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Olivia saw his face. His kind, surprisingly gentle face. And for a moment could no longer breathe. She blushed, terribly, then shook herself out of it. “And who might you be,” she asked.
His voice cracked. “Cesario, my lady,” he answered, “I am but a humble servant of the generous Duke Orsino.”
“The generous Duke Orsino,” Olivia repeated, unimpressed. She knew exactly what Orsino wanted with her. Her hand in marriage. Her, as the blushing bride. Her smiles and her respectable title. She had no doubt he fancied himself in love with her, but she could not, for the life of her, know where he got this idea. They had not had a single conversation, as far as she remembered. And Olivia had a good memory.
“Yes, my lady.” Cesario nodded, eager to make his point. “The Duke is unmatched in all respects. You could not hope for a better partner.”
Olivia sighed, internally. The Duke might be in want of a wife, but he was certainly not looking for a partner. Not someone who would be his equal in any way, but someone quietly obedient and unquestioning.
The man had the good sense to falter, sensing her discomfort. “My lady, Duke Orsino, my lord, your suitor, loves you. Such love must be recompensed.”
Must it, Olivia thought wearily. “How does he love me, your Duke?” She knew Cesario could have no fair reply. He must know, as well as Olivia, that the Duke did not truly know her, or her heart.
Still, he tries. He tries for his Duke. “With adorations, my lady. With groans that thunder love. With sighs—“
Olivia cut him off. She could not bear this anymore. “As gracious as a person your Duke may be; as noble, as kind, as virtuous, it will not affect me so. I cannot love him. He might have took his answer long ago.” And indeed, Orsino should have. He must have heard about Olivia’s promise—her vow to mourn her brother and her father. She was still in mourning, and one could not marry in mourning.
“If I did love you, in my lordship’s flame,” Cesario started, pausing as he spoke. “In your denial, I would find no sense. I would make a willow cabin to rest at your gate, and call upon my soul, and write loyal cantons of contemned love and sing them loudly even in the dead of night.”
“I would scream your name to the reverberate hills, and make the babbling gossip of the air cry out 'Olivia!' I would be desperate to hear you, to see you. I would thank my dreams every night, knowing I would see your face in them. And every morning, I would run to your doorstep, to your beautiful ivory gates, just in the hopes that you might be walking by, at that very moment. And if you were not, I would wait for you, conjuring up rhymes and jokes in the hopes that you might smile; maybe even laugh, if I was unexpectedly lucky.
His voice cracked. “Please, Olivia, my lady, if you cannot love me, then you must pity me.”
Olivia could only stare at the heady expression on his face. Could only gaze into the depths of his eyes, imagining such a reality. She had never felt this way toward a man never before. Never ached for his touch, or longed for his love.
But Cesario changed all that. His face, unexpectedly lovely. His voice, that cracked so beautifully. His smile—almost a work of art. And his words. By god, the words he spoke almost made Olivia believe in love. Believe in the universe, and of the cosmic forces she had doubted so strongly.
“What is your parentage?” Olivia whispered. She should not, she knew. Her vow was made. And it was true. She did not want to marry. His parents, his nobility, should not even matter. And she told herself it did not.
“Above my fortunes, but my state is well. I am a gentleman.”
Her sigh of relief was slight, but undeniable. While the gentleman did not seem to have noticed, she knew her vow was not as binding as it once was. It was not even as binding as it was a moment ago. Cesario, the apparent gentleman, was a surprise. A very welcome surprise.
Olivia took a deep breath, knowing she had to be cautious. “Go back to your master, Cesario. I cannot love him. Tell him that I do not wish to see any of his men on my property again.” She should have stopped here. She would have, she’s certain, had it been anyone but Cesario. But it was him, the dastardly gentleman. And she was unable to stop herself.
“Unless, perchance, you wish to come to me tomorrow, to tell me how he takes it,” she continued, throwing caution to the wind. Please, she thought.
She stopped, looking away from the man, fidgeting with her rings. She could not bear the look on his face—one of utter confusion. He left, unknowing and ignorant. Blind to her.
Gentlemen interested in Olivia were a dime a dozen; she could not cross the street without running into one. But Cesario apparently was not one of them. And Olivia had no idea how to explain that she wanted him, not his beloved Duke Orsino, but the simple gentleman Cesario.
And then it hit her—the solution was simple, the very ring she was fiddling with at the moment.
She could present it to Cesario. Malvolio could easily deliver it to him, if she pretended it was one of Duke Orsino’s courting gifts, presented by his servant.
And then Cesario would know. Surely he would know, once a ring has been delivered. He would know what Olivia feels for him—how his words make her feel. Surely they could not all be pretty lies tailored to make her fall for Orsino. His promises in how he would love her could not just exist in a vacuum. Surely he must reciprocate. And the ring would provide him with some insight into Olivia’s true feelings. At the very least, he might convince Orsino that she’s uninterested.
But she hoped for more. For Olivia had heard something in his words; something undeniable and true, as he confessed his love for her.
—-
Cesario stared at the ring, surprised. Surely Olivia did not mean it in the vein in which it could be interpreted. How could someone as beautiful as Olivia, someone almost certainly intended for the Duke, look twice at the ordinary gentleman Cesario. But what else could the ring mean—she must love Cesario.
The disguise, pretending to be Cesario, sometimes not even needing to pretend, was freeing, almost. Cesario thought of himself as Cesario, at times, and at other times as Viola. Still, in fewer times, he did not think about himself at all. His disguise was the devil’s blessing. It gave him a life, a job, a future. But he would never know love.
If someone discovered his secret—that he wasn’t always the man, that sometimes he was Viola, he would be ruined. He did not know what was stranger, that he often felt like a girl, or that sometimes he did not feel like one. No one could love him. Orsino did not even look twice at the man he played the role of, and while Olivia did, she could not possibly see the veracity of his character. And could not possibly continue to be attracted to Viola.
Olivia must know that Cesario was a role. But how could Cesario convince her. Even just talking to her nearly broke Viola and Cesario whole. He was not just Cesario around her, nor was she just Viola. She was both, and neither. Cesario was broken down to just her essence—her soul, she would say, had she been more religious. But if Olivia knew the truth, she would look away without a second glance backward. She would turn away from Cesario, from Viola, from the person who had just succeeded in winning her heart.
And Orsino, so kind, so generous to poor Cesario, would be heartbroken. Viola had heard his poems—poorly written, almost too dramatic, but earnest—Cesario would not do this to his master, and Viola could not do this to the man she could have loved. Cesario did not know what Olivia or Orsino saw when they looked at her. And Viola did not know who he was, besides how they looked to him.
Still, when she thought back to Olivia’s face, imagined her hands touching her cheek, her lips on hers, she could not help herself. Maybe Orsino was not really in love. Maybe it was nothing more than the Duke wanting the only lady who had refused him, and did not truly mean anything to him. Maybe Cesario, the gentleman, had a chance. A chance that Viola could never take. And Cesario knew one thing for certain—this disguise was the devil’s blessing. It left him second-guessing, wondering whether they concealed or revealed his soul.
“Oh, disguise, which of us is in control,” Viola whispered quietly, wondering. Just one more day, she tried to tell herself. One day to talk to Orsino—see how he responded to Olivia’s rejection. One day to see Olivia again, to know if she was truly in love. One day. And then Cesario would disappear; and Viola would, too.
This disguise trapped her and freed him. Her own identity was filled with as many contradictions as the truth, itself. Her longing for Olivia. Her heart caught in her chest. Orsino. And Cesario in the middle of all this, desperate to love and be loved. In the midst of all this, only one thing seemed clear. Olivia. She glowed as brightly as the stars themselves, and looked at Cesario as though she had never seen anyone like him. And Cesario could not deny that he was looking back—for neither Viola nor Cesario had seen anyone like Olivia before.
Viola felt alone. Sometimes it hit her that her brother was gone—lost, perhaps forever. She missed him. Their childhood. The games they played. The only reason she could be “successful” as Cesario was him—how she pretended to take his place when he wanted to sneak out. How sometimes she pretended to be him to leave her parents. Being a man was freeing. And it was all because of Sebastian.
Perhaps Cesario kept Sebastian alive—his living memory. Though she knew Cesario was not all pretend. He was more real than Viola expected. It did not change what she knew was true. Viola missed Sebastian. And in her pangs of misery, her mind turned to Olivia. Maybe Olivia could have loved Sebastian, like she thought she loved Cesario. But Viola was certain Olivia had no real feelings for her. How could she when she could never know the truth of her—that she was both Viola and Cesario.
Viola had learned of Olivia’s vows—that she would not marry for seven years, after the death of her brother. Maybe that was the unspoken connection that lay between them. But Viola felt there was so much more to it. To Olivia. Truth be told, Viola had not seen understood when she had first learned of Olivia’s vows. They felt avoidant, and far too harsh. Like petty melancholy. Too emotional for a woman as wise as Olivia.
But now Viola’s grief was overpowering her. She finally understood Olivia’s pain, just for a moment. Viola was no longer just Viola. She was no longer just the daughter of her father’s house, but all the sons, too. She was everyone in her family who had ever lived. She contained multitudes, but could no longer be contained; could no longer be restrained, especially by something as petty as society.
Viola sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief. It bound her and freed her. Perhaps it could serve as a binding force to Olivia. She already knew Orsino could not understand her grief—he was as spoiled as a man could be. He did not understand the pains of her reality. Could not. Not to say he was not a good man. But he was not the right one for her. He could not see the truth of Viola. But Olivia could. She had somehow understood the core of her. Her essence. Both Cesario and Viola.
—-
Olivia was waiting for a catalyst. She felt she had always been waiting for something to change. But maybe she was supposed to be the change. Rather than waiting for Cesario to come to her, she could find him. Seduce him. Make him fall in love with her, as surely as she had fallen in love with him.
He could not reject her. Would not. She hoped. He was sweet. And the words he spoke made Olivia feel as though there was a fire rising up inside her. She could already imagine his delicate fingers, as they caressed her cheek. No. She had to try, at the very least.
She could approach him, veiled in the protective cover of the night. Could ask him to just look at her, and say yes, for once. To cease all talk of his master, and make good on the undeniable promises of his words. To marry her. He might not have been nobility, but he was a gentleman. That was respectable enough, was it not?
And even if it was not, who could oppose their union. Who was even left—her father and brother had both left her, and she has to make sure Cesario stays. She would do anything for it. Sir Toby is the last of her family. And Olivia knew the drunkard could not care less, would not even flinch, as much as he argued in favour of Sir Andrew. The only thing Toby cared for is if the estate would continue to provide for him—his liquor and his food. And surely Olivia could guarantee that.
That settled it, she told herself. At night, she would go to him. To Cesario, and confess her soul. She would tell him everything he made her feel—things she did not even know she had the capacity of feeling for a man. She would tell him to run away with her; to elope. To stay with her forever, and make her happy in the way only he can. With his words, his affection and his heart.
She already gave him a ring, but she would give him hundreds. She would do anything for Cesario. Give him anything his heart desires. Including her, she hopes, quietly, as she prepares to leave. Including her.