7. Tune My Distresses

Silvia woke when the light of dawn shone in her eyes. The last shreds of a dimly recalled nightmare fled her mind, and, without thinking, she reached over to the other side of the bed, hoping for comfort in Valentine's arms. But Valentine was not beside her. In a flash, she remembered how she had berated him and driven him away to sleep elsewhere. Her ears burned with shame that she had behaved in a manner so ill befitting a young wife. But then she considered the other thing she had learned last night, and her shame deepened.

She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees as she considered her situation. She must not speak to Mercutio or Benvolio any more, no matter how sweetly they addressed her, for she wanted no part of their sin. She also had no wish to speak to Helena, for she felt that her friend had betrayed her as well, by silence. She could not seek out Valentine, and in any event, she suspected that he had lodged with Proteus that night. After some consideration, Silvia decided that no earthly friend could help her. At home in Milan, she might have gone to her old confessor, Friar Patrick, but she knew none of the Franciscans of Verona. Well, she had no need of men to intercede for her. She would go to church and speak directly to God.

This goal spurred her out of bed, where she washed her face and hands and summoned Ursula to help her dress. "My veil, Ursula," she commanded. "Today, I shall go to St. Peter's church, and I desire that thou shouldst attire me."

"Ay, my lady." Ursula curtsied, and hurried to fetch the veil.

It felt strange to walk through the streets of Verona alone, without Helena to accompany and guide her. But St. Peter's church, on whose steps Silvia had been married, was not far from the palace, and she found that her feet remembered the way. A ragged beggar woman sat at the door, and Silvia absently dropped a coin into her outstretched hand as she slipped inside.

The interior of the church was cool and surprisingly bright. Silvia dipped her fingers in the font of holy water and crossed herself absently while admiring the magnificent inlaid stone floor. A few old women sat on stone benches and prayed or conversed quietly. An enormous, gorgeously carved and painted crucifix hung over the altar. Nearby, Silvia spied someone that she knew. Lady Juliet Montague sat on one of the benches, sorting through a sheaf of small papers.

Silvia was loath to intrude upon another woman's business, and hung back for a moment. But her need for a companion was greater than her reticence, and she approached Juliet, giving a little cough to signal her presence.

Juliet looked up, and gave Silvia a broad, sweet smile. "Lady Silvia," she murmured, and patted the bench next to her. "Sit and be welcome."

Silvia sat down and glanced at the papers in Juliet's hands.

"Today is a visiting day in the convent," Juliet explained. "I will see my cousin, Sister Clemenza, and I have brought letters for her from my family." One escaped her fingers and fluttered to the floor. Silvia retrieved it and handed it back. Juliet looked at it and smiled.

"Ah, the greeting from my husband," she said. "He loved her once, didst thou know? It was before he loved me."

Silvia immediately thought of some of the romances she had read as a child, all the stories of young men pining after ladies imprisoned in convents. "Oh," she said with a little gasp. "And thou didst still agree to wed him, even knowing that he was hers?"

Juliet giggled. "He was never hers. We would laugh about it together, she and I. We were still girls then, and she was still my sweet cousin Rosaline, always cross because the Montague boy had dared to sigh too long beneath her window. She never cared for young men, and sometimes I think she took the veil to escape their attentions."

"How clever she was," Silvia sighed.

Juliet suddenly looked sharply interested. "Thou hast been wed but a few short weeks," she said. "Surely thou hast not yet tired of thy husband?"

"I know not. But . . . perhaps he has tired of me." That thought had not occurred to Silvia until it tumbled forth from her lips, and it distressed her so much that tears sprang to her eyes.

Juliet set her letters down and put a hand on Silvia's arm. "How may this be so?" she asked. "I have heard the tales of what he did for love of thee, and what thou didst do for love of him. I cannot bear to think that such love has vanished into the mists."

"Perhaps it was I who was mistaken," Silvia choked out. "Perhaps I wedded the Valentine I wished to see, and not the one who walks in the world. How can I compare to the temptations that surround him each day?"

"Speak plainly," Juliet said, "and tell me what has happened to thee. If I may, I would speak of this to my husband, for he counts himself a friend of Valentine, and may be able to influence him."

"Nay," Silvia shot back, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. "He has no need of more influence from men. Perhaps thy husband may tell thee of the influence that other men, closer to Valentine, may have over him."

Juliet thought for a moment. "Proteus?" she ventured.

"Ay, Proteus, but not him alone. I speak of Mercutio, my husband's own brother, and his . . . his . . . in a word, I know not how to speak of it. Surely thy husband doth know of it, for it seems that I, foolish one, was the only blind eye."

Juliet was silent for a moment, and Silvia wondered whether she had shocked her with her words. But then, an indulgent smile spread across Juliet's face, and she placed an arm around Silvia's quivering shoulders.

"Consort," she said. "That is the word that they chose. Oh, now wilt thou blush! Ay, I know of it, and my husband does as well." Her eyes sparkled with some sudden humor. "My husband knows of it because I told him."

This statement surprised Silvia enough that she forgot all about weeping. "Thou didst tell - then . . . thou didst know? But how? Didst thou not recoil?"

"Recoil? Nay. Perhaps I might have done so, had I been older and more experienced in the world. But I was fourteen, and so new to love that I had no thought for what was lawful and what was not."

Silvia pursed her lips as she considered that idea. She herself had not thought of love at fourteen, though she had thought of marriage, for that had been when Thurio had first begun to negotiate with the Duke of Milan for Silvia's hand. She was surprised to find that she was a little bit envious of the fourteen-year-old that she suspected Juliet had been.

"Benvolio is my husband's cousin," Juliet went on, "but they are so alike in manner that one might be forgiven for mistaking them for brothers. The glow of love shines alike from their eyes, and when I knew it in Romeo, it was not hard to see it in Benvolio, nor to discern where his affections lay."

Juliet's soft words had begun to calm Silvia, and she was able to think about the previous evening. There had indeed been love glowing in Benvolio's face along with his worry over Mercutio's exhaustion. More than anything else, Silvia wanted someone to look at her like that, as if she were the only thing in the world worth having. And if Valentine had ever been inclined to look at her thus, she had made sure that he would never do so again, by her harsh words to him. She let out a little sigh and wondered if she would start to weep again.

"And where do Valentine's affections lie?" she asked, her voice wobbling a little. "With his bride of but few weeks, or with the friend of his childhood? Which of us would he choose?"

Now it was Juliet who pursed her lips in puzzlement. "Choose? Why must he face such a choice? What has happened to thee, Silvia?"

Silvia looked away, not sure how to answer that.

"I saw thee wed," Juliet said after a moment. "I saw thee stand on the steps of this very church, bathed in the glow of the midday sun. And yet the sun seemed dim and cold beside the warmth in thy new husband's gaze. What has soured for thee and him?"

"I know not how to be a wife!" Silvia cried. "I have tried to please him, but he will have none of it, and Helena has called me a silly girl, and Valentine will always see Proteus. I know not how to love him as I ought, and surely he must go elsewhere now."

Juliet sighed. "Dear Silvia, I cannot soothe thy woes alone. Wilt thou accompany me to visit Clemenza? Though she no longer dwells in the world, her eye is keen and her heart is pure. Surely she may give thee some comfort."

"How may I do that? I know her not; I would not be permitted to see her."

"Oh, fear not," Juliet said with a smile. "Thou wilt be my cousin. The nun who guards the convent gate is old, and her eyes are growing dim. I doubt not but that she shall mistake thee for Helena."

Juliet's smile was so girlishly gleeful at the thought of this minor deception that Silvia could not resist the offer. And, had anyone pressed her, she would have admitted that she was more than a little curious. She had been educated in her father's home, and, though she had once attended a concert given by the choir of a convent in Milan, the sisters had been concealed behind a grille, and she had never actually seen one. Meeting Sister Clemenza would permit her to forget her woes for at least a little time, while she indulged her own curiosity.

Juliet rose and offered Silvia her hand. Silvia took it, wiped her eyes, and rearranged her veil, then followed Juliet to the convent.

The convent parlor reminded Silvia of the receiving room of the Innocents' Hospital. It was large, and its elegance lay largely in its simplicity. Nuns sat at small tables entertaining small groups of female relatives in quiet voices under the watchful eye of an older nun who served as chaperone. Juliet and Silvia sat down at an empty table. It was not long before a nun emerged from within and came to join them. She was young, and pretty beneath her wimple, and she smiled and clasped Juliet's hands. "Cousin," she said.

Juliet leaned close so that the chaperone sister would not hear. "This is Silvia," she said. "Though the sister at the door thinks she is Helena."

Sister Clemenza's eyes sparkled. "Sister Innocenza's eyes see more of Heaven than they do of earth."

"Silvia is but lately wedded to Valentine Rinuccini. Dost thou recall him?"

Sister Clemenza thought for a moment. "Ay. The brother of Mercutio. He was still a boy when I took the veil . . . has it been so long that he is married now?"

"Ay. Silvia is the bride he has brought from his sojourn at the court of Milan."

"The grace of God be upon thy marriage, Silvia," Sister Clemenza said.

Silvia sighed. "Perhaps less than thou wouldst think, Sister."

Juliet nudged her a little, and Sister Clemenza looked interested, so Silvia poured forth the whole tale, from the moment she realized that she had fallen in love with her father's shy new courtier to the moment when she had cast her husband forth from their marriage bed. It was a shameful tale, and her face burned at the thought of describing such sin to a nun, but Sister Clemenza listened intently, and if she thought less of Silvia, she did not say so. After Silvia had told her story, she sat and bowed her head, and the little group was silent for a moment.

"Well," Sister Clemenza said, a little louder than before, "I am glad that thou hast come to me, cousin, for I believe that I can tell thee the remedy for thy ailment."

Silvia started a little, for Sister Clemenza was not yet of that age when the minds of men and women might begin to wander.

Juliet leaned over and spoke low in Silvia's ear. "I believe Clemenza intends to give thee a message that the convent censors might not wish her to give, and she must therefore disguise her intent a little."

Meanwhile, Sister Clemenza had pulled a scrap of paper from her habit, and was busy writing a brief message on it. She babbled about herbs and how to boil them into some sort of syrup that promised to cure a mysterious female complaint, but Silvia could see that her words bore no relation to the message on the paper. When she had finished writing, Sister Clemenza slid the message across the table to Juliet.

"Convey this to Benvolio," she murmured. In a louder voice, she said to Silvia, "Take thou this remedy, and I shall say extra prayers tonight for thy well-being."

Silvia thanked her, and Juliet slid the packet of letters across the table. Sister Clemenza smiled as she tucked them away into her habit.

"I thank thee, Juliet. I shall read these later, at recreation."

A bell rang to signal that the visiting time had passed. Juliet tucked the message that Sister Clemenza had written into her sleeve, and all three women rose.

"Farewell, cousin," Juliet said. "I shall convey thy greetings to our family."

"Farewell," Silvia echoed.

"Go with God," Sister Clemenza said, then turned to Silvia. "I think that I shall not see thee again," she added in a low voice, "but I am glad to have met thee once."

Feeling oddly comforted, Silvia followed Juliet out of the convent.