"All is not lost," Penrith responded, his blue eyes offering Julia hope, "Montague is not the type to withhold forgiveness, when it is asked for. Though he does appreciate..."
Penrith trailed off, and looked momentarily pained, before he continued, "He is the type who appreciates a grand gesture."
"A grand gesture?" Julia mused, before she made the connection in her head between Penrith's words and his momentary look of mortification—The Proposal in The Pond.
Penrith's own grand gesture was so well-known, that it now even had an official name. The papers referred to it often, much, according to Charlotte, to Penrith's embarrassment. Julia had witnessed the duke's sodden declaration of love, and at the time had thought him fit for Bedlam. Now, here she was, standing in his metaphorical shoes, and she would gladly throw herself into the nearest body of water if it meant that Montague would forgive her.
"I do not know where he is," Julia whispered to Penrith.
"I do," the duke replied, "And, if you like, I may take you to him at once."
"We may take you," Charlotte interrupted, keen to be included in the fun.
"What—" Julia began, as fear overtook her, "What if he says no?"
A grand gesture was a perfectly fine thing for a duke to perform, given that society would forgive him almost anything. As a single woman, with no fortune or power of her own, Julia's grand gesture might lead to her ruin. If she were to publicly humiliate herself, and Montague refuse her, then she had nothing to fall back on—she would not even find work as a governess, such would be her fall.
"Montague will not let you down," Penrith assured her, seemingly reading her mind, "Put your trust in him, and he will not fail."
Trust; that was the crux of the issue. Julia had not trusted Montague when he said that he had changed his ways. Now she must put all her trust in him, and hope that he would come through.
Love makes anything possible, a voice whispered in Julia's ear.
"Take me," Julia agreed breathlessly, "Take me to Montague."
Charlotte let out a squeal of excitement and bounced along beside Julia as Penrith led the way. At the ducal residence, he called for a carriage and four, and before Julia even had a chance to rethink her decision, she was being spirited away through the streets of London.
"Montague comes here to watch lesser known plays," Penrith explained, as, a spell later, he led Julia and Charlotte into a small theatre in Covent Garden, "It's small enough to not be intimidating should you wish to stand up and proclaim your love."
"On stage?" Julia whispered, suddenly filled with fear.
"Well," Charlotte was tactful, "As you explained it, you did rather betray him. A grand gesture ought to be grand, should it not?"
Charlotte trailed off uncomfortably, but Julia smiled to let her know there was no hard feelings.
"I did betray him," she said, as she squared her shoulders, "And now I am ready to sacrifice myself on the altar of love."
"Metaphorically sacrifice," Charlotte whispered in her ear, as she drew Julia into a hug, "That dress is too pretty to get covered in blood. Now go, break a leg. We shall be here waiting."
Julia nodded and made her way up through the rows of seats. The play had not yet begun and the stage was empty, and with each step she took, she could feel the eyes of the audience following her.
All the world's a stage, Julia thought, as she braved the curious stares to clamber up the steps to the waiting boards.
The room fell silent, as what felt like a thousand pairs of eyes fell on Julia. For a second, she allowed fear to overwhelm her, but then one pair of eyes—darkest brown, but paradoxically bright and sparkling—met hers, and all of her fears fell away.
"O Romeo, Romeo," she began, her voice faltering slightly as a member of the audience gave a loud titter. "Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. And I'll no longer be a Capulet—I mean, Cavendish."
"Julia," Montague rose to his feet, but Julia was determined to continue.
Unfortunately, she could not recall the next line, and instead resorted to spouting out the next romantic prose she could remember.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" she began, blushing as the sound of even more laughter filled the room, "Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date—"
"Julia," Montague said again, as he crossed the theatre to reach her. In three long strides, he had reached the stage, was now clambering up toward her.
Was he going to tell her to be quiet? Fear filled Julia's belly, as the man she loved looked at her, his expression unreadable.
"What are you doing?" Montague whispered, as he placed a hand on her elbow, as though to pull her aside out of view.
