or as good as. A husband gone away is no use to you, nor you to him.’
‘You speak from your heart?’ I asked her.
‘And from my soul too.’
Nurse’s hands had tended me all my life. I thought she loved me. Loved me like her Susan, whom she had tried to save through the forty days of plague, caring not for her own life, but her child’s.
But I was not her Susan. Nurse cared for me. But she cared more for herself, her comfortable life. I had been alone for all my life and never known it. My mother, my father, had not known me. Even Nurse had abandoned me.
There was only one who loved me. Somehow, some way, I had to get to Romeo in Mantua. Even the anger of the Montagues, which I would surely find there, could be no worse than what my family had done.
I closed my eyes. I prayed. And when I opened them, I knew what I must do. Friar Laurence would know where Romeo was. The good friar might even help me.
I turned to traitor Nurse. I said abruptly, ‘Well, you have comforted me marvellously much. Go and tell my mother that I’m going to Friar Laurence’s cell to make confession for having displeased my father.’
Would Nurse believe it?
Her face cleared. ‘I will, and this is wisely done!’
As if my heart would change as fast as hers. ‘Ring for the maids. And for fruit. I wish for fruit.’
‘Of course, my locket. Ah, your appetite is back at last. There’s preserved quinces in the kitchen, I saw them myself, and cherries, and an apple pie —’
‘Fresh fruit,’ I said. ‘Oranges or a pomegranate.’
‘But fresh fruit is indigestible on an empty stomach —’
‘Oranges,’ I insisted, and turned my back on her.
She left. I waited for the Joans to come to dress me and bring the oranges. With them would come a knife, a long sharp knife to cut the fruit.
If I could not get to Mantua, I would need a knife.
Chapter 17
I would not let them wash me. Let them think it was grief for Tybalt’s death. I wanted my husband’s scent to stay with me, to know it was there under my clothes.
Joan brought me a black petticoat, black overdress and grey sleeves. At first I thought it was to suit my mood, but then remembered our house was in mourning for Tybalt. I had never seen the clothes before. Perhaps they were my mother’s; or kept for just such a case as this and quickly altered during the night to make them fashionable. The hat had a loose veil to hide my eyes, my nose, red from so much crying.
None of the Joans spoke. Nor did Nurse — it was the longest time I had known her to go without saying a word. At last they were finished. Nurse picked up her cloak to come with me.
I shook my head. ‘I will go alone.’
‘But, my little dove —’
‘I’ll go alone.’
Nurse had given me a night with Romeo just as she had tempted me with honey cake when I was small, to stop me crying. Our love for each other was no honey cake, to give and then take back. Her heart was with her Susan, not with me. I had been a plaything, to fill the place Susan had left.
I pulled down my veil. Little Joanette darted to open the door curtains. As she held them back, she whispered, ‘I’m sorry about your cousin.’
‘Joanette!’ hissed Joan. A serving maid did not speak unless her mistress spoke to her first.
‘It’s no matter. Thank you, Joanette.’ I hesitated, then pulled a black ribbon from the trimming on my sleeve. ‘Wear this, with my thanks.’
Joanette curtseyed. ‘Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.’
A good child. I tried to imagine a future where I might take her into my own household, mine and Romeo’s. I held my love like a small warm ball against my heart. It was all I had to anchor me in the shattered tumble of what had been my home.
I had to get to Mantua.
My chair jogged and swayed above the cobblestones. The knife was cold inside my sleeve. Once I had planned to be the knife that would sever our families from their hate. Now I was being blown like a small leaf on the winds of
‘You speak from your heart?’ I asked her.
‘And from my soul too.’
Nurse’s hands had tended me all my life. I thought she loved me. Loved me like her Susan, whom she had tried to save through the forty days of plague, caring not for her own life, but her child’s.
But I was not her Susan. Nurse cared for me. But she cared more for herself, her comfortable life. I had been alone for all my life and never known it. My mother, my father, had not known me. Even Nurse had abandoned me.
There was only one who loved me. Somehow, some way, I had to get to Romeo in Mantua. Even the anger of the Montagues, which I would surely find there, could be no worse than what my family had done.
I closed my eyes. I prayed. And when I opened them, I knew what I must do. Friar Laurence would know where Romeo was. The good friar might even help me.
I turned to traitor Nurse. I said abruptly, ‘Well, you have comforted me marvellously much. Go and tell my mother that I’m going to Friar Laurence’s cell to make confession for having displeased my father.’
Would Nurse believe it?
Her face cleared. ‘I will, and this is wisely done!’
As if my heart would change as fast as hers. ‘Ring for the maids. And for fruit. I wish for fruit.’
‘Of course, my locket. Ah, your appetite is back at last. There’s preserved quinces in the kitchen, I saw them myself, and cherries, and an apple pie —’
‘Fresh fruit,’ I said. ‘Oranges or a pomegranate.’
‘But fresh fruit is indigestible on an empty stomach —’
‘Oranges,’ I insisted, and turned my back on her.
She left. I waited for the Joans to come to dress me and bring the oranges. With them would come a knife, a long sharp knife to cut the fruit.
If I could not get to Mantua, I would need a knife.
Chapter 17
I would not let them wash me. Let them think it was grief for Tybalt’s death. I wanted my husband’s scent to stay with me, to know it was there under my clothes.
Joan brought me a black petticoat, black overdress and grey sleeves. At first I thought it was to suit my mood, but then remembered our house was in mourning for Tybalt. I had never seen the clothes before. Perhaps they were my mother’s; or kept for just such a case as this and quickly altered during the night to make them fashionable. The hat had a loose veil to hide my eyes, my nose, red from so much crying.
None of the Joans spoke. Nor did Nurse — it was the longest time I had known her to go without saying a word. At last they were finished. Nurse picked up her cloak to come with me.
I shook my head. ‘I will go alone.’
‘But, my little dove —’
‘I’ll go alone.’
Nurse had given me a night with Romeo just as she had tempted me with honey cake when I was small, to stop me crying. Our love for each other was no honey cake, to give and then take back. Her heart was with her Susan, not with me. I had been a plaything, to fill the place Susan had left.
I pulled down my veil. Little Joanette darted to open the door curtains. As she held them back, she whispered, ‘I’m sorry about your cousin.’
‘Joanette!’ hissed Joan. A serving maid did not speak unless her mistress spoke to her first.
‘It’s no matter. Thank you, Joanette.’ I hesitated, then pulled a black ribbon from the trimming on my sleeve. ‘Wear this, with my thanks.’
Joanette curtseyed. ‘Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.’
A good child. I tried to imagine a future where I might take her into my own household, mine and Romeo’s. I held my love like a small warm ball against my heart. It was all I had to anchor me in the shattered tumble of what had been my home.
I had to get to Mantua.
My chair jogged and swayed above the cobblestones. The knife was cold inside my sleeve. Once I had planned to be the knife that would sever our families from their hate. Now I was being blown like a small leaf on the winds of
Similar Books
