Short Story: Before Juliet
Rays of light reflect off my writing desk, making it glisten. I trace them with my fingers. Such a beautiful day is not meant to be spent indoors. I scan my bookshelf. Dante. Sophocles. Aristotle. Petrarch. Montaigne. Ovid. Far too much choice. Father would instruct me to read Sophocles, but I would much rather delve into the poetics of Petrarch. As I make my selection, my dress catches on some letters placed disorderedly on my bedside table. I sigh as I pick them up and scatter them over my bed. The handwriting is scarcely legible, childish and chaotic. He is so very persistent. I straighten my white silk dress, tighten the dusty pink ribbon around my waist, and open the door. ‘O Miss Rosaline!’ The maid is standing outside, her hand raised and about to knock. ‘Annie, you startled me. I am going to the garden for some fresh air. Please let me know when luncheon is ready.’ I start to descend the stairs. ‘I was just coming to give you this letter, Miss. He was adamant that -’ ‘Very well. The rest are on my bed, I’ll organise them later,’ I say. I sense her disapproval of my indifference, but she does not understand. The letters were endearing at first, charming even, but now I receive one daily. It is suffocating.
Sunshine dances on my face and the sweet scent of honeysuckle surrounds me as I stroll through the garden. I breathe deeply and dispel him from my thoughts, settling under a willow tree which provides me with shade and protection so I may focus on my reading. ‘If no love is, O God, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he?’ I read aloud to myself, tasting every syllable. ‘If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo?’ a voice chimes in. Startled, I jump up and raise the book above my head, ready to hurtle towards the intruder. A large hand sweeps aside the leaves and a figure appears, blocking out the sun. ‘O Romeo! Romeo, you scared me. I have told you not to climb over the wall. Why won’t you listen?’ I drop my book and sit back down against the willow’s trunk. ‘O darling Rosaline, I did not mean to frighten you. Cupid’s bow must have hit me fresh again this morning for I could not keep away. Perhaps a kiss will put you at ease?’ He kneels beside me and places his finger on my chin, steering my head in his direction. I pick up my book and press it so forcefully against his chest that he topples over backwards. He stares at me, the shocked expression of an owl. I reach forwards to collect some pages which have fallen out of the book but he seizes my hand. I snatch it away. ‘Won’t you stop Romeo? Why must you be like this? Can’t you leave me in peace?’ I plead. ‘But Rosaline, I am so devoted to you. I have no other religion but you. No one could ever, ever, compare to you. You are what I think about, night and day, forever I am thinking about you,’ he exclaims. ‘However, I do not think of you, Romeo. Now leave before -’ ‘But I am certain that you do my angel, you must confess. I love you. We will be together, we will.’ I feel him edging closer to me. The intensity of his words is stifling. I turn away from him and brush my hair onto one shoulder, revealing my neck. An invitation, he believes, to kiss it. His lips shock me and I leap up, shrieking, ‘But you – you are a Montague, and I a Capulet, we could never -’ ‘No feud could ever keep me from you Rosaline. I would do anything for you, be anything for you, kill anyone -’ ‘No! I don’t want that. I’ve made a vow, O yes, a sacred vow.’ I stare directly into his eyes and witness his heart as it sinks. ‘And whom is it you have made this vow to?’ Romeo’s hand grips his sword, his fingers itch. ‘A vow of chastity. Like the great goddess Diana, I will be virtuous and pure for the entirety of my life,’ I declare. ‘How witty you are my beautiful rose, though your thorns do offend me. You can tell me more of this when we meet this evening,’ he laughs, walking hastily towards the stone wall in an attempt to avoid my response. ‘You don’t believe me Romeo? O how deadly serious I am, do not vex me. I am with my uncle this evening, you will have to find someone else to pester. Begone, I never want to see you again.’ I wait for a reply from beyond the wall but I only hear the sound of his horse’s hooves as he races away. The doors open into the grand hall and instantly I feel the pressure of people’s eyes upon me. Admiration? No, the atmosphere is tainted with hostility. Their masks cannot conceal such harsh expressions of judgement. What is it that they have heard? My brothers mentioned that Romeo had been pining for me under the sycamore trees this afternoon… Was I too impulsive in my rejection of him? It was a mistake to lie, but what else could I have done? My father offers to assist me down the staircase but I refuse, waving for him to go on without me. I watch as my family greet my uncle, jeering and toasting to their happiness with glasses full of ruby red wine. I catch sight of my cousin, her long white dress floats around her like a cloud as she dances gracefully to greet everyone. A voice diverts my attention. ‘Benvolio, let us leave, she must be at home for she is not with her family.’ Two men in blue masks wrestle near the doors behind me. I stare at them. One’s hair is jet black and slightly curled, the other’s blonde and untidy. Our eyes meet and the blonde man smiles as he rushes to my side. ‘O Rosaline, your mask covers far too much of your beautiful face.’ He removes it and clutches it tightly in his hand. ‘Romeo, what are you doing here? You must leave before my uncle sees you, this way.’ I grasp his wrist but he stands still like a sculpture, his eyes fixed on something below. ‘Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, for I never saw true beauty till this night,’ he whispers. I follow his gaze. My cousin. Juliet. I turn back to him but he is gone. My mask lies abandoned at the top of the staircase. I observe as he greets her, their palms touch and she beams brightly. O I pity her. Be careful sweet Juliet, you are still so young, don’t let his passion and wily words entice you. How besotted he is with her, as he was with me only moments ago. Do I not still float in your mind Romeo? Have not the tears you shed for me yet dried upon your cheek? Does your pining not still ring in the ears of all the people you doth know? It is true, what they say, young men’s love lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.