Still Star-Crossed (18 page)

Benvolio had no idea what she was talking of, and a glance at Rosaline showed she was equally confused. Benvolio started to ask, “What—”

Rosaline nudged him. He fell silent. “The truth about House Tirimo,” she said. “Aye, Aunt, you have hit it. He told me the truth.”

The old woman snorted. “I knew it. When thy mother died and the prince called me to the palace to tell me he would supply enough gold to keep thee and Livia in honorable state until you were both married, he bade me swear to keep it a secret from you for all my days. He even disguised the funds he sent to you as rent for House Tirimo. He invented a merchant from Messina for a tenant, for he claimed his honor would not allow him to accept your thanks.” She shook her head. “As if that house could ever fetch enough to succor two gentlewomen. ’Tis on the unfashionable side of the hill and its stables are terribly small.”

Rosaline had gone white. Had she truly not known of this? Her aunt looked on quite placidly, despite the news she’d just delivered. How could she keep such a thing a secret, even at the orders of the prince? By heaven, the things these Capulets wrought upon each other were almost worse than their treacheries to Benvolio’s house. “Of course, you are right, Aunt,” Rosaline said. “He had only to tell me of this great kindness and he could ask of me any boon.”

“Kindness indeed,” the old woman said. “I warrant he plotted all along to yoke thee to such a knave.”

Rosaline shook her head as though to clear it. “This matter with the prince is not our business today,” she said. “If you would not see me so yoked, once more I pray you, tell us who defiled Juliet’s statue.”

“Heavens, girl, I’ve no notion,” the duchess said. “If I had, would I have kept it a secret? For, as I have told you, I am a great lover of justice. Yes, what is it, Lucullus?”

The duchess’s servant had entered on silent feet and reached her side without Benvolio noticing. For a big man, he was terribly quiet. Benvolio supposed someone in this house had to be. He bent over his mistress, murmuring something in her ear. The duchess stood. “My daughter’s servant is here on some errand. Why she keeps her dead child’s nurse about I cannot imagine. Get thee gone, Rosaline, and take this miscreant with thee. Thou art grown forward and impertinent. Ask no more questions of this house or any other. I’d lock thee up in this house, but ’tis clear the rash youth of Verona do not scruple to clamber over gates locked by their elders.”

Benvolio got to his feet in frustration, blocking her path. Rosaline laid a restraining hand on his arm, but he shook her off. “You disparage the prince, forbid Rosaline to act, and of course, I and all my family you consider scoundrels,” he said. “Pray tell, lady, who is to stop this mischief, then?”

The duchess looked at him—a more appraising gaze than the dismissive glances she’d so far offered him. “You are new
to this earth, young Montague. Think you truly that your elders are unpracticed at protecting our families? The Capulets are old. We know how to survive.”

Benvolio had any number of things to say to that, but Rosaline sent him a warning glance, and with an effort he held his tongue. She took his arm and led him out into the corridor.

Her head was held high, her fingers light on his arm, her steps measured, as much a model of maidenly decorum as if he were escorting her from a royal audience. But the moment the front door had shut behind them, her pace increased almost to a run. Her hem acquired a coat of red dust as she hurried up the long red path to the front wall of the duchess’s estate. He caught up to her just past the gate, where she stood staring back over the wall and up the hill. He followed her gaze to the small house she shared with her sister. Which the prince’s largess had made possible.

“Thou truly didst not know that the prince—” he began.

“ ’Tis no matter,” said his betrothed. She did not meet his eye.

“But how came it that—”

“I thank you, but you need not concern yourself with it, signor.”

Benvolio had any number of concerns, actually, not the least of which was that Rosaline seemed unaware that her hands were so tightly bunched into fists that her knuckles were white. But he took his cue from her sudden brittle formality and let the matter drop. It was probably wise that a Montague not insinuate himself into Capulet finances.
Instead he leaned back against the wall, trying to look as though the odd mood that had overtaken her was not making him nervous.

She turned to him then, an over-bright smile on her face. “The day grows hot,” she said. “Let us dine before we continue our search.”

He shrugged. “If it please thee. Wilt thou come to my house? My mother has some fine cheeses.”

“Nay, I’ll go home. Shall we meet in the square at two o’clock?” Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed down the road without him.

Benvolio sighed, and wondered if he ought to ignore the fact that she was walking in the opposite direction of her little cottage.

Her father’s house seemed small, thought Rosaline.

In her memory it was vast, but of course she herself had been smaller when last she lived here. She had been inside House Tirimo only a few times since her mother had died. Although her tenant never seemed to occupy the house, still it was his by right, and she could not intrude. But now that she knew the merchant from Messina to be imaginary, she felt no qualms about letting herself in.

The house was bare, but not choked with dust—she’d arranged with her aunt’s servants to keep it clean. She shook her head at herself. How grown-up and wise she’d thought she was, taking care of her family’s house and fortunes,
when all along, she and Livia had been living on the prince’s charity. It made her cheeks burn.

She wandered from room to room, choked with memories. Here was the small, sunny sitting room where her mother had taught her to sew. Here was the closet where she’d run and hid after her father shaved his beard and she thought him a stranger, until he’d coaxed her out by singing her favorite song. Here was the nursery, where, family legend had it, a four-year-old Rosaline had taught two-year-old Livia to open the latch and escape. Even when Livia was just a tiny bundle of dimples and blonde tufts, Rosaline had considered her sister her particular responsibility.

All this could have been lost. Had the prince not decided to grace them with a small fortune, the house would have been sold by now, and she and Livia might have already been forced to take holy orders. Instead, they had a home, a monthly income, and a house still to sell for Livia’s dowry when the time came. The magnitude of his gift took her breath away. There was no way she could begin to repay it.

What a strange man Escalus was. There were two versions of him that lived in her mind: the handsome, brave prince she’d idolized and adored with all her childish heart, and the cold-hearted villain who had so cruelly blackmailed her into doing his bidding. Now she had to admit that neither vision was precisely correct. Why had he chosen to manipulate her so brutally? Surely he knew that if he had simply revealed how he’d helped her all this time, honor would compel her to repay his kindness with any favor he pleased, up to and including wedding Benvolio.

For that matter, why had he done this in the first place? She had thought he’d quite forgotten his Tirimo playmates. Why help them? And why conceal it? Was he ashamed to admit any connection to them?

Her wanderings took her back to the front hall. While not nearly so grand as her uncle’s house or the duchess’s mansion, Rosaline had always considered it one of the most elegant rooms in Verona. A wide staircase opened onto a floor of creamy white marble. Sunlight poured through the wide windows. A rug lay in the center of the floor. Rosaline smiled. This was probably her aunt’s doing. With her foot, she flipped a corner of the rug over, and glimpsed a bit of the blue and gold mosaic below. Her mother had been mortified that her father had installed a large mosaic of the Tirimo family crest on the floor, but Rosaline had thought it beautiful.

She rolled the rug up, then kicked it over to the wall. Once more, the crest was bright and glittering in the sun, welcoming any who might enter to House Tirimo. She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself as she admired it.

She would never forgive Escalus for what he had done, but he gave her this, and for that she blessed him.

“Rosaline?”

For a moment she thought the subject of her musings was behind her. But when she turned, she found not her sovereign, but her betrothed hovering in the doorway. “Benvolio,” she said. “I thought we were to meet in the square.”

“Aye, at two. ’Tis nearly three now.” He said nothing of
how he had known she would be here, but she supposed it was shamefully obvious, after the way she’d run off.

She closed her eyes. “Your pardon. I lost track of time.”

He shrugged. “I thought perhaps thou wouldst. Didst thou dine?” She opened her mouth to lie and say she had, when her belly gave an unladylike growl. Benvolio grinned. “So I thought. Therefore I bade our cook make me this.” He held up a basket. Before she could say a word, he lay a little blanket on the floor, and then spread out a feast. Bread, cheese, sausage, even a little bag of cherries. He waved a hand. “Fall to.”

Yet more charity. Why did all the men around her seem to think she must be coddled like a baby? But Benvolio had already plumped himself down on the floor and begun eating with a boyish appetite. It did look good. She supposed it would be rude to refuse. She sat down across from him and began to eat.

Benvolio looked around with frank interest as they dined. He was especially captivated by the crest on the floor. “By my sword! Is that a sea serpent?”

She smiled. “Aye. My father hailed from the Western coast, and his lands were by the sea.”

He looked it over, asking questions about the meaning of each element in the crest, its history, whether the family had ever fought any interesting wars. She answered as best she could, and for once she found that speaking of her family did not pain her.

The confused ache in her chest was replaced with a
companionable spirit. After he’d reduced her to giggles with an imitation of the duchess’s haughty voice, she realized that this was one of the first hours of simple joy she’d passed since Juliet’s death. She wondered if it was the same for him.

“Thank you.” She waved over their repast. “This was kind.”

“We Montagues know what it is to be subject to the prince’s whim. Forgetting meals is the least of it.” He tossed a cherry in the air, caught it in his mouth, and grinned at her around the stem. “I still hate thee deadly, of course.”

She stuck out her tongue. “Of course.”

As they finished their meal, conversation turned once more to business, and to the parts of their conversation with the duchess that did not pertain to Rosaline’s house. “Didst thou note it?” she asked. “I’d warrant the duchess was hiding something.”

“Think’st thou so? It seemed to me she merely wished to be as unhelpful as possible.”

“Perhaps,” Rosaline said slowly. “But she truly hates the Montagues. For her to tell me to leave them alone—” She frowned. “ ’Tis strange, that’s all.”

“Think you your aged aunt leapt out into the night with her sword and slew Orlino?” he asked, packing their dishes away in his basket.

She laughed. “Aye, she’s a master swordswoman, no doubt. ’Tis why she wears such wide black skirts—to conceal her blade beneath.”

Benvolio shuddered. “A fearsome thought indeed. Come, let’s away and seek this swordsman.” He gallantly offered
her his arm. “I shall protect thee from any and all murderous old ladies we meet.”

She started to take his arm, then stopped, taking him by the shoulders and turning him away from her. He craned his neck back to look at her. “My lady?”

She was frowning at his back, fingers tracing over his doublet. “After we left the duchess’s house, you leaned against her wall.”

“Yes. Why?”

Her fingers scrubbed against his shoulder blade, then she extended her hand to show him what she’d found. Paint. Half-dry black paint.

“It can’t be she.”

“It must be she.”