Love's Labour's Won, Part 3
Aug. 28th, 2010 08:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_t_rainParts 1 and 2 are here.
Act III: As Love Is Full of Unbefitting Strains
“Let’s walk in the cloister,” said Katharine. “Few people come there at this hour; the nuns are at services, and my lady and Maria are reading about the lives of the virgin martyrs.”
Although undoubtedly instructive, this course of reading did not seem to appeal to Rosaline and Katharine; the ladies looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
“You ought not to disparage the virgin martyrs,” said Dumaine solemnly, determined to maintain his character as an elderly nun. “‘Tis a holy death for those that are called to it – though, for my part, I am glad that I was never called to martyrdom, and for the sake of the human race, it is well that not all are called to virginity.”
Rosaline bit her lip to keep from giggling. “You ought to be on the stage, my lord. Sister, I mean.”
The cloister was a pretty little garden, surrounded on all sides by a covered walk and a hedge of rosebushes. Berowne plucked a red rosebud and offered it to Rosaline; she pinned it to the inside of her cloak.
“It would look well in your hair.”
“I dare not wear it so openly. No, you must not kiss me – what if someone should look out and see me kissing a nun? Oh, you’ve pricked your finger, love; let me draw the thorn out.”
“A lovely rose ought not to be guarded so with thorns.”
“It is in the nature of roses.” Rosaline bandaged Berowne’s finger with her handkerchief, which struck him as quite excessive for a wound no larger than a pinprick, but he was not about to object.
“But not in your nature, surely? Come, go away with me. We can be married as soon as I find a priest to do the office.”
“I cannot leave my queen,” said Rosaline sadly. “She was much hurt by your king’s words – for which you are not to blame – and she seems to have made up her mind to stay a virgin for ever.”
“If thy queen is vowed a virgin, does it follow that every lady in France must follow her example?” Berowne was warming to his subject. “No! Why, the queen of England hath been a virgin for well-nigh forty years. Does this mean there is no marrying or giving marriage in England?”
“Forty years!” said Rosaline. “Why, the queen of England is at least sixty. What was she, pray, before she was a virgin?”
Berowne refused to be distracted by this quibble. “Well, are you not as free as any maid in England?”
“No, for our queen says that she will not leave the hermitage, nor will she allow any of us to leave, save in the company of a chaperone.”
“What chaperone?” Dumaine asked.
“The wife of a Spanish nobleman,” said Katharine with a groan. “I have not met her, but she sounds very tiresome. These Spanish ladies are noted for their strict virtue; my lady says that there is much to be learned from Doña de Armado.”
Berowne and Dumaine collapsed in laughter.
“What is the jest?” asked Rosaline.
As soon as he could speak again, Berowne explained that Doña de Armado had been a Navarrese country wench named Jaquenetta prior to her marriage, and the chief virtue for which she was noted had been her extreme generosity – one might even say prodigality – with her favors and her person.
Katharine brightened. “Can she be bribed, think you?”
“Very easily.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow or the next day, then. Some better place than within these convent walls, do you not think, Rose?”
“By all means,” said Rosaline. She glanced about her and, seeing no movement from the windows that overlooked the cloister, pulled Berowne under the arcade and kissed him fiercely.
* * *
Berowne and Dumaine had almost escaped the hermitage – congratulating themselves on an afternoon well spent – when they were trapped by the Queen of France.
“Good sisters, talk with me a while. I am much troubled in my mind.”
“Eh? Eh?” Dumaine raised a trembling hand to his ear.
“Sister Clare is very deaf,” explained Berowne, in the best falsetto he could manage.
“I will talk with you, then.”
Thus dismissed, Dumaine limped away – rather too quickly for the elderly character he had assumed, although the queen did not seem to notice this discrepancy. Silently, Berowne cursed his friend. It seemed to be too late for him to claim to be deaf too, so he took shelter behind his veil and determined to keep the interview as short as possible.
The queen led him into a small cell that seemed to be her bedchamber. “Tell me, sister, how might I know whether I have a vocation for the religious life?”
Dear God, Berowne thought, how am I supposed to answer that? “It – it is not a decision to be made lightly, madam, or without long thought,” he managed to say at last. “Especially for a great prince such as yourself. Do you not have a kingdom to rule?”
“I would abdicate in favor of my cousin Louis. He is a good man, and wise, and would make a fine king.”
“Search your heart, madam. Are you sure that you would be taking the vows for the right reason, and not – well, not to spite anyone, for example, or out of some worldly disappointment?” (Somewhat to Berowne’s surprise, this came out sounding like the sort of thing a real nun might say. It was also, of course, completely self-serving, but he let that pass.)
“That is exactly what I am not sure of, sister. I was once – I will not say betrothed to the King of Navarre, but very nearly so. He hath dismissed me from his presence with cruel words, not only against myself, but against all women. If I can find no faith in one I thought gentle and courteous beyond other men – what else is there for me in the world?”
Unconsciously, Berowne’s hand strayed to the rosary that hung at his belt. He was summoning the hardest lessons he had learned during his time at the hospital: those of charity, and of seeing things from another man’s point of view.
“You were grieving for your father’s death when you dismissed him a year ago, madam, were you not? And it made you angry that he spoke to you as a wooer and not as a fellow-mourner.”
“Aye, that is so. It doubled my grief that he took it so lightly. I should have seen him then for what he would prove thereafter.”
“Perhaps not. Consider this, my lady, and think on him with as much charity as you can. The King of Navarre has his own griefs now. They are not as deep as the loss of a father, but he has seen his friends, whom he loved as his own soul, changed in a year’s time from young light-hearted courtiers into men aged by war and pain and sickness. In your heart, madam, can you understand why he might be angry – I do not say in justice, for what he said to you was not just, but in the common weakness of humanity?”
Berowne could tell that this had made an impression: the queen thought for a long time before she spoke. “I do. I do not think I did wrong to send him away, but I should have spoken differently to him when he returned.” She considered a little longer. “Can it be mended now, dost thou think?”
“I hope it may. Give him time. Well, perhaps not too much time,” Berowne amended hastily at the thought of another year of waiting.
“I thank thee, sister. Thou hast set my heart at rest, at least in part.”
“God bless you, my lady, and give you peace of mind.” Berowne turned to go, feeling that he had just had a very narrow escape.
“Tell me one more thing, sister.” There was a dangerous sparkle in the queen’s eyes. “How is it that thou knowest so much of what hath passed between me and my ladies, and the King of Navarre and his men?”
“Good God!” exclaimed Berowne involuntarily. He had been so proud of the adeptness with which he had handled the situation that he had completely forgotten that there was no way for an outsider to know most of what he knew.
“Such language, sister!”
“I mean,” said Berowne hastily, “that God – being, er, good – hath given me the grace to know certain of these things, that I might counsel you the better. It was something like witnessing them in a dream, or a vision.” This was not, he decided, altogether a lie; real life was something like a dream or a vision, apart from being a great deal more awkward and uncomfortable.
The queen laughed. “I think that is the most ingenious defense of gossip that ever I heard. Nay, sister, do not be ashamed; I would be hungry for gossip too, if I were to pass my whole life here.”
“Perhaps, madam, that is a sign that you do not have a vocation as a nun.”
“Perhaps,” said the queen. She was smiling, but she was also looking acutely at Berowne, and he realized, with a sudden lurch of the stomach, that he had just broken character. “By the way, sister, is that Lady Rosaline’s handkerchief bound about your finger?”
“Aye, I pricked my finger in the rose-garden and she lent it to me to stop the bleeding.”
“That was kind of her. She’s very fond of that handkerchief; I have never known her to lend it before.”
“Lady Rosaline is kind in all things.”
“So she is, sister, so she is. Good evening, and I thank you again for your counsel.”
* * *
“What a parcel of pious answers you made to the queen!” said Dumaine. “Did you learn all that wisdom in a hospital?”
“Mock not, for I think I did. Look you, I have been thinking about Longaville and the king –”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door of Dumaine’s chamber. “Well, speak of the devil,” said Dumaine. “Come in.”
Berowne’s earlier impression that Longaville did not look well grew stronger. He seemed exhausted, and his eyes were positively haunted. He also seemed put out to find Berowne there. “I had hoped to speak with Dumaine alone. You’ll mock me.”
Berowne, rather stung by this, made no move to leave.
“Well,” said Longaville after a moment, “say what you will, I care not. You’ve been with Rosaline and Katharine.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Dumaine warily.
“Do you think that I’m blind, man? Why else would you shave your beards off?”
“To stuff tennis-balls withal,” said Berowne.
“Nay, truly, why?”
“Because we have been masquerading as nuns, and under the circumstances beards were an inconvenience.”
Longaville managed a shaky laugh. “I would that I had your powers of invention. Have you ever thought of writing a romance?”
“‘Tis God’s own truth, man. Let me tell you about it, for it is an excellent jest.”
“Berowne,” said Dumaine, “is this the time for a merry tale?”
Berowne ignored this. The instincts he had developed in eleven months at St. Luke’s were telling him that this was the time, and the merrier and the more outlandish the better. “He had rather I not tell you, because he does not cut a good figure in the story, having basely deserted me in the face of grave danger.”
There were few things Berowne enjoyed as much as telling a funny story, especially one in which he himself was the butt of the joke, and he launched into this one with his customary zest. Longaville enjoyed it, too, especially Berowne’s best imitation of Dumaine-as-Sister-Clare, and by the time he finished relating their adventures, Berowne knew that his instincts had been right. Longaville had stretched out to his full length on Dumaine’s bed, as he used to do when he was at ease with the world, and although he did not seem wholly cheerful, the look of acute misery had gone out of his face.
“Well, Longaville, what was it that we were to mock thee about? Come, it cannot be as bad as our own follies, can it?”
Longaville sat up, stiffening a little. “Thou art the only man I know who can make a virtue of his own folly by telling such pretty tales of it. Mine affords no such matter for laughter.”
“Out with it, man.”
“It concerns Maria. I fear that I have wronged her grievously. I also know – be it a weakness in me or a virtue, I know not – that I cannot live without her.” He shot Berowne a quick, defiant look, and Berowne realized, somewhat to his own shock, that his old self would indeed have responded with a gibe. “I – Look you, ever since we came from the wars I have been angry sometimes, for no good reason, and I say things I do not mean. I fear there may be more in’t. I have – seen things – Sometimes when I close my eyes I still see them. I have learned that men who call themselves Christians can be more barbarous than the Turk. And I become – confused – about who is good and what is right, do you see?”
Berowne didn’t see, but it was plain that Longaville was intensely distressed, and by something more complicated than mere love-sickness. Dumaine, who seemed to have a somewhat clearer idea what Longaville was driving at, said gently, “The lady is good, and kind, and generous. You know that, do you not?”
“I do. I also know that I’m not worthy of her. All I ask is an hour or so in her company, that I may pray her pardon.”
Dumaine, deeply touched by this, clasped Longaville’s hand. Berowne shook his head. “Be honest about one thing. You do not want to pray her pardon.”
“I do! My injustice sticks so deeply in my heart that I can but come before her as a poor and undeserving penitent –”
“Pretty, but false,” said Berowne. “Save it for the lady. What you want is not merely to pray her pardon, but to have her love again, which is a more complicated matter.”
“Well – suppose I do. Is it wrong of me to make what amends I can?”
“Not wrong at all,” said Berowne, taking Longaville’s other hand. “I merely thought that we should be frank about your purpose, at least among ourselves. ‘Twill spare you disappointment.”
“You’ll help me, then?” Longaville looked hopeful for the first time.
“I think we can help you to the lady’s company. What happens after that is between you and her.”
Longaville, speechless with relief and delight, tried to embrace them both at once. Surprisingly, it was Dumaine who pulled away first. “There’s one thing, Longaville. You must tell her about – about the wars.”
“Are you mad?” Longaville had gone very pale. “She’d never have me.”
“I think not,” said Dumaine quietly. “I think it is the surest way to make her understand why you spoke as you did. But if I am wrong, ‘tis all the more reason why thou needs must. In fairness to her, and to thyself.”
Longaville swallowed heavily and said nothing.
* * *
Only with great difficulty were Rosaline and Katharine able to persuade Maria to agree to a meeting.
“I will not speak with him. He has said all that I need to hear.”
Rosaline looked at Katharine. Berowne’s note had hinted, obscurely, at the existence of some circumstances which might mitigate Longaville’s behavior. From the length of the letter that Katharine had received from Dumaine, Rosaline suspected that her friend might know rather more.
“I think there may be something he has not told you,” said Katharine.
“What?” asked Maria skeptically.
“I do not know, but what harm can there be in hearing him?”
“At the very least,” said Rosaline, “you should return the pearls he gave you, if you will not see him again. They are worth much, and perhaps they were his mother’s, or – or his aunt’s, or something.”
Maria snorted. “Or perhaps he intends to give them to another lady, you mean?”
Rosaline pounced on this, as it was the first sign that Maria was not as indifferent as she pretended. “Well, why should he not, when thou hast forsaken thy claim? He may have met another lady already.”
There was a dangerous spark in Maria’s eyes. “Perhaps I will see him. Only to return his remembrances, you understand.”
Act III: As Love Is Full of Unbefitting Strains
“Let’s walk in the cloister,” said Katharine. “Few people come there at this hour; the nuns are at services, and my lady and Maria are reading about the lives of the virgin martyrs.”
Although undoubtedly instructive, this course of reading did not seem to appeal to Rosaline and Katharine; the ladies looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
“You ought not to disparage the virgin martyrs,” said Dumaine solemnly, determined to maintain his character as an elderly nun. “‘Tis a holy death for those that are called to it – though, for my part, I am glad that I was never called to martyrdom, and for the sake of the human race, it is well that not all are called to virginity.”
Rosaline bit her lip to keep from giggling. “You ought to be on the stage, my lord. Sister, I mean.”
The cloister was a pretty little garden, surrounded on all sides by a covered walk and a hedge of rosebushes. Berowne plucked a red rosebud and offered it to Rosaline; she pinned it to the inside of her cloak.
“It would look well in your hair.”
“I dare not wear it so openly. No, you must not kiss me – what if someone should look out and see me kissing a nun? Oh, you’ve pricked your finger, love; let me draw the thorn out.”
“A lovely rose ought not to be guarded so with thorns.”
“It is in the nature of roses.” Rosaline bandaged Berowne’s finger with her handkerchief, which struck him as quite excessive for a wound no larger than a pinprick, but he was not about to object.
“But not in your nature, surely? Come, go away with me. We can be married as soon as I find a priest to do the office.”
“I cannot leave my queen,” said Rosaline sadly. “She was much hurt by your king’s words – for which you are not to blame – and she seems to have made up her mind to stay a virgin for ever.”
“If thy queen is vowed a virgin, does it follow that every lady in France must follow her example?” Berowne was warming to his subject. “No! Why, the queen of England hath been a virgin for well-nigh forty years. Does this mean there is no marrying or giving marriage in England?”
“Forty years!” said Rosaline. “Why, the queen of England is at least sixty. What was she, pray, before she was a virgin?”
Berowne refused to be distracted by this quibble. “Well, are you not as free as any maid in England?”
“No, for our queen says that she will not leave the hermitage, nor will she allow any of us to leave, save in the company of a chaperone.”
“What chaperone?” Dumaine asked.
“The wife of a Spanish nobleman,” said Katharine with a groan. “I have not met her, but she sounds very tiresome. These Spanish ladies are noted for their strict virtue; my lady says that there is much to be learned from Doña de Armado.”
Berowne and Dumaine collapsed in laughter.
“What is the jest?” asked Rosaline.
As soon as he could speak again, Berowne explained that Doña de Armado had been a Navarrese country wench named Jaquenetta prior to her marriage, and the chief virtue for which she was noted had been her extreme generosity – one might even say prodigality – with her favors and her person.
Katharine brightened. “Can she be bribed, think you?”
“Very easily.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow or the next day, then. Some better place than within these convent walls, do you not think, Rose?”
“By all means,” said Rosaline. She glanced about her and, seeing no movement from the windows that overlooked the cloister, pulled Berowne under the arcade and kissed him fiercely.
* * *
Berowne and Dumaine had almost escaped the hermitage – congratulating themselves on an afternoon well spent – when they were trapped by the Queen of France.
“Good sisters, talk with me a while. I am much troubled in my mind.”
“Eh? Eh?” Dumaine raised a trembling hand to his ear.
“Sister Clare is very deaf,” explained Berowne, in the best falsetto he could manage.
“I will talk with you, then.”
Thus dismissed, Dumaine limped away – rather too quickly for the elderly character he had assumed, although the queen did not seem to notice this discrepancy. Silently, Berowne cursed his friend. It seemed to be too late for him to claim to be deaf too, so he took shelter behind his veil and determined to keep the interview as short as possible.
The queen led him into a small cell that seemed to be her bedchamber. “Tell me, sister, how might I know whether I have a vocation for the religious life?”
Dear God, Berowne thought, how am I supposed to answer that? “It – it is not a decision to be made lightly, madam, or without long thought,” he managed to say at last. “Especially for a great prince such as yourself. Do you not have a kingdom to rule?”
“I would abdicate in favor of my cousin Louis. He is a good man, and wise, and would make a fine king.”
“Search your heart, madam. Are you sure that you would be taking the vows for the right reason, and not – well, not to spite anyone, for example, or out of some worldly disappointment?” (Somewhat to Berowne’s surprise, this came out sounding like the sort of thing a real nun might say. It was also, of course, completely self-serving, but he let that pass.)
“That is exactly what I am not sure of, sister. I was once – I will not say betrothed to the King of Navarre, but very nearly so. He hath dismissed me from his presence with cruel words, not only against myself, but against all women. If I can find no faith in one I thought gentle and courteous beyond other men – what else is there for me in the world?”
Unconsciously, Berowne’s hand strayed to the rosary that hung at his belt. He was summoning the hardest lessons he had learned during his time at the hospital: those of charity, and of seeing things from another man’s point of view.
“You were grieving for your father’s death when you dismissed him a year ago, madam, were you not? And it made you angry that he spoke to you as a wooer and not as a fellow-mourner.”
“Aye, that is so. It doubled my grief that he took it so lightly. I should have seen him then for what he would prove thereafter.”
“Perhaps not. Consider this, my lady, and think on him with as much charity as you can. The King of Navarre has his own griefs now. They are not as deep as the loss of a father, but he has seen his friends, whom he loved as his own soul, changed in a year’s time from young light-hearted courtiers into men aged by war and pain and sickness. In your heart, madam, can you understand why he might be angry – I do not say in justice, for what he said to you was not just, but in the common weakness of humanity?”
Berowne could tell that this had made an impression: the queen thought for a long time before she spoke. “I do. I do not think I did wrong to send him away, but I should have spoken differently to him when he returned.” She considered a little longer. “Can it be mended now, dost thou think?”
“I hope it may. Give him time. Well, perhaps not too much time,” Berowne amended hastily at the thought of another year of waiting.
“I thank thee, sister. Thou hast set my heart at rest, at least in part.”
“God bless you, my lady, and give you peace of mind.” Berowne turned to go, feeling that he had just had a very narrow escape.
“Tell me one more thing, sister.” There was a dangerous sparkle in the queen’s eyes. “How is it that thou knowest so much of what hath passed between me and my ladies, and the King of Navarre and his men?”
“Good God!” exclaimed Berowne involuntarily. He had been so proud of the adeptness with which he had handled the situation that he had completely forgotten that there was no way for an outsider to know most of what he knew.
“Such language, sister!”
“I mean,” said Berowne hastily, “that God – being, er, good – hath given me the grace to know certain of these things, that I might counsel you the better. It was something like witnessing them in a dream, or a vision.” This was not, he decided, altogether a lie; real life was something like a dream or a vision, apart from being a great deal more awkward and uncomfortable.
The queen laughed. “I think that is the most ingenious defense of gossip that ever I heard. Nay, sister, do not be ashamed; I would be hungry for gossip too, if I were to pass my whole life here.”
“Perhaps, madam, that is a sign that you do not have a vocation as a nun.”
“Perhaps,” said the queen. She was smiling, but she was also looking acutely at Berowne, and he realized, with a sudden lurch of the stomach, that he had just broken character. “By the way, sister, is that Lady Rosaline’s handkerchief bound about your finger?”
“Aye, I pricked my finger in the rose-garden and she lent it to me to stop the bleeding.”
“That was kind of her. She’s very fond of that handkerchief; I have never known her to lend it before.”
“Lady Rosaline is kind in all things.”
“So she is, sister, so she is. Good evening, and I thank you again for your counsel.”
* * *
“What a parcel of pious answers you made to the queen!” said Dumaine. “Did you learn all that wisdom in a hospital?”
“Mock not, for I think I did. Look you, I have been thinking about Longaville and the king –”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door of Dumaine’s chamber. “Well, speak of the devil,” said Dumaine. “Come in.”
Berowne’s earlier impression that Longaville did not look well grew stronger. He seemed exhausted, and his eyes were positively haunted. He also seemed put out to find Berowne there. “I had hoped to speak with Dumaine alone. You’ll mock me.”
Berowne, rather stung by this, made no move to leave.
“Well,” said Longaville after a moment, “say what you will, I care not. You’ve been with Rosaline and Katharine.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Dumaine warily.
“Do you think that I’m blind, man? Why else would you shave your beards off?”
“To stuff tennis-balls withal,” said Berowne.
“Nay, truly, why?”
“Because we have been masquerading as nuns, and under the circumstances beards were an inconvenience.”
Longaville managed a shaky laugh. “I would that I had your powers of invention. Have you ever thought of writing a romance?”
“‘Tis God’s own truth, man. Let me tell you about it, for it is an excellent jest.”
“Berowne,” said Dumaine, “is this the time for a merry tale?”
Berowne ignored this. The instincts he had developed in eleven months at St. Luke’s were telling him that this was the time, and the merrier and the more outlandish the better. “He had rather I not tell you, because he does not cut a good figure in the story, having basely deserted me in the face of grave danger.”
There were few things Berowne enjoyed as much as telling a funny story, especially one in which he himself was the butt of the joke, and he launched into this one with his customary zest. Longaville enjoyed it, too, especially Berowne’s best imitation of Dumaine-as-Sister-Clare, and by the time he finished relating their adventures, Berowne knew that his instincts had been right. Longaville had stretched out to his full length on Dumaine’s bed, as he used to do when he was at ease with the world, and although he did not seem wholly cheerful, the look of acute misery had gone out of his face.
“Well, Longaville, what was it that we were to mock thee about? Come, it cannot be as bad as our own follies, can it?”
Longaville sat up, stiffening a little. “Thou art the only man I know who can make a virtue of his own folly by telling such pretty tales of it. Mine affords no such matter for laughter.”
“Out with it, man.”
“It concerns Maria. I fear that I have wronged her grievously. I also know – be it a weakness in me or a virtue, I know not – that I cannot live without her.” He shot Berowne a quick, defiant look, and Berowne realized, somewhat to his own shock, that his old self would indeed have responded with a gibe. “I – Look you, ever since we came from the wars I have been angry sometimes, for no good reason, and I say things I do not mean. I fear there may be more in’t. I have – seen things – Sometimes when I close my eyes I still see them. I have learned that men who call themselves Christians can be more barbarous than the Turk. And I become – confused – about who is good and what is right, do you see?”
Berowne didn’t see, but it was plain that Longaville was intensely distressed, and by something more complicated than mere love-sickness. Dumaine, who seemed to have a somewhat clearer idea what Longaville was driving at, said gently, “The lady is good, and kind, and generous. You know that, do you not?”
“I do. I also know that I’m not worthy of her. All I ask is an hour or so in her company, that I may pray her pardon.”
Dumaine, deeply touched by this, clasped Longaville’s hand. Berowne shook his head. “Be honest about one thing. You do not want to pray her pardon.”
“I do! My injustice sticks so deeply in my heart that I can but come before her as a poor and undeserving penitent –”
“Pretty, but false,” said Berowne. “Save it for the lady. What you want is not merely to pray her pardon, but to have her love again, which is a more complicated matter.”
“Well – suppose I do. Is it wrong of me to make what amends I can?”
“Not wrong at all,” said Berowne, taking Longaville’s other hand. “I merely thought that we should be frank about your purpose, at least among ourselves. ‘Twill spare you disappointment.”
“You’ll help me, then?” Longaville looked hopeful for the first time.
“I think we can help you to the lady’s company. What happens after that is between you and her.”
Longaville, speechless with relief and delight, tried to embrace them both at once. Surprisingly, it was Dumaine who pulled away first. “There’s one thing, Longaville. You must tell her about – about the wars.”
“Are you mad?” Longaville had gone very pale. “She’d never have me.”
“I think not,” said Dumaine quietly. “I think it is the surest way to make her understand why you spoke as you did. But if I am wrong, ‘tis all the more reason why thou needs must. In fairness to her, and to thyself.”
Longaville swallowed heavily and said nothing.
* * *
Only with great difficulty were Rosaline and Katharine able to persuade Maria to agree to a meeting.
“I will not speak with him. He has said all that I need to hear.”
Rosaline looked at Katharine. Berowne’s note had hinted, obscurely, at the existence of some circumstances which might mitigate Longaville’s behavior. From the length of the letter that Katharine had received from Dumaine, Rosaline suspected that her friend might know rather more.
“I think there may be something he has not told you,” said Katharine.
“What?” asked Maria skeptically.
“I do not know, but what harm can there be in hearing him?”
“At the very least,” said Rosaline, “you should return the pearls he gave you, if you will not see him again. They are worth much, and perhaps they were his mother’s, or – or his aunt’s, or something.”
Maria snorted. “Or perhaps he intends to give them to another lady, you mean?”
Rosaline pounced on this, as it was the first sign that Maria was not as indifferent as she pretended. “Well, why should he not, when thou hast forsaken thy claim? He may have met another lady already.”
There was a dangerous spark in Maria’s eyes. “Perhaps I will see him. Only to return his remembrances, you understand.”
