Still Star-Crossed (11 page)

“True, you’re quite poor.” Isabella tugged at her cloak cheerfully. “ ’Tis why I came as a turnip seller, you see. No one much cares whom they speak with.” She eyed Rosaline. “And what else was I to do, pray? They told me my oldest friend was too sick to leave her house and come and see me. Though thou look’st well enough to me. Is there some new plague sweeping Verona that alloweth the afflicted the strength to lean out the window haggling for vegetables?”

Rosaline could not meet her old friend’s gaze. It had been no hardship to ignore her uncle’s many summons, but refusing Isabella’s invitations had hurt much more. “I’m feeling better,” she offered weakly.

“Hmm.”

Rosaline sighed. “Please, Your Grace, come in and sit down, and I shall bring you something to eat. A turnip, perhaps? I find we have quite a few at the moment.”

They retired to the drawing room, the only part of the house that was remotely suitable for guests. Rosaline had furnished their rooms out of her small income, and though everything was clean and respectable, it was nothing to the finery they’d once had. Normally she did not mind living simply, but she had never expected to entertain royalty here. Rosaline hoped Isabella would not note the holes in the upholstery, nor how faded the curtains were.

“Your curtains are awfully ugly,” Isabella said. “Shall I send you some from the palace? Escalus would never miss them; he never goes anywhere but his chamber and his study.”

Rosaline laughed. Indeed, Isabella was as she ever was—perfectly honest, but so free of malice that it was impossible to take offense. Rosaline ought to be quite awed by her friend now, but Isabella was so much the same that it was all too easy to slip into their childhood familiarity. “I thank thee, but we shall manage. Royal turnips are enough unlooked-for honor for our humble house.”

“Aye, I warrant thou wouldst know why the turnips and I are here.” Isabella waved a note under her nose. Rosaline recognized
her own writing. Isabella read, “ ‘The ladies of House Tirimo are honored by the invitation by His Grace. Rosaline regrets that she is unable to attend the feast in honor of Princess Isabella on August the ninth, but Livia shall appear with pleasure.’ ”

Rosaline winced. Isabella’s sharp eyes were trained on her face. “Have I given some offense, Rosaline? Why refuse my invitation? I can see thou art as healthy as I am.”

Rosaline turned her face away. “Your brother told you not?”

“Thou knowest well how pompous he can be. If Escalus knew I was here, think’st thou he’d have allowed me to set foot outside without my proper retinue? Nay, and what has he to do with thy self-imposed solitude?”

“I pray you, do not press me on this subject. ’Tis a matter I prefer to speak not of.”

“Very well, but prithee, reconsider.” Isabella shifted and stretched. “The feast is tonight. And since I leave for Padua at dawn on the morrow, I had to come and see thee today to beg thee to come.”

“Padua? Wherefore? And why leave so soon?”

“My husband Don Pedro was to join me here, but the obstinate fellow sends word he plans to remain in Padua some weeks—his friend Sir Benedick wishes to make him godfather to his child.” Isabella sighed. “And hence I must leave my girlhood home for Padua and my royal husband’s friends, who are ever spying on one another in the bushes.”

Isabella’s tone was as light and mocking as ever, but her eyes softened when she spoke of Don Pedro. They were wed
less than two years—Verona gossip had only the bare bones of the tale, for their princess’s courtship had taken place in a distant city. Don Pedro had met and wooed Isabella in Sicilia, where she was living with the king and his family. Winning her heart had taken two weeks. Waiting for Escalus to visit Sicilia and give his permission had taken another three months. When Escalus sent his leave, Don Pedro wed her and carried her off to his lands. It was strange to see her old friend that way. Isabella was a married woman. Rosaline had never quite realized that before. Isabella had a husband, and a new life far from Verona.

Before she could think it through, Rosaline blurted, “Take me with you.”

“What?”

Rosaline’s heart was beating hard. She had been praying for an escape from this trap. At last she spied a way out. If she and Livia fled the city with the Princess of Arragon, surely Prince Escalus would let them go rather than demand their return and perhaps give offense to an allied sovereign. “I could be your lady-in-waiting, as my mother was to yours. Livia too. Forgive my forwardness, Your Majesty, but we would serve you well.”

“Of course I should love to have you both,” Isabella said. “But your home is here. Your family.”

“We shall survive the loss,” Rosaline said firmly.

Isabella frowned. “I know you two have come down in the world, but you’ve still your Capulet connections, and you are both great beauties besides. And ’tis certain my brother will help you, if you’ve need of it.”

Rosaline laughed. “Oh yes, ’tis quite certain. Still, I would go with you.”

Isabella gripped her hand. “Rosaline, what trouble dost thou face, that thou wouldst so quickly leave all that thou knowest?”

She opened her mouth to admit the truth, but even Isabella’s sauciness would not allow her to directly cross her brother. Rosaline closed her mouth again and shook her head.

“Very well,” Isabella said slowly. “If thou art certain this mysterious strife will not follow thee to my new kingdom, meet me at the city’s east gates at dawn tomorrow.”

Rosaline released a shaky breath. “Oh, thank you! Your Majesty, a thousand thanks.”

“Of course.” Isabella stood. “And now I must return to the palace, before my brother wonders where I have gone. I am sorry for the shortness of my visit.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Rosaline said. “I shall need the morning, anyway, to find a gown for your feast tonight.”

“Oh, aye? I thought thou wouldst not come.”

Rosaline smiled. “I suddenly feel like dancing.”

In Paris’s room, the torches were burnt down.

Livia coughed as she let their smoky glow guide her toward Paris’s bed. She’d spent the entire evening here after discovering him, and much of the following day, but no amount of time by his side could ever be enough. She’d
awoken before dawn today, and lay awake until it was a decent hour to leave the house, staring at the ceiling but seeing his flushed cheeks and long fingers twisting in hers, entreating. He was still delirious—what if he woke and recovered enough to leave before he’d met her properly? Worse, what if he died? If she could, she would have spent every hour by his side, but of course she could not do that without telling Rosaline the truth. Finally, she was able to rise and run to House Capulet. Unfortunately, her Paris was asleep. She took comfort in seeing that his wound was much better, though. She believed he would live.

His shallow, wheezing breath echoed through the small chamber. “Aunt,” Livia whispered. “Can we not extinguish these torches? I am sure the smoke does him no good.”

“We have tried,” her aunt replied. “The torches must remain.”

“But why?”

Her aunt gave her a sad smile. “I shall show thee. Go and sit with him.”

Puzzled, Livia went and sat on the side of Paris’s bed. He was still in a fitful but deep slumber. Her aunt walked to the corner of the room and took one of the torches from its bracket, plunging it into a bucket of water. There was another torch in the room, but instantly the shadows deepened.

“No—no!”

Livia gasped at Paris’s hoarse cry. He shot upward, his skin tense and hot when she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“There, there, good sir—”

“Light,” he begged her, eyes boring into hers as he seized her arm. “Please,
please
, light.”

“ ’Tis but a burnt-out torch, there is still light—”

His nails dug into her skin. “I am County Paris of Petrimio, brother to Sir Claudio, nephew to old Count Anselmo, kin to His Grace the Prince, husband to she who slumbers in this tomb, fair Juliet—”

“I know, I know who you are, shh—”

“Let not the torches burn out! Tell them where I lie bleeding! Leave me not in the dark!”

His voice had risen to a near scream, and Livia herself was almost crying as she tried in vain to soothe him. Oh, her poor sweet Paris.

Behind her, light bloomed. Lady Capulet had lit a fresh torch. “There, you see?” Livia whispered. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

Paris’s eyes flitted about the room in confusion. His hands loosened their grip on her and she laid a soothing palm along his cheek, brushing back his hair.

He looked at her in confusion. “I—I—” He half reached toward her face. “Lady, who are you?”

Before she could answer, his breathing began to ease, and his eyes slipped shut. Livia gently laid his outstretched hand on his chest as he fell once more to sleep. Livia’s aunt put a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll sleep now,” she said. “Come, let him rest.”

The corridor was cool after the stuffy sickroom. Lady Capulet walked to one of the windows and drew the curtains
a little. The sun was rising over Verona’s walls, beginning to tint the gray predawn stone a rosy hue. Livia watched her aunt in profile as she drew in a deep breath of cool fresh air, the breeze combing her dark hair back from her face. With her hair loose, in the simple gown she’d donned for the sickroom, Lady Capulet looked very like her daughter. Livia had the odd sensation that she
was
looking at Juliet—the Juliet who could have been, had she lived to adulthood. No wonder Paris so often confused them.

“ ’Tis ever so,” her aunt said, breaking the silence. “He must have light, even as he sleeps, or he thinks he’s once more lying before Juliet’s tomb, dying unregarded.”

Livia shivered. “Why did no one help him?”

“He was so grievously wounded they thought he’d been slain.” Lady Capulet passed a weary hand over her brow. “I was the last to leave Juliet’s tomb, and ’twas then I heard his moans.” She gave Livia a tired smile, squeezing her shoulder. “In any case, thou knowest now why the torches must stay lit. I must to bed—he’ll wake soon and need me.”

But Livia was not about to let this talkative mood of her aunt’s pass without taking advantage. “But the torches need not stay lit if we open the curtains. Aunt, why do you shroud his recovery in such secrecy? All Verona would rejoice to find he lived.”

Lady Capulet laughed. “Would they? Oh, child, how little thou knowest this feud of ours. Think’st thou they would let him live in peace?”

“Who?”

She shrugged. “Montagues? Capulets? Whoever chose to
make an enemy of him. He’s a part of it now. I cannot take the chance. Poor soul, our families have done enough to him.”

“But Paris is neither Montague nor Capulet.”

“Nor was Mercutio,” she pointed out. “Nor was thy father.”

“You can’t keep him here forever. When he recovers, the city will have to know.”

“If he likes,” Lady Capulet said, smiling.

“And if he does not?”

Her aunt turned to look at her. Her eyes searched Livia’s face. “You will not tell a soul?” she whispered. “Swear, niece. All is lost if you tell.”

“What is it?”

Her aunt’s gaze strayed back to the window. “When I wed Lord Capulet,” she said, “my father showered us with gifts. But one he gave to me only. A small and distant estate.” A fond smile touched her lips. “So small and so distant that my lord has quite forgotten it exists, but for all that it’s rich and beauteous.” Her hand gripped Livia’s. “When Paris is recovered, I intend to go there, and remove from Verona forever.”

Livia felt as though her eyes might pop out of her head. Fleeing her husband and her home, refusing to return? Women sometimes did such things—adulteresses, outcasts, those who’d fallen so far in Verona’s esteem they might as well abandon it—but not the matriarch of the Capulets. It would be the greatest scandal the city had seen. Ah, but then it dawned on her. Lady Capulet had already removed herself from the public eye. All Verona knew she’d been bedridden
with grief for weeks—none would be surprised, even her neglectful husband, if she left the city to recover in her childhood home. And none would be surprised when word returned that she had died there. Who would ever come to see if it was true?

“You mean to die yourself.”

“Thy wits are quick, dear niece.” Lady Capulet gave her a sad smile. “And Sir Paris’s lands are many, near and far. If he wishes, he shall vanish too, without Verona ever knowing that he yet lives. I owe him such, after his love for my daughter brought him to such disaster.”

Livia felt a great wave of pity for her aunt. What must it be like, to go from being one of the greatest ladies of Verona society to someone who’d lost so much she could depart nearly unnoticed? But surely, this was too much. “Aunt, the feud is over,” Livia said gently. “The prince, my uncle, and Lord Montague have all sworn it. I do not think noble Paris will want to abandon his home. Surely the prince would protect his kinsman from any further peril.”

Her aunt gave her that tired, sad smile. “There is more evil that walks this city than you see.”