Work Text:
Romy is for Remembrance
Romy paused outside the chamber, pitcher in one hand, basin in the other, and a cloth draped over one arm. He might not be awake yet. That would be bad, because Laurence was one of the best doctors in Verona, and the others didn’t seem to know what to do, post-exorcism syndrome being a relatively rare ailment. On the other hand, if he was still unconscious, that would mean she didn’t have to talk to him just yet, and she was still figuring out what to do. She certainly didn’t want to have a repeat of what happened with Roscoe.
Strictly speaking, she hadn’t exactly gone to Roscoe and told him how she felt face to face. She’d written a lot of embarrassing poetry. One night after she was supposed to have gone to bed, she lit a candle, tiptoed across to the sitting room, and began reading it aloud. Soon she’d forgotten where she was and gotten carried away, floating around the room and spinning while proclaiming her emotions to a completely imaginary Roscoe, who was much better than the actual person. She ended with a dramatic “take all myself!”, forgetting:
- That the room looked out on the street
- That the window was open
- That she was completely visible in the candlelight.
Roscoe, who had been on his way home from a party, couldn’t help but overhear her, and responded with, “uh….no?” She could hear drunken snorting and cackling down in the street.
“Wooo, lady, lean down a little. I didn’t get the full view!”
“Refuse him, baby! I’ll doff MY name! I’ll be anyone you want!”
The applause was probably sarcastic. The vomiting sounds probably weren’t, and she didn’t think they had anything to do with her poetry, but still. She slammed the window shut, ran back to bed, pulled the bed curtains closed, and sobbed, hunched in a ball with her head on her knees. She’d cried for hours. Humiliation didn’t begin to cover how she felt.
She’d waited until just before sunrise, when she knew Laurence would be at the church, opening the doors, lighting the candles, making things ready for the first service of the day. A snickering altar boy took over candle duty as Laurence bustled her into the sacristy. She’d cried big, ugly, snotty tears into his long black robes as she told him the whole story, Laurence patting her head awkwardly.
Then he’d said, “Roscoe. Really, Romy? Really? He is a total…well, we’re in church, but still, Romy, he’s an idiot. He’s not even a nice idiot. Or a good-looking idiot, but what would I know?” He paused. “Maybe a well-dressed idiot, but I wouldn’t know anything about that, either.”
The snide tone had acted like a dash of cold water in her face. “You think I fell in love with a suit of clothes?”
“You think you fell in love at all? At least…well, I hope not.” He handed her a towel.
She blew her nose. There was a lot of wet goo left in the towel, and she knew she looked terrible. “You’re so emotionally mature, Doctor Laurence,” she snapped. “No, you would never fall in love with a suit of clothes. What would you do?”
His eyes widened, and then he grabbed the towel and dropped the sodden thing into a basket. “Not that. I’d wait for someone…worthwhile. Someone I’d had a chance to know. Not that it’s an issue—you know that—but I wouldn’t just blurt everything out.” He took a deep breath and turned to face her, crossing his arms and scowling. “You wear your heart on your sleeve. Your face is an open book. People take advantage. You shouldn’t let them. And I hate seeing you get hurt.”
“I do not wear my heart on my sleeve! And Roscoe’s not just a suit of clothes!”
“Spare me,” he snarled. A little old lady wearing a black veil poked her head around the door, looking alarmed. “It’s nothing, Signora Donizetti,” he called with forced cheerfulness, waving at her. “Everything’s fine. Be there in a minute. Dominus vobiscum, and…yeah.” He trailed off awkwardly as the little old lady retreated. “Look. This is a bad time.”
“I’m going home,” she said, marching to the door.
He caught her hand. “Oh, no, you’re not,” he said, and spun her back around. “Verona isn’t safe. You sit down, right here, and I’ll walk you home as soon as I get a chance.” He stalked off irritably, the tails of his long coat flapping. When he’d walked her home, which really hadn’t been that much later, he’d shoved a packet of herbs into her hands.
“Have your maid make it into a tea. It’s got chamomile in it. Then take a nap. And next time,” he added, emphasizing the words by knocking on her forehead, “think.”
They had a lot of history, and that incident wasn’t that long ago. She didn’t know where to begin, but she definitely wasn’t going to start blurting things out. Blurting was bad. What if he cared about her, but not in the way she wanted him to? Being rejected by Roscoe had hurt her pride. Being rejected by Laurence would just hurt.
Bellona would have known what to do, but the thought of Bellona hurt even more. Sweet Bellona, who had teased her about Laurence, and who would never tease her again. Horrible images flashed through her mind, and she pushed them away. No. Bellona loved her. She’d want to help. She was the one who’d woken her up to her own feelings.
“Perhaps he’ll tell you himself… some day.”
She might be an idiot about love, but Bellona certainly had not been. She was going to do what Bellona would do. She would march right in there, and then she’d make Laurence tell her how he felt first, because she wasn’t that big of an idiot. She squared her shoulders, keeping a firm grip on the pitcher and basin, and pushed her way through the door.
“What time is it?” Laurence said groggily, trying to sit up.
“Don’t you mean ‘what day is it?’” she replied, placing the pitcher and basin carefully on a side table and pouring some of the water into a glass. “Monday. You’ve been here since early Thursday morning.”
“Monday?” he gasped. “I’ve missed so much work. There’s the church, and there’s my rounds, and…” He struggled to get out of bed. It was second nature for her to sit on his long legs. “Ouch!”
“You are not going anywhere,” she said calmly. He’s in your bed, and you’re sitting on him. There is nothing weird about this at all. “You are not the only doctor in Verona,” she reminded him. “There are others who are fully qualified, which you aren’t. They’ve been happy to take over for you. Your father has been here, and he’s been very worried. He said that you weren’t even to consider picking up the paperwork and the church duties until you were fully recovered. He also said to remind you that you’ve had to be absent for a few days recently anyway, so this is no different. What did he mean by that?”
“You’re hurting my shins, squirrel,” he responded, changing the subject and trying to push her off.
“I weigh a lot more than a squirrel,” Romy replied with satisfaction, “and the squirrel is staying right where she is until you promise not to try to get up.”
Laurence rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he conceded. “But you have to leave now. I’m not even fully dressed.”
“Too late,” she said, sliding off his legs and pulling a small chair next to the bed. “I’ve been here, on and off, for days,” she added, sitting down. Besides, you’ve seen me asleep, so it’s only fair. It’s amazing the way you don’t drool in your sleep.”
In fact, Laurence had looked more dead than asleep. He’d lain there, barely moving, and he had never been alone for more than a few minutes. The bishop had been there, looking haggard and even older than he was; Romy’s father had sat there, muttering that he had not taken Laurence out of a plague hospital for this, and that he wasn’t going to stand for it; and her maid had had to force her away for sleep and meals.
Pulling herself together, she handed him the glass. “Here,” she said. “Drink this. It’s from the garden spring,” she added, as he looked at it dubiously. “It’s perfectly safe.” She took the opportunity to feel his forehead, resisting the temptation to brush his hair out of his eyes. “No fever,” she noted. “That’s good.”
He snorted. “You’re an expert all of a sudden?”
“I don’t have to be,” she retorted. “The doctors told us what to look for. Besides,” she added, rising, turning around and pouring water into the basin, so he couldn’t see her face, “my best friend is a doctor. I couldn’t help picking up a few things.”
Silence, except for the rustling of the sheets. Had she hinted too much or too little? Say anything, Laurence, she pleaded internally. Say anything at all. Then her eye fell on the basin. That, at least, would re-start the conversation.
As it turned out, Laurence objected to having a cloth soaked in cold water slapped on his face. “What was that for?”
“Oops,” she said untruthfully. “I must have forgotten to wring it out.”
He raised the cloth up over one eye. “You did that on purpose, you…oh, you,” he finished, in a more affectionate tone. “Just wring that out and hand it back. It did feel good.”
She wrung out the cloth and he placed it on the back of his neck. She dreaded what would happen next.
“What,” he said stonily, “happened to my hair? There was hair back there. Now there is not. I want an explanation for this.”
She pulled out the pillows and plumped them one by one, with an innocent expression on her face. “Oh, that was the doctors,” she lied. “You know how they cut the hair off a person running a high fever. You’re lucky they didn’t shave your head. Father put his foot down.” And besides, she thought, that was long overdue.
“I owe him a lot more than my hair,” he said solemnly, “and it was very considerate of him to bring me here. Will you please thank him for me until I can do it in person?”
“Of course,” she promised.
“I don’t remember a lot about what happened after we were in the church,” he said, settling one of the pillows behind his back so he could sit up. “I don’t even remember all of what happened.”
“There was a demon. Julius speared it, but he couldn’t have done that without your exorcising it. You prayed like mad. It was very macho in a clerical sort of way.”
He blushed and averted his gaze. “About that,” he said. “I have to confess to something.”
Is this it?
“I had the wrong motivations,” he said, picking at the coverlet.
“That doesn’t matter,” she said between her teeth, raising a pillow to smack him with it and stopping herself at the last minute.
He scowled. “Yes, it does. I knew how to deal with the demon. I could have asked Julius to help sooner, but I didn’t. And when it came down to it, I didn’t do it for God, or Verona. I did it for you. That was wrong.”
It wasn’t wrong, Laurence, she thought, remembering his hand in hers. It was wonderful. “Verona thinks you’re a hero.”
“Verona’s wrong. I did nothing more than what I should have. Still,” he added more cheerfully, “perhaps I was meant to have the wrong motivation, because the demon is gone, and everything can get back to what it’s supposed to be.”
Air, she thought. I need air. She went to the window that looked out over the garden, and inhaled, feeling calmer with every sweet-scented breath. “And what,” she asked, as casually as she could, “is it supposed to be?”
“You know,” came the voice from the bed.
She turned back to see Laurence looking straight ahead but seeing something far away. “I could have been just some village boy who died of plague. I helped bury the other boys, and my mother, and an old lady, and the baby, all on the same day. No matter what the brothers did or how much I tried to help, they all died. And then, heaven sent your father, who decided that there was something more to me, and he took me to the bishop of Verona. I’ve been given everything: a home, kindness, and as many books as I could ever want. Now I’m a doctor. And my father has plans.”
Oh, yes, Romy thought, the plans. Positions in the church weren’t supposed to be influenced by patronage, but they were all the time. It was no great secret that the virtuous and now frail Bishop of Verona expected that his adopted son would be elected as the next bishop. Laurence’s future was clearly marked out. He would be one of the youngest bishops Verona had ever had, and perhaps, in time, a Cardinal.
Not if Romy had anything to say about it.
“Yes, I know,” she said, and matter-of-factly began tidying up the basin and the cloth. “Somehow, though, you haven’t done anything about it. It’s made things very weird. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were putting it off. You haven’t eaten in days, so I’m going down to the kitchens to get some broth. You ought to be able to manage that.”
Before she could put her hand on the doorknob, he said, “Wait. Don’t go. Did, um…did anyone find my medical kit? I would hate to lose that.”
“Right here,” she said, lifting a leather satchel. It smelled of herbs, and inside, things rustled and clinked.
“Could you bring it over here?”
She came back to the bed and put it next to him. He was so absorbed in unlatching it and checking what was inside that he didn’t even notice that she was now sitting, not on the chair next to the bed, but on the bed itself. Soon she forgot, too, because the contents were so interesting.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a purple flask.
“That,” he said, smugly showing it to her, “is something I came up with myself. Hopefully we’ll never have to use it again.”
She took the flask from him. The liquid inside was thick and heavy. It smelled like grapes, and she had the feeling it would also be sticky. “Is this what you gave to Julius?”
“Mm-hm,” he said, deep in the contents of the bag and not really paying attention.
“Julius said it had been tested. What did he mean?”
He pulled his focus away from the bag. “Well, obviously it had to be tested on someone,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t going to just hand it to Julius and risk killing him. I tried it out—”
“You WHAT?” she shrieked.
“ –tried it out,” he went on, “and it was completely non-fatal. Tastes awful, though.”
“Laurence,” she said, gritting her teeth, “you’d better get better fast, because the second you do, I am going to kill you. What’s this?” she continued, picking up a smaller bottle sealed with wax.
“Give that back. It’s scorpion venom. The really interesting thing about herbs,” he enthused, now completely forgetting that he was in Romy’s bed and wearing only a nightshirt, “is that the same herb can heal you or kill you. It’s all in what part of the plant and what you do with it.”
“One thing that’s also true about herbs,” she replied briskly, “is that they make a mess. It looks like it snowed green in here. We’re going to have to take the coverlet outside and shake it, and we’re going to have to be careful, because some of it might be toxic. And this,” she added, plucking a sprig from the nightstand, “came out of your shirt…or so Father said,” she added, at Laurence’s startled expression. “Giacomo wanted to throw it away, but Father stopped him. He said that maybe it was some sort of rare herb with important supernatural properties, or you wouldn’t be wearing it next to your heart like that. So he made Giacomo put it aside and saved it.” She showed it to him, and after hesitating briefly, he shook his head.
“Your father doesn’t get down to the kitchen very often, does he? This is rosemary. He probably saw it a few hours later on his plate at dinner and didn’t even recognize it. It’s so common that it’s practically a weed. Oh, well,” he said, shrugging.
She gave it back to him, and their hands brushed briefly. “If it’s so common, why keep it that close?”
He avoided her eyes. “Rosemary is special in some ways. It’s an evergreen, and it will grow forever if you let it. It’s not like roses. Rosemary doesn’t wither, doesn’t lose its scent or strength, and doesn’t change. That’s why we say, ‘rosemary is for remembrance.’ It’s why I always have some, Ro—I mean, rosemary—for remembrance. It’s not very exciting, but I wish you would keep it.”
That’s Laurence, she thought, as she took it back. Season to season, year to year, never fading, always faithful, always the same.
She must have knitted her brows, because he said, “penny for your thoughts?” and raised his fingers.
She grabbed his hand and stopped him. “No,” she said. “Don’t hit, don’t tap: even the patting gets old. It scrambles my brains, and yes, I have some. Not of your caliber, but I do.”
He looked so hurt that she saw she’d gone too far in her teasing.
“Ruffling is all right,” she conceded. “I’d even miss the patting. You’ve been doing it for years. But Laurence,” she said, placing his hand on her cheek, “isn’t this what you mean?”
“Yes,” and his voice came out husky. “That’s what I meant. You’ve always had a perfect face, like a doll.”
“I’m not a doll,” she snapped, “and I’m not a little girl.”
“I know!” he said, hurriedly withdrawing his hand. “You’re not a little girl, or a doll, or a pigeon. Maybe you’re an attack squirrel. Just don’t bite, ok?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, sagging, wishing she hadn’t lashed out, and that he’d left his hand where it was. “I’m so tired, and I’ve been so worried.”
“Aw,” he said, with the ghost of a smirk. “You were worried about me.”
“You would have been worried, too. I thought you might…and now, you’re going to be all right, and you still think I’m a child, and I just want to scream. Remember when Bellona said we couldn’t be together for two minutes without arguing? And Bellona said…she said…”
She winced, squeezing her eyes shut. Blood on her hands, blood splattering her ball gown, blonde hair stiffening in crimson clumps, a dear face slowly losing color…this time she couldn’t shove the thoughts away. She didn’t deserve to have Laurence, or to be happy. She didn’t deserve to be alive. Hot tears welled under her eyelids and threatened to spill over, which was the last thing she wanted. She was Lady Romy Montague. She didn’t want him to comfort her as though she were still a child.
She felt his thumb brush the tears away in an all-too-familiar gesture. She’d lost.
“What?” he said gently. “What did Bellona say?”
Romy took a deep breath, forcing herself to be calm, opening her eyes and looking straight into his gray ones. “She said, ‘perhaps he’ll tell you himself someday.’”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Tell you what?”
“She didn’t say,” Romy admitted. “I think she expected that I would know…or that you would.”
“Tell you that I love you?”
“I think that’s what she meant.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can.”
She felt nothing. The pain would come later.
“It would take a very long time,” he added, interlacing his fingers with hers and holding her hands. “But perhaps I could start.”
Lord Montague heard murmuring coming from his only daughter’s bedroom. He quietly moved closer, and to his astonishment, he heard Laurence, still deep into explaining exactly how much he loved Romy and for how long, and the various ways in which he’d tried to talk himself out of it and failed, and the specific annoying but dear things he loved about her, while Romy was wishing very much that he would shut up and kiss her. He burst through the door.
“Ah ha, priestling! Is this the way it is? You abuse my hospitality, you betray my trust, you bewitch my child and steal her heart? Nay, lad,” he said, chuckling, as a distressed Laurence tried to leap from the bed and became entangled in the sheets and as his daughter opened her mouth to remonstrate with him, “I was joking. I know you, and you have my blessing. Who wouldn’t want a demonslayer for a son-in-law?”
His daughter flung her arms around his neck, bursting into happy tears. “You are the best father in the world!”
“Ah, well,” he said, looking pleased.
“But, but my Lord,” said Laurence, trying to disentangle himself, “are you sure? You know I’m not…well, just to begin with, I’m not a nobleman. Wouldn’t you prefer someone else of noble blood, like the County Paris, or maybe Julius Capulet? It would fix the feud.”
“Ugh, no,” said Lord Montague, gagging at the thought. “We may be trying to keep the peace now, but he’s still a Capulet. I have limits. As for Paris, I have my doubts that he is very bright. No, I’m well satisfied. The Church may be losing a son, but I gain one, which seems very fair. I’ll go and speak to the Bishop tomorrow.”
He left just in time, as his daughter had found a very effective way to shut Laurence up.