O, Juliet (27 page)

“She does not have to dance,” Mama said, all smiles. “Let the other girls dance. She is the bride.”

“Is Lucrezia’s gown finished?” I asked, hoping for any news of my friend, and learned it was, and quite a masterpiece at that. In fact, Jacopo’s “advice” had curtailed any meetings with her. Once again, I had bowed without argument to his mean-spirited wishes, knowing that my own plans were taking shape from a distance, and his influence in my life would be short-lived.

I schemed with Viola, who was, thankfully, allowed frequent visits to my room. Under a pile of clean linen she secreted in a set of her husband’s clothing and a pair of strapped slippers that fit me. In this way I could be dressed and ready in male disguise when Romeo came over the garden wall to collect me.

I must admit I felt pangs of guilt when I enlisted my mother’s help in my plot to escape her house. Claiming I needed to see the gems that I would wear at my throat and ears and in my hair, I urged her to bring the family jewel box to my room so we could decide together.

Then I made a great show of interest in each piece, putting it on and discussing its merits and demerits, and whether it would match the dress or detract from it. All the while I was counting the pieces’ value, for several of the necklaces, earrings, and tiaras would be taken with me when I absconded with Romeo. I would leave the lion’s share behind, but I could not imagine going to my husband with no dowry at all.

And in the nights, endless strings of words flowed into my head. Poems, and I could not tell if they were worthy, or simply Love’s garbled messages to a girl on the verge of a joyful life.

For now I was certain that Romeo would come. All doubt had taken flight like the falcons who catch a circular wind on a warm day, rising up and away so far and so high that they can be seen only as dark specks against the blue sky.

It was the fourth day since Massimo had gone to Verona. Any moment Viola would come flying through my door all smiles, a letter from Romeo clutched in her hand. It would present his plan—brilliant and dangerous of course—but brimming with confidence in its execution. I prepared myself for a lack of flowery sentiment, a restatement of his love. After all, just his act of abducting me would be proof enough of his feelings.

E
vening arrived with no sign of Massimo’s return. When I went to the kitchen looking for Viola, Cook said she had gone to her mother’s. This simple statement rocked me. There had been more than enough time for Massimo to have ridden to Verona, delivered his letter, and brought me back Romeo’s reply.

In my room I fretted, and snapped at my mother when she pestered me about the choice of confections she wished to serve at the wedding. Cook was insisting on making a luxury bread of almonds and candied fruit, but Mama preferred a sweet wine-flavored custard.

“Just have both,” I said, gritting my teeth.

“But the number of eggs for the zabaglione . . . oh, the number of eggs!”

I wished she would disappear.

That night there was no sleep for me, and the hours passed in agony. All manner of fears presented themselves to me—from Massimo’s sudden illness on the road, to worry that Romeo had never taken refuge with his uncles at all, but had instead gone off adventuring to far-flung parts of the world. Everyone had just assumed he had gone to Verona. But wasn’t my husband known for his wild audacity? Anything was possible with Romeo.

I was bleary-eyed in the morning, yet taut as a rope strung tight between two posts. When I cornered Viola after breakfast, she looked bewildered and said Massimo had not come home. Why he was delayed was anyone’s guess, but she, too, had begun to worry. Though neither of us said so, we both knew that the passage between the two towns was famous for its bandits. With nothing of value for the thieves to steal from Massimo, they might have become angered. Even now he could be lying injured or dead along the side of the road.

Another day passed, though this was filled with final plans for the wedding. My gown was brought again to be fitted, this time laden with pearls and gems. The seamstresses had been right. The garment, while breathtaking, was a deadweight upon my body, and even the short time I was forced to wear it depressed my spirits and brought me to tears.

Mama convinced herself once again that I was crying for joy at my upcoming marriage, and the thought that my own mother was so self-deceived as to misconstrue her daughter’s heart so entirely made me weep even harder.

I saw the older silkwoman observe me with pity, for she alone knew my suffering. When she lifted the gown from my shoulders, she leaned in and whispered low, “God will protect you, my lady.”

I wished to shout back, “I do not need God’s protection, for Romeo is coming to take me away!” Instead, I quietly murmured my thanks.

But another night passed, and my surety weakened with every passing hour until I fell into exhausted sleep, sprawled across my bed fully clothed.

 

I woke to Viola leaning over me, a look of myriad emotions twisting her face. It was barely dawn.

“He’s come home,” she said.

I bolted upright. “Is he here?”

She nodded.

I jumped up and hurried down the stairs, heedless of my impropriety. Cook was absent from our kitchen, certainly at the Palazzo Bardi overseeing the feast preparations. I saw Massimo outside the window and went to meet him.

He wore the same strange expression as Viola had. My heart fluttered, then began to pound. It was hard to keep my voice even.

“Welcome back, Massimo.”

“I’m so glad to see you well again, signorina.”

“I was never ill. I was sure you knew that.”

“Right. I’d forgotten.” The young man was nervous, unsmiling.

“May I have the letter, please?”

“Letter? I gave . . .” He swallowed hard. “I gave your letter—Signorina Tornabuoni’s letter—to Romeo. In Verona.”

“Yes, of course you did. And he must have given you one back . . . for me.”

“No.”

“No?”

Massimo looked like a cornered animal. The skin under his nose had begun to perspire.

“Romeo read my letter and did not reply?”

The butcher’s son shrugged and averted his gaze from mine.

“That is not possible,” I said.

I turned to see Viola standing in the doorway looking stunned.

“I tell you there is no letter!” Massimo shouted unexpectedly. He was desperate now. His face crumbled. “There is no letter.” This was said quietly with an air of defeat.

“Did you even see my husband in Verona?”

“No.”

I looked at Viola, whose face was a mask of horror and fury. She went to Massimo and beat both fists on his chest. “What have you done!” she cried. “Where is the letter we put into your keeping?”

Massimo looked down at his feet. “He paid me triple.”

“Who?” Viola demanded, and pummeled him again.

“Jacopo Strozzi,” I answered for him. “Isn’t that right, Massimo?”

He nodded miserably.

“No!” Viola moaned, then turned to me. “Oh, my lady, forgive me. Forgive us!”

I could not speak. Not a single word. Instead I turned, leaving Massimo to his wife’s wrath, and walked like a haunted spirit through my father’s house. I must have climbed the stairs, though I cannot remember the act. Next I knew I was at my balcony rail, staring blindly out at the walled garden.

Two days were left till the wedding. Romeo was in Verona. Don Cosimo had not yet returned from Rome. I had been a fool, putting my whole trust in Massimo. Perhaps I deserved this fate. A fool’s fate. Bitterness rose in me like a fouled spring, catching in my throat. Choking me.

I am wholly abandoned
, I thought in self-pity,
by God in heaven, by the God of Love . . . and Romeo
.

All that was left was for me to face my dismal future.

Later that day, Jacopo Strozzi came. Mama herself brought me down the stairs, where he waited with Papa, the marriage contract in hand. Silently I signed it, feeling the sin in my heart.

I was a bigamist.

By Jacopo’s request my parents happily removed themselves, arm in arm, leaving me alone with my new husband. I turned to face him and managed somehow to hold his eye. He did not smile evilly as I thought he might. Indeed, his eyes were filled with loathing for me. No one knew of my attempted betrayal, or his triumph over me. No one except, perhaps, his mother.Yet in his even stare I saw humiliation.

For the rest of our lives together he must endure the truth of my revulsion for him as a man, and I his crime of murdering my cousin.

Perhaps, I thought, I should write an additional canto for Dante’s
Inferno
—“The Tenth Circle of Hell.” Still I could not find the words to speak to Jacopo. My only satisfaction was that this smug villain could think of no words to gloat over me.

I lifted my shoulders and set my lips. I left him standing there alone, as he would be for all the days of our married life. It was a very small comfort.

I
told my mother I would not leave my room till my wedding day. I could bear to see no one, not my father, not my mother, not Viola. I suspected that even if Lucrezia had come, I would not have had the stomach for a visit.

I said I wanted to spend my last days in prayers and quiet contemplation, and no one questioned that.

On the morning of the last day before the marriage there came a knock at my door. Mama peeked in and with the shy look of a girl said I had a visitor. She moved aside to admit him.

Friar Bartolomo.

A moment later we were alone. I should have fallen at his feet then and asked God’s forgiveness, but so many hours of silent solitude and despair left me mute.

Instead he came to me. He spoke gently.

“What have you done, my lady? Unless I am misinformed, you have signed a marriage contract with Jacopo Strozzi.”

“I have no excuses, Father. I have failed to prevent this marriage despite my best-laid plans. My letter to Romeo asking him to come and fetch me away went astray.” I could not hide the bitterness in my voice. “And he—my true husband—has made no attempt to write me. Neither has he come for me of his own volition.” I fixed the friar with my eyes. “Why has he not come?”

“I cannot say,” he replied slowly. “But listen to me, Juliet. I know in my heart that he wishes to come.”

“In
your
heart?”

“When Romeo came to beg me to marry you two in secret, I met a man so consumed with love, so undone with his passion for you, with joyous hopes for a future family, with”—the friar struggled for the words—“the highest regard for the woman he would make his wife, I was overcome. He spoke, not only of your beauty—though he waxed ecstatic at the perfection of your features and the way every sight of you made him weak—but he made much of your thoughts, which he believed profound.”

“My thoughts?”

“Yes. And poetry. He admitted ashamedly, but proudly, that yours was superior to his own. He loved the sound of your voice. Your philosophies, your many virtues that, while strange for a woman, were virtues nonetheless. He felt a better man in your presence.”

“He told you all this?”

“Oh, much more. And I can say with all certainty that Romeo was sincere. These were not the ravings of a love-addled boy. He believed he had found in you his personal angel, much as his father had found in his beloved mother.”

I turned away from the friar, angry tears stinging my eyes. “Why are you telling me this? There’s nothing to be done.” I wheeled on him. “Hear my confession, Father, and then you should go.”

“Perhaps there is . . . something . . . that can be done.”

I shook my head, baffled.

“I need to know if you have faith in Romeo’s love.”

I stared at him. “I told you, I have some doubt of it.” “And what of that which I have told you today?”

I pressed my lips tight to keep from sobbing.

“Do you not believe me?”

“Actions speak louder than words,” I said, more harshly than I intended.

Now the friar spoke gently, as he might have done to a small child. “Might you give your true husband benefit of the doubt? Allow that something—I know not what—has prevented him from a heroic rescue thus far?”

“And what if I did?”

Bartolomo’s face lit and flared like a torch in a dark chamber. “If you did, I would give you a secret place and time to meet again.”

I stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Tell me.” My voice was hard and demanding.

“Lady Juliet . . . this plan is fraught with danger.”

“What could be more dangerous than married life with Jacopo Strozzi?”

Friar Bartolomo smiled crookedly. His teeth were white, but crossed one over the other, top and bottom.

“Romeo told me you were brave. He saw as much in your coming out in the middle of the night with him in a boy’s disguise. And I must agree. No other ladies I know would carry themselves to the top of the cathedral’s dome.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

With one final hesitation he drew from the pocket of his robe a small green glass vial—something that would have looked at home on the apothecary shelf of his cell.

He held it between our faces but did not speak. He closed his eyes, trying to find the words.

I felt my mouth go dry, for despite his silence I knew—if not the name of this potion—its terrible nature.

“If you drink this tonight, you will not wake up on your wedding morning.”

“You wish me to take my own life?”

“No, no, my lady. Quite the contrary. This will allow you to
live
your life . . . with Romeo. Come, let us sit. My knees are shaking.”