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Authors: Lisa Fiedler

BOOK: Romeo's Ex
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Across the room, an elegant lady with a delicately curvaceous figure lifts her wine goblet to Tybalt.
“Now, there is a maid to my liking,” he says, nudging his elbow into my side. “If I have not returned by Tuesday next”—he smiles—“be glad for me!”
He strides across the marble hall to claim his prize; I find myself free to search the crowd, praying that Benvolio has indeed come in costume and brought Mercutio along. Holding my feathered mask in place, I make my way round the room. Thinking unwelcome guests such as they would wisely keep to the shadows, I move toward the perimeter of the hall.
Let him be here, O, please let me find Mercutio …
“Benvolio!”
My new friend steps into my path, nearly causing me to collide with his broad chest.
“How is it thou knowst me,” he asks, in a pleased but puzzled voice, “behind this mask?”
How, indeed? His visor is a full facade, covering his face completely from hairline to chin. And yet I recognized him immediately, for I sensed an aura that spoke Benvolio to me. Not to mention that luxurious, wavy mass of shining hair, and his sturdy shoulders. And a particular, manly aroma that is his alone—fresh air, strong soap, spearmint and cedar and clean warmth.
“Uh, 'twas … your boots,” I fib, stammering. “Aye, your boots—there is a rather bad scuff near the ankle of the right one. I noticed it this afternoon.
Benvolio laughs behind his disguise. “She remembers my boots,” he announces triumphantly to a fellow in a half mask who has just come up beside him.
“I would not be too proud of that,” the masked newcomer slurs.
I expect my knees to waver—oddly, they do not. My pulse quickens, however, and I note a frantic fluttering sensation in my belly. “Mercutio!”
“None other.” He sways slightly as he leans in close to me. “And, pray, what dost the lady recall of me?”
“Everything,” I blurt. (That too is a fib, for 'twas actually his smug tone that gave him away. In truth, I did not know him until he spoke.) “Your eyes. Also your smile.”
Mercutio chuckles. “'Tis better than boots, nay?”
I cannot see Benvolio's face, but methinks I see his shoulders stiffen, then slump. Surely he finds such lovesick prattle most disgusting.
I now spy another familiar figure across the room leaning forlornly against a wall and cannot stop myself from gasping his name. “Romeo.”
“Seems she knows us all,” Mercutio says, and I fear he means it as an insult.
Benvolio's spine goes rigid. “I will thank you not to tease the lady,” he says in a level voice.
Mercutio snorts, plucks two goblets of burgundy from the tray of a passing servant, and hands one to Benvolio.
“To honor,” he sneers, lifting the cup.
“To honor,” echoes Benvolio.
“To honor!” Mercutio slants me a wicked grin.
“Get
on her and stay on her!”
Benvolio cringes at the crude toast. “Damn you,” he mutters, ignoring his wine.
Mercutio yawns loudly. I fear he is growing bored and will take his leave of us, so I speak quickly.
“How dost thou, Mercutio?” I ask sweetly.
“I do well, lady,” he replies, after a lusty sip of wine. His gaze creeps slowly o'er me. He takes another sip.
“My lady,” Benvolio begins, “it occurs to me that I still do not know your name.”
At this, Mercutio nearly chokes on his mouthful of drink. “By the blood of the devil, Benvolio! You know not
who she is?” He laughs, his eyes steely. “O, this is rich, verily. Comic and tragic and sickening and delightful.” He laughs again. “You wish to know her name! Marry, I have a notion—wherefore dos't thou not ask Romeo? I'd wager he will be able to tell you her name. He may e'en sing it for you!”
“I would be honored to learn her name by any means necessary,” Benvolio replies, “but would much prefer she give it to me from her own sweet lips.”
Before I can answer, Mercutio catches hold of Benvolio's chin and shakes it.
“She is Rosaline, you fool! Romeo's Rosaline! The goddess, the epitome of feminine perfection. The chaste one who has no use for him and yet causes him to weep and whine and waste away. She is
that
Rosaline! The one, the only!”
Benvolio freezes in his place; then, after a lengthy moment, he tips his mask so only I can see his face. “Rosaline?”
“Aye.”
“Romeo's Rosaline?”
I frown. “Hardly.”
“He is in love with you,” Benvolio reports grimly.
“So I have heard.”
Benvolio's eyes go dark. He looks at odds with himself, conflicted. Or perhaps just sad. “Why didst thou not tell me?” he queries.
“Because, if you'll recall, I had only just overheard you
callously assert to Romeo that I was surely no better than any other maiden in Verona.”
“I was most incorrect,” he whispers.
“O, Benvolio.” Rashly, I take his hands in mine and squeeze them. “Please do not be angry. We had such a lovely time—”
“Lovely time,” Mercutio snickers.
“And I feared you would want nothing to do with me had you known I was the cause of your cousin's heartache.”
“Nonsense,” drawls Mercutio. “Any man with eyes in his head would want badly to have something to do with thee!” He snorts again, rudely. “And I can tell thee just what that something is!”
Benvolio sends Mercutio a searing look, then turns and stomps away—I suspect to keep from killing him.
I remove my mask. My eyes sting and my heart aches, but I will not cry.
“Why, Mercutio, dost thou say such hateful things to me? You must know the depth of my feelings—”
“Deep feelings are of no interest to me, lady,” he says curtly, taking another goblet from an attendant's tray. “However, should you wish to reveal to me certain other, more intimate 'depths' of your person—”
I believe I turn the color of the wine in his glass! “'Tis a most inappropriate thing to say!”
“Aye, and yet you are still standing here.”
I find myself wanting to crumple to the marble floor.
Or slap him. 'Tis difficult to believe that he is the same gentle hero I met earlier this day.
“You have drunk too much wine,” I surmise. “That is the reason for your boldness.”
“The reason for my boldness is that I am bold,” he says easily, downing the beverage in one gulp. “I thought 'twas what you liked about me. But then, what dost thou know of me, other than that this afternoon when you opened your pretty eyes I was near to thee?” He wipes his wine-stained lips with the back of his hand. “You interpret me badly, my lady.”
“Then show me the truth of you,” I challenge, stepping forward to brazenly place my palm against his chest.
He starts as though I've branded him with a hot iron.
“You play with flame, Rosaline,” he warns in a thick voice.
“I shall take my chances, sir.”
His eyes bore into mine. I wish I could say I see affection there. With a slow and measured breath, he grasps my wrist and roughly shoves my hand away, then whirls, a bit unsteadily given the extent of his intoxication. He takes two clumsy steps before turning back to glare at me once more.
“Wouldst thou join me, if I invited thee?” he asks with contempt.
“I would join thee, e'en if you didn't,” I say, attempting a smile.
Something flickers in his eyes, and I imagine it might be regret. He turns again and lurches away down the shadowy hall. Despite the terror tumbling in my guts, I follow. But when I round the corner, I stop at the sound of voices. Voices I know well.
One is Juliet's. And he to whom she speaks is Romeo!
Oh, this
cannot
be good! Juliet and Romeo …
… Romeo and Juliet.
 
They have concealed themselves in a curtained alcove near the chapel. The crimson velvet of the draperies shadows Juliet's pale gown with a bright, bloody hue. As I press myself to the wall and steal a look within, I see that she is removing her pearl-trimmed visor.
And Romeo doth remove his mask as well.
And I see them see each other for the very first time.
Silence explodes around them, and they gaze upon each other as angels might, angels who have ne'er seen another of their kind. God's truth, I can almost feel the heat that springs from them!
My first thought is to rush in, collar Juliet, and drag her as far away from here as 'tis possible to go. My second thought is this: So much for liking Paris.
Now they whisper something, and in the next moment, he has taken her chin upon his thumb and tilted up her face to his.
Hell's teeth! They
kiss!
And whisper more.
And kiss
again.
Oh, this is bad; this is
very
bad, indeed!
A hand upon my shoulder startles me. I whirl to find Benvolio. For a moment, I actually forget that nearby my cousin is kissing her sworn enemy.
“I believed you had departed,” I say, smiling.
“I was about to, until I recollected that you promised me a dance.”
“Then you are no longer angry with me?”
“I am many things with you, dear Rosaline,” he says, “but angered is not one of them.” He touches my cheek. “You offer me friendship, and I am honored to accept it.”
“We shall dance then,” I announce, deciding to leave Juliet to her own devices for the present. Romeo is not dangerous. He is just … nauseating.
Benvolio guides me to the dance floor and we take our place in the formation as the minstrels strike up.
The dance is formal and complicated, and twice I near lose Benvolio in the shifting circles. He is not the most graceful of men, but his persistence is to be commended. At one point, he is required to raise his arm in order that the lady to his left may skip beneath it to join her partner on the other side. But he is looking only at me and miscalculates, thus catching the unsuspecting lady with both his arms around her waist. He apologizes from behind
the mask. The lady giggles, and I think perhaps she was not entirely unhappy to be wrapped, however briefly, in Benvolio strong embrace.
When the dance has done, Benvolio and I take a seat upon the stairs and watch with amusement as the elders in attendance bicker o'er who, in their day, was the better dancer, heartier drinker, and most successful lover. And with no amusement whatsoever, we watch Tybalt skulking round the room, his hand upon his sword.
“Perhaps he knows there are Montagues present,” I whisper to Benvolio.
“Aye, 'tis likely the case.” He stands, pressing a kiss to my wrist. “Much as I hate to leave you, lady, I must remove Romeo from the gathering danger of this place.”
“Wait!” I wring my hands. “Could you … might I …” Closing my eyes, I take a fortifying breath. “Will you tell me where later I might find Mercutio?”
Again that rigid spine and no reply.
“Never mind it, then,” I say, forcing a smile. “I shall find him myself I thank thee for your most delightful company this night … .”
Before I e'en finish the thought, he has turned and stalked away. I am finding that he does that often. I suppose if we are to be friends I will simply have to become used to it.
Glancing toward the chapel hall, I spot Juliet, who has at last seen fit to return to the feast—this due only to the
fact that her stout nurse has captured her firmly by the arm and is all but dragging her along.
Romeo follows them several paces after. When Juliet scurries away to join her mother's table, I see him approach the nurse and ask a question. ‘Tis clear he does not receive an answer to his liking, for his entire stance goes slack, as though he's been soundly socked, and e'en at this distance, I believe I see him tremble. The nurse goes to join Juliet, and I watch as Benvolio arrives at Romeo's side, urging their departure. As they make for the door, the nurse comes swooping back toward them. She inquires something of Romeo. He answers and exits quickly. Benvolio glances back at me and waves, then he too is gone.
Of a sudden, I feel inexplicably lonely.
As the hall empties of guests, my eyes dart round the room in search of Juliet. She is leaving with her nurse and looking utterly distraught. I surmise that her nurse has discovered Romeo's identity and has reported as much to Juliet. If she did not know him to be a Montague whilst she kissed him, she most certainly knows it now! With a hasty good night to those departing friends who call to me, I hurry up the stairs to meet Juliet in her room.

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