O, Juliet Read Online Free PDF Page B

blessed.”
    I thought I might swoon and had to take a step backward. But with a small smile, the gentleman took one forward.
    It was a bold challenge and though he had not touched me, a strong but pleasant shock reverberated through my body. I strove to remain calm.
    “Who are you?” I said. “Why do I not know you?”
    “I have been in Padua. At university. Before that, I lived with my uncles in Verona for several years.” Pain flickered across his features then. “There were many deaths in my family—all my elder brothers, and my sisters. . . .” He shook his head. “The family business here in Florence will one day be mine.”
    “I lost all my brothers, too,” I said.
    Both of us looked down at our feet, yet too unfamiliar to share that black misery.
    “And your name?” I did ask.
    He grinned, then closed his eyes, as though trying to remember a particular line. “ ‘Names follow from the things they name, as the saying goes. . . .’” He hesitated and I jumped in, so we spoke together in unison, from chapter thirteen:
    “ ‘Names are the consequences of things.’ ”
    We both smiled, utterly pleased with ourselves.
    “So I am the consequence of my father’s and mother’s ‘thing’?” I asked.
    His laugh was bawdy this time. “I imagine your father would not approve of your speaking of his ‘thing.’ ”
    “Come, tell me your name,” I begged.
    “Romeo,” he said. “And yours?”
    “Juliet.”
    “Ju-li-et. It lies gently on the tongue.”
    “And your family’s name?”
    He spun suddenly on his heel and with a flourish bowed low before me.
    What matter is my name if my mind has shattered
in a thousand pieces and my heart,
where the soul resides, has grown
to the size of the sun?
    My brow furrowed. “That is not Dante. Or if it is, I cannot place it.”
    He pressed his lips tightly together, then spoke. “It is my own verse.”
    “You’re a poet!”
    “That I would never claim.”
    “Why? They were pretty words, carefully composed. I had to think a moment. They could have been Dante’s.”
    “You are far too kind, Lady Juliet.” His eyes narrowed. “Indeed, I think you mock me.”
    “No, no! Romeo, I am an honest woman. There is much I cannot claim for myself. But straight talking is one that I proudly do. And when it comes to poetry, sir, I fancy myself of strong and fair opinion. And I tell you your verse was pleasant to the ear.”
    He sighed happily.
    “Here, listen to mine,” I said.
    Am I mad to judge a man by the shape of his hand,
square and strong, the way he holds my face so tender in his
palm.
Warm, enchanted fingertips that magic make upon my soul,
All of that, all of that, in the shape of a hand.
    Romeo fixed me with a blank gaze.
    “ You wrote that?”
    “I did. What’s wrong with it?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Then why do you stand there like a stag just struck by an arrow?”
    “Women . . . ,” he began, but could not finish.
    “Women do not write poetry?” I finished for him. I bristled, insulted, and started turning away.
    “No, please, Juliet!”
    He grasped my hand in both of his, not unaware of his presumptuousness. I could not deny that despite my strong words, his touch had, alarmingly, turned me soft inside. Yielding.
    “Forgive me. I have never known a woman poet. The verse was . . . brilliant. And the verse was yours .”
    “Brilliant?”
    “I thought it so. Dante, were he here in this garden, would agree.”
    I gently released myself from his grip, aware that pulling away was what I wished least to do. “You teased me before,” I said, surprised to hear my voice grow low and husky. “You tease me again.”
    He shook his head. “Who has read your poems?”
    “Only my friend Lucrezia.”
    “Others should read your work.”
    “Oh no.That would cause a world of unhappiness.” I fell silent, suddenly miserable. “My future husband would never approve.”
    Romeo’s features crumpled, and a certain light faded from his eyes. I