Daughter of Montague #1
June 25, 2024
Kensington (A John Scognamiglio Book)
ISBN-10: 1496750160
ISBN-13: 9781496750167
Available in: Hardcover, Audio, e-Book
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A Daughter of Fair Verona
Once upon a time a young couple met and fell in love. You probably know that story, and how it ended (hint: badly). Only here’s the thing: That’s not how it ended at all.
Romeo and Juliet are alive and well and the parents of seven kids. I’m the oldest, with the emphasis on ‘old’—a certified spinster at twenty, and happy to stay that way. It’s not easy to keep your taste for romance with parents like mine. Picture it—constant monologues, passionate declarations, fighting, making up, making out . . . it’s exhausting.
Each time they’ve presented me with a betrothal, I’ve set out to find the groom-to-be a more suitable bride. After all, someone sensible needs to stay home and manage this household. But their latest match, Duke Stephano, isn’t so easy to palm off on anyone else. The debaucher has had three previous wives—all of whom met unfortunate ends. Conscience forbids me from consigning another woman to that fate. As it turns out, I don’t have to . . .
At our betrothal ball—where, quite by accident, I meet a beautiful young man who makes me wonder if perhaps there is something to love at first sight—I stumble upon Duke Stephano with a dagger in his chest. But who killed him? His late wives’ families, his relatives, his mistress, his servants—half of Verona has motive. And when everyone around the Duke begins dying, disappearing, or descending into madness, I know I must uncover the killer . . . before death lies on me like an untimely frost.
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene
My name is Rosie, Rosaline if I’m in trouble, and I’m the daughter of Romeo and Juliet.
Yes, that Romeo and Juliet.
No, they didn’t die in the tomb. Brace yourself for a recap, and don’t worry, it’s interesting in a My God, are you kidding me? sort of way.
My mom was a Capulet. My dad is a Montague. For some reason lost in the mists of time, their families were deadly enemies. Yet my folks met at a party, instantly fell in love—nothing bad ever came of love at first sight, right?—and secretly got married. That very afternoon, Dad killed Mom’s cousin in a sword fight, then Mom hated Dad for about five really loud, lamenting moments, then she equally loudly forgave him. They fell into bed and as I heard it, spent the night doing the horizontal bassa danza. Papà went into exile because of the killing (in the next town a few hours’ gallop away), and Mamma went into a decline. To cheer her up, my grandparents decided she needed to get married. Because in my world, all a woman needs is a husband to be happy.
Has anybody in Verona ever once looked around at the state of the marriages in this town?
With typical Juliet melodrama, Mom decided she had to kill herself. The family confessor convinced her to take a drug that put her into a sleep that presented itself as death.
I know, you’re thinking—C’mon! There’s no such drug!
I promise there is. I work with Friar Laurence, the Franciscan monk and apothecary who mixed it for her. More about that later.
Mom took the sleeping draught, fell into a death-like state, had a terrific funeral with all the weeping and wailing her family is capable of—and let me tell you, that’s some impressive weeping and wailing—and was placed in the Capulet family tomb.
She was thirteen years old and to all accounts a great-looking corpse.
While in exile, Dad got the news his new wife had suddenly and inexplicably taken the long dirt nap. Being of equally dramatic stock, he obtained real poison, raced back to fair Verona, broke into the tomb, killed Mom’s fiancé—my father’s an impressive swordsman, which is a good thing considering how many people he can insult in a day—flung himself on Mom’s body, and took the real poison because his life wasn’t worth living without her.
He was all of sixteen years old and in my observations, sixteen-year-old boys are idiots or worse. But again, what do I know?
So Dad is draped all over Mom’s supposed corpse, to all appearances dead, and she wakes up and sees him. Can you imagine the theatrical potential here?
I can’t. Unless there’s someone watching, there’s no point in getting all worked up.
But I stray from the story, which I’ve heard countless times in my life in breathless breakfast table recountings.
Mom grabbed Dad’s knife out of the sheath and stabbed herself. There was a lot of blood, and she fainted, but essentially she stabbed that gold pendant necklace her family buried her with, the knife skidded sideways, and she slashed her own chest. She still has the scar, which, when I’m rolling my eyes, she insists on showing me.
What with all that blood, she fainted. When she came to, still very much alive, she crawled back up on the tomb, sobbed again all over Dad’s body, and got wound up for a second self-stabbing. It was at this point Dad sat up, leaned over, and vomited all over the floor.
It’s a well-known fact you can never trust an unfamiliar apothecary to deliver a reliable dose of poison.
Mom simultaneously realized two things: Dad was alive, and he was tossing his lasagna all over the place. In a frenzy of joy and fellowship, she brought up whatever meager foods were in her stomach.
An argument could be made that she was retching because vomiting is contagious . . . or it could be said I was announcing myself to the world. Because nine months later, I made my appearance into the Montague household.
Did you follow all that? I know, I know. But honest to God, strip away the melodrama and that’s what happened.
You might think—why is a girl of Rosie’s youth so sarcastic about love and passion?
Let me tell you a couple of things.
. When you have true love and wild passion and brokenhearted tragedy stuffed up your nose every day of your life, by your mother’s family, your father’s grandmother, your parents who constantly fight and reconcile and proclaim and monologue and fall into bed and have sex so loudly they keep the whole compound awake . . . love and passion lose a little bit of their gilding. In fact, the whole topic is positively off-putting. Also, I have six younger siblings, and someone with a little sense needs to care for them, and who else in this madly romantic family is there but me?
- Actually, I’m not young. My parents have been trying to marry me off to some nobleman or another since I was thirteen years old. As a proper daughter must do, I curtsy and thank them, then I go to work finding these gentlemen wives who they immediately fall in love with and adore forever. I pride myself on my ability to match the aristocrats of Verona with their soul mates, while saving myself from the travesty of love and passion and all that creaking of the mattress ropes and moaning and scratching and . . . You know. Consequently, I’m old, almost twenty years, a renowned for the bad luck of being repeatedly jilted, condemned to living in my parents’ house until my younger brother grows up, marries, and replaces my father as the head of the household.
He’s six. I’ve assembled all the abilities to remain single, and I’ve got all the time in the world . . .
Until the day I was summoned to my parents’ suite and heard my mother’s fateful words, “Daughter, your father and I have excellent news for you.”
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"This delightful, fast-paced mystery is a balm for the soul, with an ending that’s not only satisfying but leaves you wanting more of this heroine, this family, and Christina Dodd’s playful and clever voice." —Megan Chance, bestselling author of A Splendid Ruin
"A sharp, determined heroine, a clever historical mystery, sparkling wit, a unique setting, family drama and a dash of romance. I loved it! A DAUGHTER OF FAIR VERONA is the ultimate fan fiction." —Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author of THE NIGHT ISLAND.
“Five minutes into the book, I was already snort-laughing while reading passages out loud to my sister-in-law. On almost every page, I would call out, ‘OMG! You have to hear this!’ then read a sentence, or a paragraph, of the whole darned pages to her. She left after about the tenth time I did this because (a) she wants to enjoy the book in its entirety once it’s published and (b) at the rate I was going I would have read the entire book out loud because it’s just that good.” — The Romance Dish
Graced with an unforgettable cast of characters that includes the delightfully indefatigable Rosie and written with a cheeky sense of wit and charm Shakespeare would be proud to claim, Dodd’s well-executed launch of her new series is absolutely brilliant. -- Library Journal starred review
"Who has the audacity to write a book about Romeo and Juliet’s daughter? Christina Dodd, that’s who! With its twisty plot and engaging characters, A DAUGHTER OF FAIR VERONA is charming, funny, and totally engaging. First I smiled, then I chuckled, then I laughed out loud. It’s fresh, audacious, and altogether captivating. It’s such a treat to read something I haven’t read a thousand times before. I highly recommend." —Susan Elizabeth Phillips, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“…Note this book is appropriate for young adult to their grandmothers’ for reading. What fun that would be, a family book discussion.”—Reader Maureen, Goodreads review of A DAUGHTER OF FAIR VERONA
"Shakespeare may roll over—then he’ll sit up and applaud!!" —Mary Bly (Eloisa James), Shakespearean professor and New York Times bestselling author of LIZZIE AND DANTE.
"A tour de force! Witty, charming, snarky and just plain fun. Shakespeare is going to wish he'd written this!” —Susan Mallery, #1 New York Times bestselling author
"Christina Dodd’s A Daughter of Fair Verona is the book I didn’t even know I was waiting for—fun funny charming and absolutely delightful. If you’re looking for a novel to sweep you away and lift your spirits look no further." —Kristin Hannah #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Women
"Launching a new series based on an alternate ending to Romeo and Juliet, Dodd spins an entrancing story…." — Publisher's Weekly
Booksellers talk about A DAUGHTER OF FAIR VERONA:
"This fresh and fun historical brilliantly showcases Dodd's inventive plotting skills and flare for creating captivating characters. Infused with a sharp and saucy sense of wit the Bard himself would be proud to claim as his own." — John Charles, Poisoned Pen Bookstore (Scottsdale, AZ)
“An Elizabethan romp of a murder mystery, with sass, suspense and even some swooning.”—Tegan Tigani, Queen Anne Book Co. (Seattle, WA)
In Fair Verona where we set our scene
In the kitchen of Casa Montague
“The child is hellbent on destruction, Madame.” Nurse stomped into the top floor kitchen bustling with scullery boys and sous chefs, smelling like drying herbs and bubbling broth, and overly warm from the cooking fire that heated the great iron skillet. She planted her broad fists on her broad hips, and stared grimly at Lady Juliet. “Again.”
Juliet looked up from the lemon she was slicing. “Which child?” She had seven children; nevertheless she had a good idea who Nurse was talking about.
“Rosaline. Rosaline, your eldest daughter! Who continues to plan and scheme to live her life as she wishes it to be, rather than listen to the wisdom of her parents.”
Juliet laughed. “Or you?”
“Yes!” Nurse threw her arms in the air.
Juliet didn’t have to be here, standing at the broad wooden table, but in the last year Cook had grown increasingly fragile and crippled with the joint disease…and while Juliet didn’t manage the household well—Rosie did that—and didn’t manage the accounts well—Rosie did that—Juliet loved to prepare food for her family. For her, the kitchen was the heart of their home. She knew she was a lucky woman; she surrounded herself with love and all the gentler emotions, and her Romeo indulged her by adoring her as she adored him.
“It’s all very well for you to laugh.” Nurse pushed a stool under Juliet’s bottom and hefted her up on it; she did not approve of her mistress standing when she could be sitting. “You’re not in charge of maintaining the girl’s purity in the face of so many men who wish to take it from her!”
Juliet slanted a glance at Nurse.
“Yes, I know. As her mother, you are, but I do the day-to-day work of guarding her like a dragon. Men pant after her, because she looks like you, my lady, with your curves and your sweet face, but Lady Rosaline's sweet face is a lie. She’s an ungoverned demon!” Nurse looked around, found one of the whole plucked chickens, dragged it toward her and pulled her knife from her sleeve.
Cook sighed mightily.
Nurse shook her knife at her. “I know how to cut a chicken!”
“You do indeed. I’ve seen many of your chicken pieces.”
Juliet discerned the double meaning in that, although the never-subtle Nurse did not.
“What I need done is”—Cook pointed at the breasts piled up in quantities large enough to feed the Montague family—“debone those and slice them in into thin broad pieces.”
“Why would I do that?” Nurse was always belligerent if she couldn’t readily discern a reason.
Because I told you to. Juliet could see it hover on Cook’s lips. She was, after all, the commander of her kitchen.
Cook and Nurse had clashed before, it was always loud, and would disrupt the low hum of the kitchen business as they prepared dinner for the Montague family and household.
So Cook chose the peaceful explanation. “It’s summer. It is warm outside and hot inside. I want cutlets that cook quickly on the griddle. After you slice the breasts, you cover them in a towel and pound them with a mallet.” She pointed at that implement on the copper rack.
“Then what?” Nurse demanded.
“Then I create a masterpiece.” Cook finished her explanations, and turned to Juliet. “My lady, you’ve cut sufficient lemon slices. If you wish, you may stem and chop the parsley leaves.”
Juliet said, “I’m at your disposal,” and pulled the large bunch of washed parsley toward her. She knew, as did Cook, that if she obeyed Cook’s orders without argument, Nurse would be so inclined. Also, it was best to change the subject. “Nurse, what has Rosaline done now?”
“She can’t see what is as plain as the nose on my face!”
Nurse’s nose was an edifice created to sniff out the smallest lies among her charges, so that was saying something.
“She refuses to fall in love as is proper!” Nurse deboned and sliced the chicken breast with skillful zeal. The woman had a well-deserved reputation for knife-work, and not always in the kitchen or at the table. The last man on the Verona streets who tried to rob Nurse no longer had the gonadi to create further bambinas.
“Rosie was never a sentimental child,” Juliet said. “Remember when she was seven and we let her hold her newborn sister to introduce her to the household—”
Nurse started to chortle.
Cook asked, “Which sister was that?”
“Katherina,” Nurse said.
“—and Katherina took that first, massive baby poop?”
“It leaked through her wraps and onto Rosie's new sleeves, the ones I made her to convince her another baby in the family was worthy of celebration.” Nurse rocked back and forth as she laughed.
“She handed that baby to me and in a tone of such lofty, adult disgust, she announced, “Mamma, I do not know why you and Papà continue to produce such ill-mannered beasts as these.’” Juliet grimaced. “I should have known then what her future would hold.”
“What woman doesn’t want babies?” Nurse demanded.
“What woman wants baby poop?” Cook returned with prosaic good sense. To one of the scullery boys, she said, “Bring me the jug of lemon juice from the cellar. Do you remember which one it is?”
Tommaso was perhaps fifteen, all legs and arms with a pock-marked face that showed his brutal past on the streets, yet Juliet thought he showed promise.
“Yes, Cook,” he said. “It’s the yellow clay jug on the bottom shelf. Yesterday, I squeezed the last of the lemons and filled it myself. Shall I bring the lemon zest also?”
“A good thought. No more than this.” Cook slowly made a circle of her crooked fingers to show him what she required. “Also a dozen shallots, four heads of garlic, and the salted capers. Can you carry all that?”
He smirked. “Of course, Cook.” He bowed and ran from the room.
“Forsooth, Madame, you were right to pick him up out of the shit. He’s cleaned up well and he shows intelligence I wouldn’t have imagined.” Nurse didn’t like to admit when she was wrong, no more than anyone did, but she generously gave praise when it was due.
She was a good-hearted woman, Juliet’s wet nurse who had come with Juliet into the Montague household. She had eased the way for the young, pregnant bride and for all the Nurse had her loud irritations and outspoken opinions, she was swift and smart and would kill for Rosie and all the children in her charge.
Juliet placed her head on Nurse's shoulder. Nurse leaned her head against Juliet’s and they took a moment to revel in their mutual affection. When Juliet lifted her head, Nurse began with good humor pounding the pile of chicken cutlets before her. She looked up and grinned. “This is fun!”
“I want them thin”— Cook showed her the width between two fingers—"but unbroken,” Cook instructed. “When you do that, place them beside Lady Juliet.”
As Nurse pounded the chicken into cutlets and piled them beside Juliet, Cook added handfuls of well-crushed bread crumbs to a plate, mixed in fine crushed sea salt and a small amount of pepper she had ground herself, and handed it to Juliet. “Dredge the cutlets and shake off the excess crumbs.” Then, sensibly, she said, “You complain that Lady Rosaline refuses to fall in love as is proper. By that you mean with one of her suitors?”
“Yes!”
“It’s been the case for all of Rosie's betrothals, so that cannot be the only explanation.” Juliet needed to get to the real reason of Nurse's perturbation to discover whether this was one of Nurse's tempests in a teapot or if she needed to intervene. “What has Rosie really done?”
“She encourages Imogene.” Nurse's cheeks turned a sturdy red.
Imogene was twelve, a hoyden and possibly Rosie's favorite sister…not that anyone else suspected that, but Juliet could discern the fondness of one hoyden for another. Patiently, she asked, “What has Imogene done?”
“She climbed the walnut tree and when I scolded and told her to come down because she’s a young lady now and she needs to stop having fun, Lady Rosaline climbed up to sit with Imogene and grin at me like a…a monkey in a jungle.” Nurse swung her broad arm to the east where she imagined monkeys and jungles must reside.
Ah. More of a clash of wills than a real issue. Her healthy children were a joy—most of the time—who of course pushed the limits of all that was right and proper. That was what children did and, when she wasn’t dealing with the fallout, she was happy for that. She didn’t want meek progeny who would be victims. She wanted them to be strong, to stand up to life’s challenges, as she and Romeo had done. Although…possibly without all the blood and death.
Juliet set to smoothing Nurse's ruffled feathers. “The children do love to climb that tree. Its mighty branches appeal to even me.”
Nurse's eyes grew round in horror. “Madame, you would not! Not in your condition!”
“No, I would not. Yet as they face the wind and imagine they fly, so my soul wishes to soar.” Juliet took Nurse's chicken-sticky hand. “Let the children be children as long as they can. Torn skirts can be easily mended, but offspring confined to adulthood too soon is a bitter brew.”
“Walnut stains!” Nurse pointed out.
Cook handed Juliet a wet towel to wipe her hand clean. “When I was a girl, I was ambitious. I worked hard to learn my trade and become a cook in a noble household such as this. I imagined that someday I’d have time to scale my trees and swing on their branches, have a family and children and a life. Yet a souffle cannot rise twice, and I cannot ever be so young again.” She looked wistfully at her crooked fingers. “When I go to heaven, I pray that the Virgin will assign me to a flowering peach tree where I may climb and lounge and smell the ripe fruit.”
Nurse stared at Cook as if she comprehended at last.
Juliet rubbed Cook’s hunched shoulder and again comprehended how well her own impetuous marriage had turned out. She thanked Jesus and St. Xeno for that.
Nurse harumphed and turned back to pounding the chicken. “Lady Imogene tried to tell me ripped skirts were in fashion!”
Juliet grinned as she breaded one cutlet after another. “That kid keeps us all on our toes.”
“She said her friends admire her torn clothes.” Nurse puckered her mouth as if the words she spoke tasted off. “She said Princess Isabella offered to trade her a pearl-embroidered silk bodice for the skirt she snagged on a branch while running through the garden.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Juliet said. “As if anyone would ever think to make a fashion statement in torn clothes, much less trade or buy—”
Cook cleared her throat.
Nurse and Juliet turned to her.
She nodded at them.
“You’re jesting!” Juliet couldn’t believe it. “Ripped clothes are in fashion?”
Cook nodded. “Among the young, for the most part, but in the market I saw Lady Luce wearing sleeves that had been deliberately shredded.” She widened her eyes, a statement without words.
Nurse had the words. “She is ever ridiculous,” Nurse pronounced, and returned to the subject dear to her heart. “Lady Juliet, whatever the children tear, I’ll make them mend!”
“Most certainly. Children may have their dreams, but they need to learn the consequences of their actions and how to responsibly partake of the results.” Juliet watched Tommaso return with the garlic, shallots, a clay jar of caper buds and a jug of lemon juice, which Cook accepted with thanks.
The hum of the staff excitement grew louder as the time for Cook to work her magic approached.
With the precipitousness of summer thunder, they heard the thump of footsteps running up the stairs toward the kitchen. All turned to see Rosie dash in. Her gaze fixed on a loaf of fresh bread. In some great hurry, she snatched it up and tucked it into the basket on her arm. A small bottle of olive oil followed, a large slice of soft white cheese, a branch of fresh basil, a handful of apples and summer grapes that time had withered into raisins.
Nurse cleared her throat.
Only then did Rosie look up to see the phalanx of eyes fixed on her. Not even for a moment was there dismay; instead she curtsied to Juliet. “Madame Mother. I bid you good day.”
“Good day to you, also, Rosie.” Juliet met her headstrong daughter’s rueful gaze. “Don’t ruin your appetite. Cook is preparing your favorite, chicken piccata.”
“Lovely!” Rosie glanced in the basket. “Only one loaf, Mamma, among so many of us.”
“All of you?” Juliet asked. “In the tree?”
“Yes. We taught Princess Isabella to climb.” Rosie grinned impishly at Nurse and ran out the door.
Nurse turned to Juliet and gestured wildly after Rosie. “The princess? They taught the princess of Verona to climb our walnut tree? Lady Juliet!”
“They have taken Princess Isabella into their hearts, and she is much happier among our children,” Juliet pointed out the truth.
Nurse nodded grudgingly.
To Cook, Juliet asked, “Do you need us to prepare more ingredients? For with Rosie's generous heart, we may have half of Verona to dine tonight, and at Table Montague, all shall feast!”
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