to thud. We walk on toward the square, her pretty lips quirked in a thoughtful way.
“I am curious, sir. Dost thou entertain the idea of a real marriage one day?”
I nod in reply.
“How dost thou suppose you would do it?” she asks, in a tone more academic than romantic. “Propose, I mean.”
“I can tell thee for certain that when I feel worthy enough to ask a lady for her hand in earnest, it shall include a wealth of kisses, moonlight, and myself on bended knee offering a gem of inordinate size and a promise of love to last the duration of my life.”
Her sweet gasp pleases me much.
“And what of you?” I inquire, inclining my head to mask my interest. “Surely you wish to be proposed to in a most magnificent and ceremonious manner?”
To my great shock, the lady shakes her head. “I told you yesterday, I have no wish to marry.”
Has someone just thrust a dagger into my heart? God’s blood, it feels as though someone has. “You also told me yesterday that Mercutio altered that particular perception.”
“He did,” she admits. “Temporarily. And look you how such a deviation ended, with me toppling from a balcony.” Her speech slows now to a pensive pace. “And you appearing in time to catch me … our night spent in the grove, a discussion of slow kisses …”
Again, she shakes her head, this time as though to clear it of such thoughts. Her pretty hair tumbles in the sunlight and she smiles, a bit guardedly. “Our faux betrothal will be more than enough for me. And once the town has forgotten the feud, we shall confess that it was, in fact, only a hoax.”
That is not the way I envisioned it. I walk on in silence. As we near the market square, I realize there will be enough townspeople already about to warrant some discretion. “’Twould be a severe blow to your reputation for us to be seen together at this hour.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “’Twould be prudent for us to part company here.”
But neither of us moves.
Now something occurs to me. “How wilt thou lure Tybalt to the tavern?”
“It will be simple.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously. “I will tell him a most outrageous lie.” Before she can explain, we hear the sound of footsteps drawing near. “Anon, good Benvolio.”
With a wink, Rosaline lifts the hem of her skirt and hurries off She has just rounded the corner of the church when Romeo’s servant, Balthasar, appears.
He has news for me.
And it is grave.