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fallinfor-youreyes · 5 years ago

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We Could Be Reckless

For Unwrittenmusings’ Rosvolio Wedding Challenge! I chose “We need to stop meeting at weddings that aren’t even ours” Thank you for this challenge! Ao3

Isabella and Helena

Rosaline would like the record to state that anyone still recovering from a breakup with the person you thought you were going to marry, and being flirted with by Benvolio Montague in a perfectly fitted suit suit would end up in the same situation.

Most people probably wouldn’t even need the breakup to end up in the same situation, but seeing as the entire thing happened because she was at the wedding of her ex’s sister, Rosaline thinks it should be added to the list of reasons she’s collecting to defend herself.

Not that she has to defend herself to anyone.

Except maybe herself.

Benvolio’s lips move from hers and start making their way down her throat, his hand sliding dangerously along the zipper of her dress.

And god, this might just be the most undignified thing she’s ever done. She’s at a wedding, a black tie wedding at that, her very best friend’s wedding, and she’s about to hook up with a man in the bathroom. A Montague of all people. But she does not want him to stop.

Rosaline had been sitting at the bar, watching Isabella and Helena spinning each other around for their first dance, trying her damnedest to be happy. Isabella was happy. Helena was amazing. Ever since they were 13 and Isabella told her that she might like girls, this is what Rosaline had been hoping Isabella would find. A beautiful wife and happiness, and the most perfect wedding to probably ever grace Verona.

And two weeks ago, that’s what it was.

And then Escalus broke up with her out of the blue, and Rosaline would not - could not - talk to Isabella about it, she couldn’t risk the possibility of messing up anything about this wedding, so she was at the bar, avoiding the bride’s brother as best as she could, trying to not let her sour mood seep into the air, when he sat next to her.

Benvolio Montague.

Family rival and Verona’s number one heartbreak three years running.

And then he smiled at her. In that stupid prefect suit that was probably made just for him, tie undone and hair a mess because even if the invitation said Black Tie, leave it to Benvolio Montague to make sure he looked at least slightly rumpled and rough around the edges.

“You know I heard a rumor,” he said, taking a sip of his drink before letting his eyes slide over to her. “That one of the bride’s best friends was haunting the bar.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Montague.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Capulet. Especially in that dress.”

Rosaline would also like the record to state that she knows that was a terrible line, but would also like the jury to take into consideration that she had just had her heart broken less than a fortnight ago, and, again, did you see him in that suit.

She’s not entirely certain how harmlessly flirting with him at the bar at the beginning of the night landed them here, in the bathroom, his hand dancing along the edge of her dress at the end of the night, and frankly at this point, she doesn’t care.

His tongue traces along the neckline of her dress, and something inside of her jolts awake.

“Montague.” Rosaline pushes him back just the slightest bit, and he stops, his head popping up from her chest. “What are we doing?”

Benvolio’s thumb traces a circle along her thigh, and her brain almost short circuits.

“Well, you are rebounding from Escalus Price, I presume, and I am feeling quite rebellious against my family.” He drags his bottom lip through his teeth, and studies her. “Is that okay?”

Logically, his answer should make her step away from him, walk back out into the party and pretend that she did not hook up with him in the bathroom.

But it doesn’t.

He’s completely honest with her, and for some reason, that makes her want to stay with him even more.

So she does.

Later, when she’s fixing her hair in the mirror, and trying her best to not look like she hooked up with someone in the bathroom, he catches her eye through the mirror, and she can see the bruise developing on his neck, she starts to laugh. Because the whole thing is completely ridiculous.

Everyone expects Benvolio Montague to hook up with someone at a wedding, but she’s Rosaline Capulet.

Poised and practical. On her way to becoming the youngest Assistant Defense Attorney Verona’s ever seen. Definitely not the kind of woman who would step out on her best friends wedding to hook up with a notorious scoundrel.

“What?” Benvolio asks, buttoning up his dress shirt, his hair even more of a mess than it was earlier.

“Nothing, it’s just,” she turns and wipes a smudge of lipstick off his cheek. “Even if we walk back into the ballroom together, no one would believe it.”

“What, that I had sex with one of the bride’s best friends in the bathroom?” he asks, amusement tinging his features.

“No, that I had sex with you.”

Benvolio finishes buttoning his shirt and runs his hand through his hair, doing nothing to make it neater.

The silence falls between them, and she can’t read his face, and suddenly, Rosaline feels like she said the wrong thing.

But then, Benvolio’s arm slides around her waist and he tugs her closer, kissing her hard enough that she almost wants to undo the buttons on his shirt again.

“Guess it will be out little secret then, Capulet.”

Mercutio and Antonio

Rosaline is still trying to figure how she got invited to Mercutio Prince’s wedding, but she’s here, squished between Livia and Juliet, doing her very best to ignore the group at the other side of the table.

Because someone (Who’s name starts with M and ends with ercuito) decided it would be a good idea to put the Capulet’s and the Montague’s at the same table.

Well, the newer generation at least. The older Capulet’s and Montague’s were decidedly at different sides of the venue.

But she’s not complaining. The wedding is beautiful, and if anyone knows how to throw a party it is Mercutio Prince and Antonio Smith. She had been dragged along a few times by Escalus before their entire relationship blew up, and then a few more times by Isabella and Helena in the past few weeks, and the wedding is just one giant party, fueled with a little more class and and a lot more adults who don’t know exactly how to handle the entire thing.

“Friends!” Mercutio ascends on the table, his cape sweeping far enough that it brushes against Rosaline’s shoulder even though he’s wrapping himself around Benvolio and Romeo. Antonio appears beside him, the happiest of smiles on both of their faces, and for the briefest of seconds, Rosaline allows herself to think about how she thought her and Escalus were heading in this direction before she forces it out of her head.

“The ceremony was beautiful, cousin,” Isabella says to Mercutio, appearing seemingly out of nowhere from her position at the family table across the room. “Almost as good as mine.”

Helena playfully slaps her arm, and Mercutio detaches himself from him boys so he can drape himself over her.

“I thought we promised not to compare them against each other.”

“Did we?” Isabella kisses his cheek, and he pats hers back, and then Antonio is being pulled away to another table and Mercutio is calling his farewells, and the table falls back into the awkward tension that had been building all night.

Isabella takes one of the empty seats and turns her eyes to Rosaline. “So, Rosie, dearest.” She props her head in her hand. “Is the guy you hooked up with at my wedding here as well.”

Rosaline chokes on her own spit.

Livia almost spits out her drink. “You what?”

“Oh, this is good. Who was is Rosaline?” Juliet asks, leaning closer to her cousin.

Rosaline isn’t sure how Benvolio reacts because she refuses to look at him.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” It’s a bad defense. One that will only make them work harder to get their answer. One she would tear apart in court. “What makes you think I hooked up with someone at your wedding, anyway?”

Rosaline can feel his eyes on her, but she keeps staring at Isabella, because she will not look at him.

“Besides the fact you disappeared for almost an hour, came back throughly rumpled and glowing with that ‘just-throughly-fucked’ look?” Isabella says, rising a single perfect eyebrow.

“Or the fact that you could not stop smiling for the rest of the night,” Helena adds, hooking her chin over her wife’s shoulder.

Rosaline looks up to roll her eyes at Helena, but it’s a mistake.

Because Benvolio is sitting right next her, and the second she looks up, he catches her eye. He has that stupid, satisfied smirk on his face, and it makes her want to punch him and kiss him desperately at the same time.

“Maybe I just had a lot of champagne.”

Benvolio half laughs into his drink, and all of the girls heads suddenly turn toward him.

“Got something to add, Montague?” Livia asks, but there’s no poison in her voice. Just pure curiosity.

Romeo’s staring confused at his cousin, and Benvolio shakes his head.

“No, just, I know what ‘just-thoroughly-fucked’ looks like, and it definitely doesn’t look like having too much champagne.”

The girls all agree, and in the mix, Benvolio winks at her.

And her entire body heats up.

“God,” Juliet sighs, and reaches across to grab her own champagne flute. “It’s been forever since I’ve been thoroughly fucked.”

Romeo’s eye brows disappear into his hair line but then before anyone can respond the lights are suddenly off, only to be flicked back on again, the music suddenly three times as loud.

“We command you too dance!” Mercutio says, from the top of the DJ booth, and then before Rosaline knows it she’s being tugged onto the dance floor, and she’s spinning between Juliet and Livia, and this might be the most outrageous wedding she’s ever been too, but she’s having fun.

She spins and collides straight into someone’s chest.

She knows it’s going to be him before she looks up.

Before she can move away he grabs her hand and spins her again, and the smile falls on her face without her permission.

They are not Montague’s or Capulet’s or anything right now. Rosaline allows herself to soak in the moment, to let the happiness of the day seep into her bones.

The song changes , and Benvolio pulls her close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Mercutio gave me my own room.”

Rosaline’s entire body floods with heat. But she doesn’t show it. She has a very good poker face.

She almost says ‘what of it’ but she holds her tongue. Rosaline knows what he’s asking, but she wants to make him spell it out.

She wants to know that he really want it too.

“He gave everyone their own room.”

She doesn’t realize they are swaying back and forth until she pulls back to see how he reacts to her words.

Benvolio nods. “Because he’s a good bro who wants people to get laid at his wedding.” He’s looking at her like he did when they were across the table from each other.

Like he’s undressing her with his eyes.

Like he wants.

“A hotel room is a lot classier than a bathroom,” he reasons, his palm burning a trail along her spine. “More room to conquer, more privacy.”

He says it casually, like it’s no big deal he’s asking her to hook up with him again, like this is something they do all the time. And maybe he does, but she’s still new to this.

Rosaline knows she she should say no. There’s a question in his eyes that tells her he know it too.

“I’ll think about it.”

Benvolio laughs, a short, joyous sound, and three people turn to look at them, but Rosaline just hides he head in his chest, and pretends not to notice Romeo and Juliet staring into each others eyes.

She knocks on his door later, much earlier than she wants to, but he open it in an instant, stripped down to his undershirt and a pair of sweats.

Rosaline’s just in an old shirt from college and pair of shorts because she didn’t pack anything cute to wear to bed, but Benvolio’s eyes travel up and down her body in a way that make’s her feel like she’s wearing something sexy.

“What are we doing?” she asks him, because she needs to know, because he was able to give her an answer last time.

His eyes snap up to hers and he smiles, that easy, confident smile that dragged her to the bathroom last time, and pulled her into his room this time.

He thinks for a moment, studying her. “Fighting back against our families.” He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, and smiles again, this one more dangerous. “Enjoying ourselves.”

He takes a step forward and slides his hand around her waist, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before tugging her inside.

She stops protesting her thoughts after that.

Benedick and Beatrice

Technically, Rosaline isn’t supposed to even be at this wedding.

Isabella has been called away for an emergency conference and Helena had showed up with puppy dog eyes and homemade banana bread, and really, there’s just something fun about weddings.

This one is by far the most causal Rosaline has been to this year, a garden party vibe secluded in the backyard of the newly married couples house, which, even to Rosaline who grew up in her Uncles house, is huge.

She knows the bride tangentially, her being a friend of Helena’s and occasionally bumping into her at parties and that one time in court when she was there to drop off something for Isabella.

And really, for knowing a total of two people at the wedding, Rosaline is having fun. She’s wearing her favorite floral dress, and she’s making easy conversation with the people at her table. Until someone mentions appetizers, and the table disperses, Helena promising to grab her some snacks as Rosaline decides to run to the bathroom.

And that’s when she sees him.

Halfway between her table and the back door to lead inside, she sees him, his hand resting gently on some blonde woman’s back.

It shouldn’t, but it almost makes her stumble.

As if he can feel her watching him, he turns at that exact moment.

His hand drops from her waist, and he raises it in hello.

Rosaline almost sprints to the bathroom.

“Get yourself together, Capulet,” she tells herself in the mirror, applying a new layer of lipstick. He’s just a boy, with a killer smile and deadly lips, and she can handle this.

Just a boy who she has hooked up with twice and made her smile and told her she was beautiful when she woke up next to him the morning after Mercutio’s wedding. A boy who held her shirt hostage in exchange for a kiss, who looked at her like he wanted to say something other than goodbye.

Just a boy.

She jabs her lipstick back in her bag before looking herself over the mirror again. She looks good. She knows she looks good, and she’s having a good time, and she is not going to let Benvolio Montague or the gorgeous blonde on his arm get to her.

“You know, I was not expecting you to be here.” Benvolio pushed himself off the back porch the second she finds her way back to the garden, almost making her drop her phone.

“Feelings mutual, Montague,” She manages to say, once she’s sorted herself out. He’s here, and he’s talking to her, and she really would like to get back to her appetizers.

“How do you know Ben and Bea?”

Now he’s following her, skirting along the edges of the garden, easily falling into step next to her.

She hates it.

She hates how it makes her skin heat up just thinking about him.

“Bella had an emergency, so I am Helena’s emergency stand in wife/date. I think her and Beatrice grew up together.”

Benvolio nods as she talks, and she does not think about his lips or his hands or how they ended up at the last two weddings they ran into each other at.

“What about you?”

“Oh, Benedict and I went to University together. Ben and Ben.” Her offers her a smile, and her stomach constricts.

Helena and the rest of her table is still up, so Rosaline marches past her table, Benvolio still trailing on her heels until they make it the other, more secluded side of the garden. She settles herself on the edge of the fountain and he thinks a second, but then follows her, almost close enough that their hands are touching.

She hates that she notices it.

“Do you think it’s funny that we only run into each other at weddings?” She asks, because she doesn’t know what to say.

Benvolio laughs, and he leans back, dragging a hand through the water.

“I can’t figure out if it’s fate or if we just have really similar groups of friends.

That brings a smile to her lips, and his eyes travel from the edge of the water to her face, and she can literally feel the tension of the conversation change.

“You look beautiful, by way. This might be my favorite dress yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did my pajamas not do it for you?” She teases, and for a second everything is okay, they can do this and be normal people about it, but then she watches the tinge of color touch his cheeks, and oh.

He liked her pajamas.

She hates it.

She hates that blushing Benvolio is somehow even more attractive and that here, like this in the garden as the sun is just beginning to set, that this, whatever is between them feels like something more.

“I liked your pajamas very much, Capulet.” He leans in close, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Enough that they haunt my dreams.”

Rosaline shivers, and her mind is thrown violently back into his hotel room, and his lips on hers, and she should leave.

She should stand up and go back to the table and laugh with Helena and stop thinking about Benvolio Montague.

“Look, Capulet,”

“That girl you were with before, did you come with her?” She interrupts him before he has a chance to finish his sentence.

Confusion erupts on his face, and then he’s shaking his head so fast Rosaline thinks he might hurt himself.

“Stella? No, not since college. Her current boyfriend said he couldn’t see us together, so I had to prove a point that we made a very fine looking couple, and tha-“

She cuts him off, pressing her lips into his.

She shouldn’t be doing this. Kissing him, again, wanting to keep kissing him.

But they are alone in this side of the garden, and for the next few minutes, Rosaline wants to pretend.

Pretend that this is okay, that this is normal, and something that they do all the time.

His hand comes up and cups her cheek, and she sighs into his mouth, and Benvolio freezes.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but my car is like less than a two minute walk away.”

She pulls back just slightly. “And?”

He ducks his chin, and his cheeks go red, and it’s almost endearing.

“I could use a really bad line on you right now, or just tell you that I would really like to have sex with you in the back of my car.”

She has to stop the laugh in her throat. “You are so romantic,” she teases.

Benvolio dogs his bottom lip through is teeth, and she knows it's stupid, but she surges forward to kiss him again.

“I could totally be romantic if you wanted me to,” he says, intertwining their hands together.

“Shut up.” She presses her lips against his again. “Lead on, Montague.”

He tugs her off the fountain and they slip through the crowd.

She spies Helena, still on line for appetizers, and Rosaline lets herself relax. This will be the last time, she promises herself. No more Montagues, no more weddings, no more hooking up with the man currently leading her away from the party.

Once last time, and then she will stop.

One last kiss.

Helena won’t even notice she is gone.

Orsino and Viola

Vegas is bright and obnoxious and everything that Viola should hate, but currently, she is squeezing Rosaline’s hand so tight, she’s going to cut off circulation.

Orsino and his boys are on the opposite of the little chapel, and Rosaline was doing her absolute best to ignore that corner, mainly one of Orsino’s boys.

This was supposed to be a girls weekend. A bachelorette party. Just friends from work and Viola’s friends, and too many drinks, no boys allowed.

Until the bachelor party walked into the same bar because apparently the best man and maid of honor do not communicate, and then the next thing Rosaline knew, Orsino was on one knee again and asking Olivia to marry him right now.

So they were here, in the dingiest little chapel Rosaline had ever seen.

And apparently, with Benvolio Montague.

She really needed to expand her group of friends.

There’s hushing and giggling and then Olivia is flipping the cheap veil over her head and the groups collide, and Benvolio’s hand nudges gently against hers.

“Capulet.”

“Montague.”

Maybe she should stop going to weddings.

Maybe she should ask him if his hotel is closer than hers.

“How do you know-“

She cuts him off before he has time to make a full sentence. “Are you seriously going to ask the soon to be ADA how she knows the mayor of the next town over?”

“Right.” His jaw is tense, and he is not looking at her. Which is weird.

“What about you?”She should just leave it alone, but at this point she can’t go to wedding without running into him, and it’s getting a little ridiculous.

“Merc and Ant. Ant and Seb. Seb and Vi.”

He say’s it like it should be obvious. And once he says it is it. His best friends husband’s best friend’s sister’s fiancé. Of course they would hang out. Of course they would know each other. Of course she should have realized this.

She can’t tell if something is bothering her or if something is bothering him. She doesn’t know if she wants to find out.

Rosaline allows herself one long look at him. It’s the most casual she’s ever seen him, minus his pajamas, just a dark pair of jeans and nice tee shirt, and god, she’s already running through the scenarios in which she pulls the shirt off of him.

He catches hers staring. She doesn’t look away.

The something tense behind his eyes flashes, instantly evaporating into a look she’s staring to recognize as want. He drags his teeth over his bottom lip.

She lets her hand bump against his again.

Really, Rosaline should be watching Viola say her vows. Really, Rosaline should be mentally planning for how she’s going to get to the airport tomorrow, a day earlier than everyone else for work things. Really, Rosaline should be thinking about many more important things than Benvolio Montague.

“How close is your hotel?” She asks, because really, Rosaline lets herself be reckless a few times a year, and mainly, she’s only ever reckless with him.

Benvolio ducks his head and this time, when his hand bumps against hers, her intertwine’s their fingers.

“Two blocks.”

“You may now kiss the bride!”

The small chapel erupts into cheers, and then Viola is throwing her handful of wildflowers into the air, and people are planning the next bar they are going to, and Rosaline squeezes Benvolio’s hand.

“I’m going to head back now ladies,” Rosaline says, detangling herself from Benvolio and into the hoard of friends, throwing her arms around Viola. “I’m so happy for you.”

Viola’s eyes are bright with happy tears, and Orsino’s reaching for her, and Rosaline pulls her in for another hug.

“I’m so glad you came.”

“Me too!”

And it’s moments like these that Rosaline remembers the they are allowed to do crazy, stupid, human things. Viola is the literal mayor of (PLACE), and now she’s here, getting last minute married in Vegas.

A voice in her head that sounds surprisingly like Livia and Juliet is telling her she’s allowed to have fun sometimes, allowed to do crazy, stupid, human things, like slip her arms around Benvolio’s waist and press her lips against his spine through his shirt.

She knows they should talk about this. She knows she needs to ask him if everything’s okay, if the tension in his shoulder’s earlier is something he wants to talk about, if them using each other as distractions is smart or healthy or good.

But she can ask him that later.

He twists in her arms, and smiles at he, and her stomach twists in that dangerous way that tells her this is more than hooking up when they run into each other at weddings. But she ignores it.

“Ready to go, beloved?”

Her eye brows twist in confusion and he laughs, full and wonderful, and that feeling in the pits of her stomach grows.

“I don’t think we are pet names level yet.”

“Yet?”

There’s a promise in that word, and in the way he tugs her closer, the way they wander the streets back to his hotel, a promise she wouldn’t mind exploring.

Maybe.

Hamlet and Ophelia

Technically, the wedding has already happened. The Prince of Denmark and Lady Ophelia had married at the ass crack of dawn in Rosaline’s opinion, but in Denmark, it was probably a perfectly respectable time.

But, it was all anyone could talk about all day, the bar she was in was currently replaying the lavish ceremony.

Everyone thought the bride looked beautiful.

Rosaline thought she looked terrified.

Livia pushes another drink into her hand and sighs dramatically. “I would love to marry a prince.”

Juliet laughs. “There’s no prince’s in Verona, Liv.”

“Excuse me!” A voice from behind them says, and the girls turn to find Mercutio smiling at them. “There are Prince’s in Verona. But all of the good ones have been taken.”

It takes less than a second for his boys to appear behind them, and Rosaline’s eyes are instantly drawn to him.

Benvolio looks devilishly good, and she quickly takes a gulp of her drink to avoid having to say anything.

“That is very true,” Livia sighs again. “Do you know of any outside of Verona?”

Mercutio’s smile grows three sizes bigger and he wraps his arm around her shoulder before breaking into a story about how all the Prince’s were terrible, and she should stay away from them at all costs.

Rosaline feels like the same could apply to the Montague’s. But she feels Benvolio slide up next to her at the bar, and something inside of her is terribly happy about it.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says body taking her drink and taking a sip.

“Well I mean, this technically is a wedding.” She grabs her drink back, and he offers a her a lazy, satisfied smile that makes her heart speed up.

“Technically, that means we should probably have sex. You know, to ensure the happiness of the couple.”

He say’s it casually, like it’s no big deal, but it sends a thrill through her. And she can see him waiting, tense, to see what she will say.

“I’m not having sex with you in the bathroom, Montague. And I’m not planning on leaving the bar yet. We just got here.”

She says it casually, like she isn’t thinking about grabbing his face and pulling him to her right now.

“Guess that means I have to romance you, huh, Capulet?” He bumps her shoulder, and her skin sparks where he touches her, and everything is either falling apart or falling into place.

“I’d like to see you try.”

His smile turns lethal, and then he steals another sip of her drink before pulling her out onto the dance floor.

And somehow, they go from shamelessly flirting to her talking about her fears of the new job, and Benvolio talking about his job as a political cartoonists for the local newspaper, much to his uncle’s dismay. And he tells her about his uncle and the argument they had before Vegas and about how Romeo is going to be the death of him. And she tells him about Livia and Juliet and their ridiculousness, and about how hard she had to fight to get out of her uncles house.

He kisses her, sometime later that night after they’ve run out of stories and she’s exhausted from dancing and laughing and he’s kissing her.

Something inside of her feels like it is glowing.

The new Prince and Princess of Denmark kiss on screen, their first kiss as husband and wife, and Rosaline finds the girls to tell them she is going home early. Livia just quirks an eyebrow at her, questions already forming in her eyes that Rosaline will avoid tomorrow morning. Juliet is too caught up in Romeo to notice.

She blows them a kiss and then finds her way back to where Benvolio is waiting, eyes bright and mouth smiling and kissable.

So she kisses him, and lets him take her home, and lets him romance her, and lets the possibility of this, of them, of yet seep into her bones.

Even though she knows that they will both leave in the morning, and that they probably will not run into each other until the next wedding or the next time they accidentally run into the same bar.

But she ignores that for now.

And kisses him again.

Romeo and Juliet

It should not be happening.

Nothing about today should be happening, but here they are.

Juliet Capulet and Romeo Montague are getting married.

Rosaline thinks the world might be ending.

It’s too early in the morning, and the day is too perfect, and this should not be happening. Her Aunt and Uncle are sitting across the aisle from Romeo’s dad and the unforgivingly dangerous Tessa, and Rosaline is trying to be prepared for anything that could go wrong.

Juliet is currently getting her hair fixed, and Livia is checking on the flowers, so Rosaline is making her last trip around the venue, checking and double checking, and trying to not let the stress ruin her.

“We need to stop meeting at weddings that aren’t even ours.”

His voice catches her completely off guard, and she jumps before she can process who said the words.

But then, the realization spreads throughout her body, and she’s turning to Benvolio Montague, hair a mess and ears turning a delightful shade of pink.

“I do think proposing marriage before a first date is frowned upon in most circles.”

Benvolio shrugs and he takes a step closer to her, and Rosaline feels that dangerous twist in her gut again. But she’s not mad about it.

“Also, we knew that we were bound to meet at this one. We are in the wedding party,” Rosaline says as he makes his way right next to her.

“I would like to see you, again. At more than just the occasional wedding.” His ears are still burning pink, and she’s trying to bite back her smile, but then his hand brushes against hers, and she’s a goner. “Maybe even an actual date.”

“They say you should never meet anyone at a wedding. Too many emotions balled into one day.”

Benvolio rolls his eyes. “We met each other way before our first wedding, Capulet.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

His hand thugs around her waist and then she’s stumbling closer to him, and she knows she has to get back to the bridal suite and make sure everything is running smoothly and on time, but she doesn’t want this moment to end.

He brushes his nose gently against hers. “Dance with me tonight? And then get dinner with me tomorrow. And then come home with me the next day. And then let me celebrate with you when you became ADA, and then maybe a while down the road, one of the weddings we run into each other will be ours.”

The world goes quiet. Rosaline is pretty sure her heart stops beating. “You’ve thought all about this, huh?”

“Enough to know that every time I see you my heart skips too many beats to be healthy. That sometimes I stare at your number and try to come up with reasons to text you. That the second morning I woke up next to you I knew I wanted it to keep happening.” He tucks an errant curl behind her ear. “If you’ll have me.”

Rosaline lets her smile break her face and then pushes her lips against his. “I think dinner sounds nice.”

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her closer, their lips connecting again, and Rosaline has knows they both have to go back to their respective cousins before people start to wander where they are, but for the moment, she does not care.

“What are we doing?” he asks when he pulls back, eyes blown wide, breathless.

“Rebelling against out families,” she says, repeating his words from Isabella and Helena’s wedding. “Grabbing dinner. Possibly getting married in a few years.” Rosaline kisses him again, and then her phone buzzes in her dress pocket, and she knows they have to leave, have to get this wedding started, have to make sure the first Capulet/Montague union goes off without any bumps or mishaps.

But she doesn’t want to stop kissing him.

Her phone buzzes again, and then she feels his against her hip and they pull back, but they don’t step away from each other.

“We have to go,” he says, but he sounds like he would rather do anything else.

“We do,” she says, nodding, reaching into her pocket for her phone.

“I don’t want to.”

“Me neither.”

Her phone buzzes again, this time Juliet’s face lighting up the screen. A call instead of a text.

She really needs to go.

“Catch you down the aisle, Capulet,” he says, pressing another quick kiss against her lips, pulling how own phone out of his pocket.

“In your dreams, Montague.”

Before he can answer she answers the phone and starts her way back to the bridal suite, reassuring Juliet everything is fine, she’s one her way back, it’s all going to be okay.

She does see him at the end of the aisle before everyone is supposed to walk, and he gives her such a dazzling smile that even Livia notices its from her spot down the line, but the music starts before anyone can question it.

And then, Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet are married. Everything goes amazingly well, and they transition to the reception seamlessly, and Benvolio finds her almost immediately, and his hand intertwines with hers, and everyone at the table’s eyes widen almost comically, and Isabella is yelling that she knew it, and Antonio is passing Mercutio 20 bucks, and Rosaline should care but she doesn’t.

She’s too happy to.

Tonight, she is going to dance, and tomorrow she’s going to get dinner with him, and then maybe go back to his place and try making this more than hooking up every couple of months.

Tonight, she’s going to let herself be happy, and maybe even allow herself to start falling in love with a Montague.

She would like the record to state that it turned out to be a damn good decision.

#still star crossed #still star crossed fic #rosvolio #rosvolio fic #ssc #ssc fic #Benvolio montague #rosaline capulet #my fics #weddings!#this was super fun #ben and ros at there peak dumb selves

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truthofherdreams · 7 years ago

Note

prompt: ros helping benvolio after he's been physically hurt (possibly by his uncle if you're interested in that dynamic?)

She grits her teeth at Benvolio’s sharp intake of breath when she presses the cloth to his cheek, wishing that Livia was there instead of her. No, it isn’t true, she thinks to herself as she wills the alcohol fumes away, for she wouldn’t let even Livia take care of Benvolio in her place. Not when she finally has him sitting down and letting her take care of his wounds, not when he needs peace and quiet as much as he needs the blood to stop pouring out of his open cheek.

“I despise them,” she whispers, not even attempting to hide the anger in her voice. “Him most of all.”

The cloth turns crimson, and the only reason Rosaline doesn’t panic if for the knowledge that facial wound always look worse than they actually are. As long as she puts pressure on it for long enough, it will stop bleeding and not leave a scar on his skin.

“It is but a scratch,” Benvolio replies, and Rosaline hates that even more, for it comes with the knowledge that Benvolio’s uncle indeed did worse to him in the past. Details are not needed, for Benvolio’s shrivelling behaviour when facing his uncle is nothing like the smug, witty man she has come to love. Rosaline knows a scared man when she sees one.

“You clear your family’s name and bring peace back to Verona, and that is all the thanks you get?”

She lifts the cloth just enough to see the angry marks left by Lord Montague’s rings when he all but backhanded-slapped his nephew upon his return to Verona. The name of the murderer, and thus the clearing of Benvolio’s, mattered very little to the head of the House, when the shame Benvolio brought to his house seemed to carry more weight. The wound is not a deep one, but blood still cakes his cheek so she presses the cloth back to his skin and wills herself to calm down, with very little success.

“Why do you care so much?” he asks her, which is enough to have her own blood boiling once more.

“And why do you care so little?” she shoots back.

“I know to pick my battles. And this one I lost decades ago.”

This sobers her up just in time for Rosaline to feel her own heart shattering beneath her ribcage. She may have been at the receiving end of her aunt’s verbal abuse for a few years, but Benvolio has never known anything but the violence of a family who hates him for no other reason that hatred flooding through their veins. That he would be so defeatist about the abuse he receives make Rosaline want to weep, and to hug him until the broken pieces of his mind merge together once more until he knows for a fact that people do care about him so very dearly.

“Beside,” he goes on, flinching a little when she adds more alcohol to the cloth before dabbing it against his cheek, “I need my uncle’s wealth for one last favour, and then we will be free to live as we so wish, away from him.”

Despite her previous anger, a smile curls up Rosaline’s lips until she no longer is able to hide her grin. Benvolio’s announcement had come after their second betrothal – the meaningful one, the one they entered willing and, most importantly, lovingly. Benvolio had tried hiding it from her at first, but proved himself to be quite terrible at keeping a secret, and it had only taken a few moments of probing from Livia to learn what he was plotting behind her back. That he had somewhat convinced his uncle to buy her parents’ house for them to live as a married couple was nothing short of a small miracle.

The house will be theirs after the wedding ceremony, and so they have to wait yet another fortnight before calling it a home. And to no longer answer to anyone but themselves.

“And I was led to believe,” he adds with a smirk that finally reaches his eyes, “that ladies appreciate battle scars. They swoon over how brave it makes a man look.”

Rosaline presses the cloth a little more roughly against his cheek, if only to make him squirm, which he does before he sends her a reproachful glare. She replies with a sweet smile that doesn’t even attempt at being convincing. “Perhaps you should leave now and find those swooning maiden, then. I so happen to like my husband in one piece, and to know him safe, sound, and aware that his relationship with his uncle does not define him.”

The glare softens immediately, Benvolio’s lips curling into a gentle smile, before he nudges her stomach with his forehead. She lets him lean against her like this for a minute, smiling to herself, before she looks at his wound once more. The blood has finally, and thankfully, stopped flooding, so she cleans the blood away from his cheek before she discards cloth and bottle of alcohol to the side.

Benvolio doesn’t let her out of his reach for long, though, balling his fist around the fabric at her back and pulling her to him until he can press his face against her stomach once more. Her betrothed, she learnt soon enough, appreciates physical contact above all else and will go out of his way to keep her against him if given the chance. Not that Rosaline sees anything wrong in that, especially when she can run her fingers through is hair and forget about her worries in the comfort of his arms.

“Perhaps I found the finest maiden of them all,” he mumbles into the fabric of her dress.

And perhaps she found the best husband a woman could ask for.

#rosvolio #rosvolio ff #still star crossed #rosaline capulet #benvolio montague #otp: my beloved #fanfic #ff: still star crossed #tw: physical abuse #anonymous #asks

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cookieswriting · 7 years ago

Text

Just Thought I’d Check in on My Beloved - Pt 5

“Oh, Rosaline, look at how beautiful!” Livia called as she fawned over a dress hanging from a shop in the market. Benvolio chuckled, eyes turning to the lady on his arm. He ducked his head towards hers so that he could bury his nose in her hair and whisper into her ear. His hand settled at the small of her back, and an easy grin crossed his lips as she gave a slight shiver.

The easy affection in public was still new to the couple, and Rosaline could scarcely believe that it was real. Some days, this particular one included, maintaining respectful distance while in the company of others was quite a challenge. Her fiance was not one to help such matters, generous with his touch and flirtation as he’d become since the day they’d realized the depths of their feelings for one another. She’d never allowed herself to dream that such love could belong to her...and yet. “Go, my love, get her a beautiful dress for the ceremony. Find something lovely for yourself. I’ll handle the business for my uncle and then return to you.” He tucked a coin purse into her hand, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

Before he could step away, though, Rosaline curled her fingers around the back of his neck and tugged him down for a lingering kiss. “Be quick, Montague, lest we spend all your money.”

“All that I possess belongs to you, Capulet.” With a charming wink, he was gone.

“Rose, on with it, sister! He’s round the corner, you needn’t stare after him any longer,” Livia teased. Cheeks burning, Rosaline hurried to catch up with her younger sister, and fawned over the lovely dress in her hands.

“Oh, Liv, this is perfect!” She held it up to Livia’s shoulders and nodded. “How much, sir?” She glanced over to the shopkeeper, ignoring her sister’s surprised protest as she handed him the proper payment.

“Rosaline I cannot accept such a gift!”

“‘Tis not from me, and yes, you most certainly can. You deserve to be spoiled from time to time, and I’ll not complain if my fiance sees fit to be one of the men to see it done.” Truthfully, it was one of the many things that seemed to make her fall more in love with Benvolio; he’d never hesitated to include Livia into their family, their plans for the future. His loyalty to Rosaline meant loyalty to her sister, and Rosaline knew without a doubt that Livia would be well cared for. She gathered the dress, now properly covered, into her arms before offering it to her sister. “Oh, thank you! Now, what about you?”

Glancing around, Rosaline spotted a little shop selling jewelry and trinkets. “I have yet to find the perfect necklace to wear for the wedding ceremony. Will you help me?” Livia grinned and nodded, practically dancing across the market in her excitement.

“Lady Rosaline, a moment?”

The woman in question sighed lightly. “Prince Escalus,” she commented. “To what do I owe this visit, in the common marketplace, no less?” Livia looked back, but Rosaline waved her off. Royal guardsmen milled around the area.

“Your wedding day is drawing near.”

She waited for him to continue, and raised a curious brow when he did not. “Yes, Your Grace, it is.” In spite of herself, the thought made her heart flutter and a giddy smile turn up her lips. Escalus seemed to falter at her response. “Scarcely a fortnight.”

“Indeed. I...I suppose that I wanted to ensure that you are content with your decision.”

Once again Rosaline sighed, this time unable to resist the urge to roll her eyes as well. “Your Grace, perhaps you believed that what you saw between us after the attack several weeks past was for show...but I assure you that it was not. Believing my fiance to be dead did a spectacular job of revealing how deeply I’ve come to care for him. For just that brief moment, I looked at a future without him, and could not breathe.” She looked up at him.

The Prince had grown somber, and gave her a sad smile. “Forgive me, I was concerned for your happiness. I...I did not trust that he would be the man to provide it for you.”

“Oh, Escalus. That is not something you shall ever need to concern yourself with. You told me once that Benvolio Montague was a good and honorable man...and I assure you that he is. And happy?” She giggled and bit down on her bottom lip.

The sound of throat clearing drew the Prince’s gaze, but only made Rosaline grin wider. Benvolio approached the pair with wary eyes, hand resting easily against the hilt of his sword. She glanced at it, and then up at him. “Is all well?”

He turned his gaze to the Prince. “Just thought I’d check in on my beloved.” Rosaline bit down on her lips to smother a laugh. Escalus narrowed his eyes, likely working out where he’d heard that before.

“I assure you that I am fine.”

Benvolio raised a challenging brow at the Prince, who became visibly flustered. Escalus nodded, which seemed to placate her betrothed. Rosaline gave him a look to rival the one he’d just given their sovereign, and felt a thrill travel up her spine when he did not back down from her, challenge turning to heat in his blue stare. “If you would excuse me, gentlemen, I believe my sister is awaiting my company.” With a smirk, she turned on her heel and searched for Livia in the crowd.

“Do you think me a cruel man, Signor Montague?”

Benvolio tore his eyes away from the retreating form of his beloved, surprised at the frank question from the Prince. He thought for a moment, and shook his head. “No, Your Grace,” he replied honestly. “I do not believe you to be a cruel, or even a heartless man. I believe you to be opportunistic. You love Rosaline, that much I have never doubted...you love her the best way that you are able. You make choices and decisions to best serve your own agenda, regardless of who might be caught in the crossfire.” The Prince looked ready to protest, so he hurried to clarify. “For a sovereign whose agenda is protecting his people, this is the best that we, your people, can hope for. Unfortunately that all too often leaves Rosaline vulnerable, and so even the best that you can give her will always be less than she deserves.”

Escalus stared at him for a long moment, before nodding with a heavy sigh. “I...I thank you for your honesty, Signor Montague. Forgive me for any strife I have caused between you and Lady Rosaline.”

Benvolio grinned, and it felt as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Try as he might he could not hate the Prince, and to have him concede that he had no claim to Rosaline’s heart any longer, eased his distrust. “Your Grace, I can only be grateful for the role you have played in our lives, for the pride in both of our hearts would have surely kept us apart forever if not for your arrangement. You have my word that she will be well loved and protected for the rest of her days.”

With a respectful bow, Benvolio took his leave of the Prince. He jogged through the street until he found his ladies. His hand settled round Rosaline’s waist as he dropped a kiss to her temple, and Livia smiles excitedly at him, holding up the necklace she’d just shown to her sister. He looked from the jewelry to his fiancee’s lovely neck, and could not help but imagine removing it ever so slowly on their wedding night.

With a knowing look that does not leave Benvolio’s face, Rosaline pays for the necklace with a grin. “Is the Prince well, dear Montague? Or should we prepare ourselves for a life on the run?” Livia snorted and turned to walk ahead of them, giving the couple just enough space to speak privately.

“Fear not, Capulet, he is of sound health.”

She grinned at him, but then became somewhat serious. “You needn’t worry about him. For a thousand reasons, I choose you...not the least of which being that you love and care for my sister as I do. You, Benvolio Montague...you are the one I trust with my heart and my life. You understand my spirit, my unspoken needs and desires.” She stopped, lacing her fingers through his and drawing him close. “You are the one that I love.” With that, she leaned up and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. Benvolio grinned against her mouth, heart so full it felt as though it would burst at any moment. He freed his hands so that he could wrap his arms around her and twirl her round, and her resulting giggle was the greatest sound he’d ever heard. As soon as he set her down, his hands here in her hair to pull her in for another kiss, and Rosaline’s hands fisted in his doublet.

“And I love you, my sweet Rose.”

Livia called to them, voice light and teasing and eyes alight with joy. Benvolio lifted Rosaline’s knuckles to his lips, and then the couple followed along the streets of Verona towards what would only be the ladies’ home for but a fortnight more.

#ssc fanfiction #still star crossed #rosvolio #rosaline x benvolio #rosaline capulet #benvolio montague #livia capulet #prince escalus

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theonewithwaytoomanyfandoms · 7 years ago

Note

Rosvolio prompt: super happy & in love, so they run away and elope. Modern au maybe?

Slight warning for book spoilers of Still Star Crossed in this one-shot. It’s pretty vague, but here is your warning if you’re avoiding all such things.

___

Afterthe violence, the bloodshed, and everything else that had ended in the cursedcity of Verona, Rosaline Capulet was more than happy to try and achieve somepeace and quiet at last. The royal army,alongside the men of the Houses Montague and Capulet, had soundly defeated the invadingarmy of Mantua and the entire city was rejoicing in their unification bystanding strong as a powerful force once more. The only one that seemed to not be celebrating was Rosalineherself.

Shehad won some, but she had also lost much. The battle had destroyed nearly everything she held dear, yet she heldstrong through it all. Rosaline was sickof being strong all the time. Aftereverything that had happened, she just wanted to lay down and weep foreverything that would never be the same. Her beloved cousin Juliet had been gone for over a year. Verona’s dearest sons Romeo and Mercutio hadgone alongside her. Livia would never bethe same again. Although she was incrediblyrelieved to be leaving the city that seemed to be her prison, her sister wasstill incredibly somber when she left Verona a fortnight ago with the PrincessIsabella in order to become her personal companion during the royal’s newmarriage in Spain. At least there,Rosaline could be assured of Livia’s eventual happiness. Everyone else was dead or changed, itseemed. Even the Montagues, onceenemies, were some of her family’s greatest confidants in the days after thebattle. She frequently saw her uncle andLord Damiano in hushed conversation on how best to retain protection of thecity, strengthening the Capulet and Montague alliance even further.

Throughall of this chaos, Rosaline had one solid rock to fall back on. While her family was making new acquaintanceswith the Montagues, she had grown to love one of her own. Her fiancé Benvolio Montague had not come outof the battle unscathed, but he had come out alive, and for that she was sograteful. What started out as areluctant arranged betrothal formed into a respectful friendship and morerecently, quite a strong mutual love.

BenvolioMontague was Rosaline’s greatest surprise. He was everything that she could have ever hoped for in a lifepartner. Yet because of his name andtheir circumstance, this buildup of trust took a great while to achieve. Rosaline realized as they became closerfriends how similar she and Benvolio were and how much she enjoyed hiscompany. He was kind, intelligent,respectful, passionate, and lively; all qualities she admired. However, it was the way that he listened andtrusted her that truly caused her to fall in love with him.

Allthese things were going through Rosaline’s mind as she went to meet Benvolio atthe Montague palazzo. She could not standher family’s madness now that Livia had gone and wished to confront Benvoliofully about what they should do now that Verona was united and their betrothalcalled off, as neither of them actually wanted their betrothal called off. She smiled as she approached the gates andsaw him standing there waiting for her, trademark smirk upon his face as shemade her way up the steps toward him.

“Hello,love. The day is new and the sun is out. How do you fare?”

“Wellenough, Signor Benvolio. Grateful thatthe battle is over. And you? Do you farewell after fighting so much?” Rosalinereplied in a pinched manner. She hadbeen so worried for him when he had not come to her right after the battle,only to find that he had been held up by the prince in order to give himcounsel.

“Iam better now that I have seen your face my darling.” Benvolio said seriously, all sign of hissmile leaving his face. “Verona is safe,our families are no longer making war, and you are here with me. That is all that matters.”

“Benvolio,we aren’t betrothed anymore. We are freeto do whatever we wish, you know that, do you not?”

“Whosays we have to be betrothed to get married? Fair Rosaline, will you do the honor of becoming my wife in truth thistime? No games, no political alliance,no feuding houses. Just you and a manwho loves you very much.”

“Benvolio. Oh my darling. Yes, yes I would like thatvery much. But when? How? The city is inchaos, it could take months in order to be able to begin to plan something asbig as a wedding between our houses once again!”

“Whosays we have to do this in Verona?”

“You’renot suggesting we away and elope, are you Montague?”

Benvoliosmiled. “Where’s your sense ofadventure, Capulet?”

_______

Benvolioand Rosaline left Verona that night. Friar Laurence may have left the cityafter all of the madness, but he owed them a favor, and having him marry them seemedto be the perfect solution.

“Areyou sure this is what you want, Benvolio? Lady Rosaline? I do not think thatyour families would be happy to know-.”

“Ourfamilies have ordered us about enough. Look where that got us. Friar, wehave grown in the past year to be friends and in love. I trust Lady Rosaline with my life, and mylife is what I shall spend with her. Iwould not have it any other way.” Benvolio stated firmly. He’d hadenough people telling him what to do with his heart. Now he could fully promise to marry a womanhe loved. He would not let go of thatdream.

“Alright,then. Join together with myself and God as your witnesses.”

Andso the two families became one once more.

______

After,when Benvolio had taken his own dear Lady Montague to a nearby inn to celebratetheir wedding night, Rosaline smiled sleepily up at him.

“Areyou happy, Montague? Are you truly happyin this moment with me, no matter what we face back in Verona?”

“Mydearest Lady Montague, I am the happiest I have been in a good long while, andit is all due to you. May we be togetherin that city for better or worse until the day comes where we are old and gray,surrounded by the many children that come from this happiness.”

“Good. Go to sleep, husband. Tomorrow we must tell all of the ladies inVerona that they missed out on the gossip of the biggest wedding they wouldhave seen in years.”

Benvoliolaughed at that. “Always the plotter,Rosaline. Good night, my love.”

Sure,they may face scrutiny back in Verona, but wasn’t this what was going to happenanyway? And besides, it would be evenbetter for the city now that they were actually in love, Benvolio thought. For now, however, he was too tired to thinkabout his marriage in relation to politics. He simply wanted to roll over and hold his new wife. He was a lucky man to have actually have wonher affections, regardless of the amount of times she said she was a luckierwoman to have let him into her heart. With that thought, and a smile upon his face, Benvolio Montague fellasleep next to his bride with not a care in the world written on his face.

#my fic #ssc spoilers #still star crossed #rosvolio #rosaline capulet #benvolio montague #otp

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maryroxburghetrust · 6 years ago

Text

'The Fair Geraldine' by June Davey

Elizabeth Fitzgerald

Over the coming months historian June Davey will explore some of the fascinating figures and events associated with West Horsley Place. She starts with Elizabeth Fitzgerald ‘The Fair Geraldine’.

During the second half of the sixteenth century, a famous court beauty became chatelaine of both Hatchlands and West Horsley Place. She lived a long life and was married twice to rich and powerful men.

Lady Elizabeth FitzGerald was born in Maynooth, County Kildare, Leinster, Ireland in 1527. She was the daughter of the 9th Earl of Kildare, Gerald FitzGerald, Lord Deputy of Ireland and scion of an immensely powerful family in Ireland, with lands also in England and Wales. The FitzGeralds traced their origins to the Florentine Gherardini, with later Norman lineage. The dynasty – often referred to as ‘The Geraldines’ – gained large swathes of Irish land over several generations: a process of conquest begun by Gerald FitzWalter of Windsor (c.1075-1135.) He was already established in Wales before arriving in Ireland, and was married to a Welsh wife, Nesta ferch Rhys; they were the progenitors of the FitzGerald dynasty: ‘fitz’ derives from the Anglo-Norman ‘fils’ meaning ‘sons of Gerald.’ The Welsh connection through Nesta links the FitzGeralds with the Tudors. Elizabeth’s great -grandmother was Elizabeth Woodville, wife of Edward IV, and the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were second cousins.

FITZGERALD’S FALL FROM GRACE

In fact, the Geraldine family comprised two powerful branches. The Kildare was the most powerful: the other branch was ruled by the Earl of Desmond, and the two branches were often at loggerheads with each other. Kildare, being powerful and wealthy had enemies at court, who were constantly plotting his overthrow, and on many occasions he had to go to England to defend himself against such charges. He was usually able to vindicate himself, and remained on good terms with Henry VIII, but Wolsey was suspicious of him, and Henry, very aware of the earl’s influence, was forever watchful of events in Ireland. In 1533, Kildare’s wife, Lady Elizabeth Grey brought daughter Elizabeth and other children to London to attend at court. But in that same year the earl was finally accused of treason, and imprisoned in the Tower of London. A complicated web of events unfolded: as the young Elizabeth’s half-brother, Thomas FitzGerald, known as ‘Silken Thomas’ on account of his magnificent attire, and the silken banners carried by his retinue, immediately took over from his father as acting Lord Deputy of Ireland. He was a larger than life character, generous but impetuous, and in 1533 was only just twenty-one. He received forged letters, probably emanating from Kildare enemies at court, describing details of the execution of his father in the Tower. Silken Thomas sought vengeance, declaring: ‘I am no longer Henry Tudor’s Deputy. I am his foe.’1 There was a disastrous rebellion in Ireland, culminating in the murder of an Archbishop, which resulted in the excommunication of Silken Thomas and his five uncles. They were hunted down and arrested, brought to London and hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn, on 3rd January, 1537. When news of all this, reached the 9th Earl in the Tower, he is said to have died of a broken heart. Elizabeth’s oldest brother, another Gerald, aged twelve, now became 11th Earl of Kildare (later known as the Wizard Earl.) He went on the run in Ireland, and protected by friends and relations spend the next years on the continent: at one time he was Master of Horse to Cosimo de’ Medici, in Florence.

FAIR GERALDINE AT COURT

This was the extraordinary background to Elizabeth FitzGerald’s introduction to the court: she was sent to the household of Princess Mary at Hunsdon. Her younger brothers were raised in the court of Prince Edward. It was perhaps her family connections with the English ruling family that gave her some security.

In 1537, aged ten, Elizabeth’s childish beauty was immortalised by the poet, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, where she appears as ‘The Fair Geraldine.’ (Howard actually wrote the sonnet when he was in prison for beating up a ‘courtier;’ actually a courtesan.) Biographers now argue that such a sonnet was a stylised fashion, not evidence of a romance: in any case Surrey was already married to Frances Vere.2 It is thought he was trying to enhance the young girl’s chances of a good marriage when she was of age, praising her virtue, beauty and noble ancestry. She surely needed such help after the affair of her half-brother Silken Thomas and her five uncles.

MARRIAGE AND PROPERTY

In 1543, aged sixteen, Elizabeth married Sir Anthony Browne (c.1500-1548,) after the death of Alys Gage his first wife. She became step-mother to his eight children, including Mabel Browne, who later married her brother, Gerald, ‘The Wizard Earl.’ Gerald was eventually welcomed to the court of Edward VI, who restored all the Kildare lands to him. Sir Anthony was – and managed to remain – a favourite of Henry VIII, despite being a Catholic. He was a significant figure and court, and was knighted in 1523, and granted Battle Abbey in 1538. In 1539, he was made Master of the Horse for life, becoming a Knight of the Garter in 1540. In 1544, Henry gave him Hatchlands and the Manor of East Clandon. This was followed, in 1547, by the gift of West Horsley Place. One of the legacies of the Browne ownership of West Horsley Place is an intriguing Tudor room, adjacent to the drawing room, on the first floor of the house. It has a striking ceiling embellished with low reliefs which carry the initials ‘AB’ (Anthony Browne) and ‘EB’ (Elizabeth Browne.) This evocative and impressive ceiling decoration once extended to the far end of the Great Hall.

Sir Anthony Browne

WIDOWHOOD

In 1548, Anthony Browne died, leaving Elizabeth a widow, at just twenty-one. Two sons had been born, but neither boy survived infancy. Her stepson, Anthony Browne, later 1st Lord Montague, gave her ownership of West Horsley Place for her lifetime, and she retained Hatchlands. Later, in 1589, she appears to have given or bequeathed Hatchlands to her niece, Douglas FitzGerald, who is recorded as residing there in that year. (The Hatchlands connection still remains, as Alex Cobbe is connected with both FitzGerald and Browne families.) Elizabeth had remained friendly with Princess Elizabeth since childhood, and upon her husband’s death, she joined the household of dowager Queen Catherine Parr, now married to Thomas Seymour and living at Chelsea Manor. Her friendship with the future queen strengthened, and she also became well acquainted with the young Lady Jane Grey.

SECOND MARRIAGE & SURVIVAL

On 1st October, 1552, she married Edward Fiennes Clinton, Lord High Admiral, and later 1st Earl of Lincoln. She was his third wife and step-mother to his nine children. In 1553, she and Edward supported the claim of Lady Jane Grey to the throne. But when the plot failed, perhaps because of ‘Fair Geraldine’s’ long friendship with Mary Tudor, the couple managed to regain the new queen’s trust.

Edward Clinton, 1st Earl of Lincoln

Upon Elizabeth Tudor’s succession to the throne, Elizabeth FitzGerald became one of the ‘Unfeed Gentlewomen of the Privy Chamber,’ and was very much part of the Queen’s inner circle. She was in attendance at meetings with foreign dignitaries such as the Duke of Feria, King Philip of Spain’s ambassador. Her possible involvement in court intrigues brought about a fall from grace in 1561, when she was accused by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Matthew Parker, of weakness and disregard of duty. He even declared that she should be ‘chastised in Bridewell’3 for her failings. David Starkey suggests that the Archbishop had dismissed her as a ‘strumpet.’ 4(An epithet frequently applied to ladies of the court, whether deserved or otherwise. )

A ROYAL VISIT TO WEST HORSLEY PLACE

Elizabeth and Admiral Clinton spent time at West Horsley Place, and on the 17TH August, 1559, Queen Elizabeth visited them there. The Queen’s Master of Revels and Tents, Thomas Cawarden organised a masque (similar to an opera) called Shipmen and Maids of the Country. It would appear that Clinton built his own theatre for the occasion. 5 Guests of the Queen included Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Sadly, poor Thomas Cawarden died at West Horsley Place on 29th August, 1559, from complications following a broken leg. Martin Smith, whose historic construction company built Grange Park Opera in the orchard of West Horsley Place, has done significant research, and discovered documents describing the masque. The account describes thirteen tailors spending a fortnight creating costumes for the masque: ‘in purple cloth of gold barred over with gardes of cloth of green and silver, with sleeves of blue cloth edged with gold and red silk lace.’ 6 A team of court painters led by Richard Bossum, made ‘pictures upon cloth in the front and the gallery.’7 Barges carried set, costumes and props from the stores in Blackfriars to Hampton Court, and thence overland to West Horsley Place. Apparently it took a month to transport everything back to London.

In 1569, Elizabeth showed both spirit and acumen when she seized a ship which had been illegally taken by Martin Frobisher. She was exercising her husband’s rights as Lord High Admiral. Frobisher was charged with piracy, and Elizabeth was allowed to keep both vessel and cargo.

SECOND WIDOWHOOD

Admiral Clinton died in 1585, and Elizabeth spent part of her widowhood in West Horsley Place. Clinton had left her considerable lands and possessions for her lifetime, warning his son Henry to respect this. Henry reneged on his promise, to his father, but she managed to retain them. She is credited with planting a beech avenue which ran from St. Marys Church to Hillside Farm, acquiring the saplings from diarist John Evelyn’s nursery at Wotton. There was a friendship between her and the Mores of Loseley, and in 1588, the year of the Armada, she pleaded with Sir William More to ride over to West Horsley, as she feared a Spanish invasion.

‘The Fair Geraldine’ died in Lincoln, in March, 1590. She is buried in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle. The chief mourner at her funeral was her sister, Lady Margaret FitzGerald, who was both deaf and dumb. West Horsley Place passed to her stepson, Sir Anthony Browne, later 1st Lord Montague, who had also inherited other great houses from his father. Elizabeth Fitzgerald – forever ‘The Fair Geraldine’ – was an incredible survivor in an age of intrigue and danger.

Elizabeth Fitzgerald

Bibliography:

Childs, Jessie, Henry VIII’s Last Victim: The Life & Times of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2007

Hatchlands Park, The Cobbe Collection Trust/The National Trust

Starkey, David, Elizabeth, London: Random House, 2008

Wickham, Glynne, Plays and Their Makers, Up to 1576, London: Routledge, 2013. Vol 3

Brigden, Susan, Clinton, Elizabeth Fiennes de. www.oxfordnb.com/view/article.9549

www.historyofparliamentonline.org/volume.1509.browne-sir-anthony-1500-1548

http://silkenthomas.com.silken-thomas-history

Martin Smith, www.contsructionmanagersmagazine.com/heritage-specialist-song-surrey-opera-house

http://tudordynasty.com.elizabeth-fitzgerald-the fair -Geraldine

This article appeared in Around & About Horsley no. 241

‘The Fair Geraldine’ by June Davey was originally published on West Horsley Place

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jackson38toh · 8 years ago

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When “old chestnut” was new

Q: You’ve used the expression “old chestnut” on your blog, but you never explain its origin. Where does it come from?

A: There’s no definite answer here, but all the evidence points to an origin in 19th-century show business.

Before going on, we should mention that the word “chestnut” was spelled “chesnut” for much of its life, but we’ll use the modern spelling except when quoting an early source.

Since the 1800s, the Oxford English Dictionary says, “chestnut” has been used figuratively to mean “a story that has been told before, a ‘venerable’ joke.”

In extended use, the dictionary says, a “chestnut” means “anything trite, stale, or too often repeated.” The adjective “old” was added along the way for emphasis.

But what’s the literal connection? Did the stale old “chestnut” originally refer to the tree, to the nut, or perhaps to a chestnut-colored horse?

The OED’s formal answer: “origin unknown.” However, the dictionary offers a possible explanation.

The usage may have been inspired by an early 19th-century melodrama, William Dimond’s The Broken Sword, which includes a scene featuring a chestnut tree.

The comic relief in the play, first performed in London in 1816, is provided by Captain Zavior, a character who monotonously retells his old exploits, much to the chagrin of his long-suffering servant Pablo, who knows them by heart.

Here’s the scene involving the chestnut tree (we’ll expand the OED’s citation):

Zavior: Let me see—aye! it is exactly six years since, that peace being restored to Spain … I mounted a mule at Barcelona, and trotted away for my native mountains. At the dawn of the fourth day’s journey, I entered the wood of Collares, when suddenly from the thick boughs of a cork tree—

Pablo: (Jumping up.) A chesnut, Captain, a chesnut.

Zavior: Bah! you booby, I say, a cork.

Pablo: And I swear, a chesnut—Captain! this is the twenty-seventh time I have heard you relate this story, and you invariably said, a chesnut, till now.

Zavior: Did I? Well, a chesnut be it then. But, take your seat again.

Pablo: Willingly—Only out with the cork, and I’m your man for sitting.

Zavior: Well then—from the thick boughs of a chesnut, suddenly slipped down a little boy, who cast himself on his knees in the path before me. … I dismounted, fasten’d my mule to the—the—

Pablo. (Eagerly.) Chesnut.

Zavior. Well, well, the tree that stood next me.

The play, forgotten now, was very popular in its day. It got rave reviews, had long runs in London and New York, and was a favorite with touring theatrical companies.

So it’s “plausible,” as the OED puts it, that “chestnut” became show-biz slang for a worn-out story and, by extension, anything trite, stale, or too often repeated.

Unfortunately, the dictionary’s first citation for the figurative use of “chestnut” doesn’t appear until many decades later—1880.

But we’ve found what might be an early figurative use—a pun from 1826 playing off the “chestnut” that’s a joke against the “chestnut” that’s a horse.

Here’s the passage from Charles Dibdin’s comic poem “My Kingdom for a Horse,” which italicizes words for horse colors that have other meanings:

“No critic can carp at the bays, Though jokes on each chestnut he cracks, And, should he look blue at the grays, Molineaux will stand up for the blacks.”

(From Universal Songster: Or, Museum of Mirth, London, 1826. Tom Molineaux was an African-American prizefighter who toured professionally in Britain in the early 1800s.)

And we’ve come across an anecdote, supposedly from 1867, that was reported in a California newspaper, the Daily Alta, in its issue of April 27, 1885:

“Hanley, Harrigan & Hart’s old theatrical manager … says that the term originated eighteen years ago. He alleges: ‘In 1867 I was traveling through New York, putting an old play called ‘The Broken Sword’ on the stage with Marietta Ravel as leading lady.”

Here the manager summarizes the comic chestnut-tree routine from 1816, with Captain Zavior and Pablo, that we quoted above. He then continues:

“ ‘After the performance in Rochester, P. Connelly, dead now, was in one of the dressing-rooms with others of the company, and he started to get off a funny story. Everybody interrupted with shouts of ‘Chestnut!’ It clung to the company all season, and, of course, was soon caught by the profession.’ ”

The OED’s earliest example for “chestnut” used to mean something that’s repeated too often is from a May 27, 1880, American diary entry that also has a theatrical connection:

“When he said that the song was ‘Nancy Lee’ we girls nearly fainted! … Really, I thought we should choke with laughter and dismay. Think of doing that awful old ‘Nancy Lee’—such a chestnut!—in a romantic Portuguese opera, and following it up with that hoppy, romping dance!” (From Diary of Daly Débutante, first published in 1910 and written by Dora Knowlton Ranous, an actress in Augustine Daly’s theatrical company.)

And this 1889 example nicely meshes with the 1867 anecdote above. In Reminiscences of J. L. Toole (1888), by Joseph Hatton, the American actor Joseph Jefferson is quoted on the origin of “chestnut.”

After repeating the relevant lines from The Broken Sword, Jefferson continues:

“William Warren, who had often played the part of Pablo, was at a stage-dinner a few years ago, when one of the gentlemen present told a story of doubtful age and originality. ‘A chestnut,’ murmured Mr. Warren, quoting from the play, ‘I have heard you tell the tale these twenty-seven times.’ The application of the lines pleased the rest of the table, and when the party broke up each helped to spread the story and Mr. Warren’s commentary.”

From 1880 onward, the OED has citations for this figurative “chestnut”—and the more emphatic “old chestnut” (from 1886)—extending into the late 20th century. The expression has been used for everything from an old repertory piece to a stale idea for advertising copy.

Given the popularity of that old melodrama, it’s reasonable to suggest that the usage began among actors and spread into general usage.

However, another expression involving chestnuts was in the air when William Dimond’s play came along, and it might have given the figurative “chestnut” usage a boost.

This older expression, very popular in its day, was a catch phrase to the effect that a “horse chestnut” is not the same as a “chestnut horse.”

We’ve found scores of published examples, the earliest from an entry in the journal of Sir Nathaniel William Wraxall in reference to the 1808 session of the House of Commons. (The entry was included in his memoirs, published posthumously in 1836.)

Here’s the journal entry, from a passage largely devoted to parliamentary business:

“Mr. Matthew Montagu seconded the address to the throne. It was of him that General Montagu Mathew, brother to the Earl of Landaff, said in the last house of commons (upon some mistakes arising relative to their identity, produced by the similarity of their appellations), ‘I wish it to be understood that there is no more likeness between Montagu Mathew and Matthew Montagu, than between a chesnut horse and a horse chesnut.’ ”

When the story was picked up by a Philadelphia literary digest in 1809, it was embellished a little:

“There are two members in the house of commons, named Montagu Mathew, and Mathew Montagu; the former a tall handsome man; and the latter a little man. During the present session of parliament, the speaker, having addressed the latter as the former, Montagu Mathew observed, it was strange he should make such a mistake, as there was as great a difference between them as between a horse chesnut and a chesnut horse.” (From Select Review, and Spirit of the Foreign Magazines.)

That same parliamentary anecdote inspired a humorous poem that ran in the November 1808 issue of The Sporting Magazine, London.

The anonymous poem, “A Chapter on Logic: Or, the Horse Chesnut, and the Chesnut Horse,” was described by the editors as “occasioned by” the incident in the House of Commons.

It’s too long to quote here, but we’ll give you the gist. A young “Eton stripling” who’s a student of logic is invited to spend a fortnight at the estate of his uncle, who is something of a practical joker.

Sir Peter, promising to give his nephew a “chesnut horse,” leads him to a tree, shakes from its branches “a fine horse-chesnut,” hands it to the youth and says, “saddle it and ride.” By the rules of logic, he tells the boy, “a horse-chesnut is a chesnut horse!”

The poem became a popular recitation piece, remaining in print through most of the 19th century.

But apart from its humorous use, the motif of the horse chestnut versus the chestnut horse cropped up frequently in serious 19th-century British and American writing as a rhetorical device for contrasting and comparing. Here’s an example:

“No two things in nature, not a horse-chestnut and a chestnut-horse, could be more different.” (From Maria Edgworth’s novel Harrington and Ormond, 1841.)

As for the etymology of “chestnut,” the word for the tree in Old English, cistenbeam or cystbeam, was derived from Germanic sources.

But the term evolved in Middle English under the influence of Middle French. The Gallic word for the tree (chastaigne) gave Middle English a word spelled various ways, including chesteine, chasteine, and chesten.

In 1519, according to the OED, the term “chesten nut” showed up, meaning the nut itself. Later in the 1500s the word “chesnut” appeared in reference to both the tree and the nut.

As the dictionary explains, “Chesten-nut was soon reduced to chestenut, chestnut, and chesnut: the last was the predominant form (82 per cent. of instances examined) from 1570 to c1820.”

The “chestnut” spelling, which was adopted by Samuel Johnson in his dictionary of 1755, “prevails in current use,” according to the OED.

Current standard dictionaries no longer include the old “chesnut” spelling.

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from Blog – Grammarphobia http://www.grammarphobia.com/blog/2017/01/old-chestnut.html

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