Is the Law of Our Side?: Part Four

"I have done nothing but in care of thee, o thee, my dear one - thee my daughter, who art ignorant of what thou art."

November 13th

Goneril sat alone in her study, basking in a quiet night, a warm fire, and a certain degree of satisfaction. She had fared reasonably well in court so far, both on her own merits and in comparison to her niece. Juliette did not know her place, but, with each passing day, the stupid girl was earning herself an ever-more painful reminder. Juliette, Hermia, and Tybalt had been born Capulets but chosen to be traitors. Goneril would make examples of them all. Verona would see what happened to those who tried to destroy the House of Capulet. After the traitors would come the Montagues. Although she would have enjoyed watching Antonio Montague humiliate and destroy his family across the years, she could not be so selfish. A safe and secure Verona would have its charms, too.

A knock at the door drew Goneril out of her thoughts. The only person who visited her study at this hour had returned home, though Goneril planned to call on her in the morning. Hal's grumblings had betrayed the seriousness of his intentions toward Bottom Summerdream. The response would have to be both swift and quiet; she and Regan would be safe from prying ears at Middleham. Goneril hoped this knock was not her son come to spew his feelings and test her patience. "Yes?"

"May I come in?"

Thank God. "Of course, dear." An evening's worth of Fae wine had warmed Goneril's manners considerably. She smiled at her child, who tarried at the door as she had so often done in the past. Tonight, however, she looked afraid rather than disdainful. "Come, sit with me."

Without a word, Miranda took her aunt's usual chair.

"Sleepless night, dear?"

She nodded. "I thought you, of anyone, would also be restless."

Goneril tipped her cup steeply, drawing the last rivulets of sweet wine across her lips. "Why would I be restless?"

"Why wouldn't you be?" Miranda asked incredulously. "Lady Iden ruled against you."

"Am I to believe that displeases you, Miranda?" Sarcasm tainted Goneril's tone.

"Believe what you want, Mother. I should have known better than to try to talk to you," she muttered as she began to rise.

With only a look, Goneril ordered her daughter to stay in her seat. "Put yourself in my position and see if that was an unreasonable question. If Miralene treated you the way you have treated me, would you trust her?"

Miranda adopted a favorite tactic of her mother's: answering a question with a question. "If you suspected your mother only valued you as a conduit of grandchildren she could shape in her own image because you were a disappointment, would you act any differently than I have?"

"I don't know. I wanted my birthright before I knew what it was, wanted to walk in my mother's footsteps. I suppose," Goneril continued thoughtfully, "that is why I could never understand your love of defiance."

"I always thought it rather simple, Mother: I'm not like you and don't want to be. I can't apologize for that, but," Miranda hedged, "I can now sympathize with your misfortune of birthing me first."

"Your birth was not a misfortune." Goneril had often though the order was, truth be told. Desdemona was more impressionable, more malleable. Goneril couldn't give Desdemona the nerve that Miranda came by naturally, but she might have been able to build up other strengths. Yet, Goneril still held out hope for Miranda. She could never forget holding her for the first time, never forget looking down at the tiny, perfect example of a Capulet she had created. She had promised that babe the world that was her due as the firstborn of the firstborn. What kind of mother overlooked that obligation? Certainly not the kind Goneril wanted to be. There was still time to make it right. "You were born for greatness, and it has been my duty to make you ready for it. For that, I cannot apologize."

"I know. Some part of me still resents you for what you've done, but lately... lately, I think I understand it. I would do anything for my daughter. She deserves the world, and she will have it, no matter what it costs me." Miranda looked briefly at her mother and then returned her sad, resigned eyes to their downward gaze. "I'm so worried for her. Every time I close my eyes, I see Lord Montague raving at us. He wouldn't think twice about hurting her."

"That fool isn't worth your concern," Goneril promised. "If his own incompetence isn't his undoing, I will be. I will crush him and his kind into the dirt if he so much as lifts a finger to punish us for the crimes of another."

Miranda swallowed hard. In a heartbroken voice, she forced the words, "I know you will. I'm not worried about you."

An unfamiliar hope awakened in Goneril's breast. Great control was required to continue without revealing it. Miranda's words were promising but not quite enough yet. "It is no crime to want a dear friend to have their heart's desire, but neither that nor a lifetime of acrimony can overcome a mother's love for her child. You should not feel guilty for wanting Miralene to be safe from our enemies."

"It isn't just that, though. I've thought a lot about our relationship, Mother, since Mira was born. I've realized that we are not entirely dissimilar. You couldn't fathom my rebellion, and yet I expected Mira to share in it from the first. She might not. She will be her own person, perhaps even a person who thinks more like you than me. I could have been hoping for a future in which she feels robbed of her birthright," Miranda cried. "I could have been hoping for a world where she isn't safe!

"It hurt to see the difference made so plain in Court. Hermia supports her sister as anyone would want to do, but Juliette is weak. She hasn't the wit to speak for herself or the mettle to put a madman in his place. I don't think she even really wants the title so much as she feels owed it. How can she safeguard our lives, much less our place in the world? What will it mean to be a Capulet under such bad leadership, if we are even alive at all?"

Had Goneril been a poet or a romantic, she would have later described hearing a heavenly choir behind Miranda's sorrow. It was the anguish of the conflicted, of a woman whose heart had been torn and who had reluctantly chosen which part to leave behind. Tolerating another Norman worm in the family had borne fruit beyond all hope. "I wish you did not have to learn these hard lessons, my dear girl, or have them ruin the first months of Miralene's life. All I can offer is my promise that you will never have to live in such a fearful world. I will prevail."

"You can't be certain."

"Of course I can."

"How? You've already lost one argument in Court. Honestly, I thought you would be furious."

Goneril admitted to not being delighted with the decision - an understatement, if there ever had been one. In the moment, she had nearly called Charlotte Iden on the carpet for her ingratitude (for the woman could not be so delusional as to think her brother was himself worthy of Desdemona's hand.) The role of the calm, rational sister had momentarily fallen to Regan, who had shown Goneril there was a reason to hope. It was possible that Lady Iden was disloyal or stupid enough to think she could outmaneuver a Capulet. It was possible that the current Hereditary High Magistrate was as rigid and self-righteous jurist as her late mother. Yet, it was also possible, if not probable, that Charlotte Iden was simply enjoying her power and prolonging the trial for that reason, proof of the like mind they had heretofore considered her to be. With a fearful Miranda within her grasp, Goneril would not risk entertaining doubt. "Ruling the will valid does allow her to lord herself over the rest of us for longer than if she had not. She recognizes power and has a taste for it. To such a like mind, a paper written in anger and forgotten in grief will not be the only thing on her mind when it comes to her final decision."

"And if it is not?"

"Then I may have to clear the way for a more suitable match for Desdemona. Lady Iden knows I am not to be crossed."

"Of course." Miranda shifted her weight yet again. Her gaze was still mostly drawn to her lap or to the fire, interrupted by only brief glances at her mother. "Still, you are not her only consideration. This will be an important ruling, one she is held to for life. Outsiders do not remember Grandmother as a woman of unsound judgment."

Goneril smirked as she scrutinized her daughter's expression. She could not be sorry to see Miranda's suffering. In the end, these growing pains would benefit both Miranda and the family. "Outsiders, you say? Do you have a charge to lay at her feet?"

"After yesterday? I absolutely do," Miranda snapped. "This Lord Montague might only be a fool, but his father was a monster. Why was tolerating their existence more important than protecting us? How could any of you support such a stupid choice?"

"Your grandmother was shattered after your aunt's death in a way that never heals. She justified her choice by insisting the family was unprepared for war. You mustn't be too hard on her, dear. She was acting on her emotions, trying to keep us all safe in the short-term. I didn't agree, and I did what I could - more, truth be told, than a dutiful daughter ought - to change her mind, but she wouldn't be moved. I was too near my time with Ariel to be taken as anything but a frightened expectant mother. And," Goneril continued after a short pause, "as you well know, forceful personalities can strain the relationship between mother and daughter."

"You and grandmother were arguing?" Miranda asked, disbelieving. "I don't remember it at all, at least not before the fire, and even then, I'm not sure what is real and what isn't from that time."

"Grief can tax one's manners. Before your aunt's death, however, I was very mindful of appearances when I disagreed with your grandmother. Loyalty to one's lady or lord is a sacred duty. You were too young to know such loyalty is more easily said than done."

"What was the disagreement between you?"

"Your Aunt Regan and I had fresh ideas on how to grow the family's wealth and influence, whereas your grandmother was increasingly attracted to simplicity and the illusion of safety. We three locked horns often. As a daughter, I thought it my duty not to let my mother forget her own greatness." Now came Goneril's turn to examine her lap. "I also resented my mother's sudden favoritism toward Cordelia, and I let both of them know it. I never imagined I could run out of time to set things right - twice."

"Grandmother must have felt the same way." After a beat, she added, "What a shame that she left you no means to prove it."

A strange expression crossed Goneril's pinched features. Her eyes hardened, two impenetrable chips of lead. "Indeed. I never believed her to be so secretive while she lived, but she was. Your grandfather, God rest his soul, was our best hope of peering into her heart, delusional as he had become. The reasonable among us are left to infer and assume that her grief outlasted her time."

"By anyone who truly knew her, at least."

Goneril raised a brow. "Meaning?"

"Just that. Hard as it may be to believe, I agree with you. A woman fixated on immediate safety wouldn't leave such a vague will if she was thinking clearly."

"But you believe outsiders could come to other conclusions?" Goneril's lips pressed into a tense, thin line as Miranda nodded. "Why? Is there something you know? Something you haven't shared with me?"

"No, Mother."

"Miranda," she warned, "if you are truly concerned about your daughter's safety, you would do well to tell me everything. If you aren't, you will be as soon as her future is in Juliette's hands."

"I swear to you, I know nothing. Even if I had spoken to Hermia these last few months, she wouldn't have told me anything to do with the challenge. I've merely had quite a lot of time to think on things recently, and Grandmother's intention is an interesting topic. It doesn't take much imagination to start inventing details."

"Such as?"

"You can't possibly think I have stumbled upon anything you haven't, and it's rather late to be scolded for not being as clever as you are, Mother."

"I am in earnest," Goneril said. "Please, enlighten me. I should like to hear what you have to say, dear."

Miranda skeptically eyed her mother for a long moment. When her expression didn't change, Miranda let out a long, tired breath and relented. "The most salacious slander that came into my head was Grandmother leaving the will vague on purpose because she didn't trust you. She meant to change it someday, just as you said, but only after she was sure the next heiress was safer from you than..." She gulped. "Than Aunt Cordelia."

Immediately, Miranda looked away to spare her eyes the searing heat of her mother's reaction. Her gaze inched back when the flames did not come, and they found a most distressing and unfamiliar scene.

Goneril had not killed her sister. She had mourned her. Even if she hadn't loved or even much liked her, Cordelia had been her sister and a Capulet. That alone had been enough to spark Goneril's desire for vengeance. She had raged at her mother's merciful response, unwilling to hold her tongue even in mixed company if it might eventually change the tide. She had waddled as she raged, every step a reminder of a babe on the cusp of existence. Goneril had so wanted to make sure that child never shared the air with the monstrous filth who had burned Cordelia out of existence.

Her anger had been so great that she had lashed out at Cordelia's memory. She still didn't understand what Cordelia had been thinking. After escaping with her girls, she had abandoned them to go back into the house. Cordelia couldn't have known then that the Montague agents had already fled or that her son was even still alive and able to be rescued. And then, to simply send Tybalt out and go back into the thick of the fire herself? That was beyond any mortal comprehension. Three children and all her own family had somehow not been enough for Cordelia. She had wasted her life on Caliban Gale, once and for all.

Although, to her credit, Cordelia had understood her failings in the normal course of things. Goneril's sad baby sister had wanted what she was suited for: a quiet life with her brats and slack-jawed husband. Had she lived, Cordelia could have passed that wisdom on to Juliette. Had Goneril learned of the change in her mother's will, informing Cordelia would have put an end to it. Cordelia would have refused it for herself and her children and retreated to the little domestic haven she had created at the dower house. Their mother would have had no choice but to change the will back and put the past behind them. The world would never have been the wiser.

In an alternate world, one where Cordelia had been ambitious, Goneril still would not have killed her. The fire had changed Goneril profoundly. It had ripped open her eyes, forcing her to see the ultimate cruelty of the world and the futility of honor as she had once known it. Spared enemies would always breed new enemies. When treachery crept into their minds, the new generation would act, emboldened by the pathetic mercy shown their forebears. Anyone who allowed such dangerous breeds to continue was herself an enemy, even if she had hair of gold, wore crimson gowns, and called herself a Capulet. Generations of such traitors to the House of Capulet were as guilty of setting that fire as Patrizio Montague had been. Such enemies had to die. Without Cordelia's death, Goneril would not have learned that lesson.

At long last, Miranda's voice broke through Goneril's contemplative fog. "Mother?"

"This is just your imagination running wild, is it?"

"Of course."

"You don't believe I burned my own sister alive?"

"Absolutely not!"

Goneril fixed her daughter with a hard glare. "But perhaps at another, more ignorant time? Perhaps you and your cousins discussed this fancy?"

"Mother, I swear to you, on my life, on Mira's life! It was just a speculation on what someone else might think! If my cousins think this, then all three are the greatest actors in the country. They have never let on that they blame anyone but the Montagues. I may not have agreed with very much of what you have done or said in recent years, but I never thought you would kill your own sister. If I did, I would not be trusting to you to protect my daughter."

Although she knew her desire to have Miranda's loyalty clouded her judgment somewhat, Goneril wholly believed those words. Miranda hadn't stooped to her late aunt's level, but she absolutely loved her daughter. Love of a daughter would be the making of Miranda Capulet.

"I'm sorry if I upset you," Miranda added meekly.

"You didn't." Here Goneril paused, for the words could not come so naturally. There was still a dance to be performed. "I am upset with myself for not considering the possibility. Like you, your cousins were too young at the time to be brought to the table after the fire, and the time never came when it didn't seem cruel to revisit the issue. A desperate mind may see a false opportunity in the lack of details and not care about the consequences."

"The Montagues?"

"Perhaps, though we are fortunate that their lord could be so easily defeated. I worry more for the family. I know the truth more than anyone living," she sighed, "and the ache of it never goes away. Your grandfather's death is still a fresh wound, and we are fighting among ourselves like animals. If someone puts this imagining of yours into Juliette's head, I hope she has more sense than she lets on. I don't treasure the necessity of heaping more pain upon any of us if she does."

"More pain?"

"More pain than we carry at this moment," Goneril hastily replied. Then, she paused, pursing her lips and searching the fire for answers. "If this is even to be discussed, I need to speak to Regan. To warn her, that is, so she might prepare herself. It would be up to her to do the same for my brother - though only if necessary, of course." Her gaze shifted to Miranda. "So I trust you will keep this conjecture between us. Not everyone in this house can be relied upon for discretion, and your sisters go often to Middleham to play with your cousin. Your uncle has such a delicate soul. It would be a terrible thing for him to hear any reminders of our loss, if Regan had not yet steeled him to it." 

"Of course." After a beat, Miranda continued, "It is late. Perhaps we both ought to try to get some sleep?"

"Anxious to be out of my company?"

"No, not at all. I just think my mind might finally have given way to my body's exhaustion. I'd like to get some sleep, if I can."

"Good." Goneril rose to meet Miranda and kissed her forehead. "I am glad you came to me, my dear."

"Me, too."

After beholding her firstborn's smile an extra moment, she urged her to go on up to her bed. "I won't be far behind you. Good night, Miranda."

"Good night, Mother."

Rather than go directly to bed, Miranda went to her daughter's nursery. The silence in the corridor announced that Mira was asleep. Normally, Miranda would not disturb her. Tonight, she barged right in, utterly ignoring the servant who slept in the nursery, and scooped Mira up out of her cradle. The baby barely fussed at all. She recognized her mother almost immediately and nuzzled against her. Miranda knew her daughter was too young to think for herself, for her actions to be anything but instinct, but her heart still swelled. Stephen wouldn't have known a nuzzle if it were dropped on him like an anvil from the heavens. Pan, on the rare occasions it had been permitted, liked a good cuddle. You're a lucky girl, having your father's instincts. You'll think they're mine, because no-one will ever think they're your stepfather's, but they're not. Mine? I don't know. I try, for you. I try, but I don't know.

I tried my best, sweet girl. I tried to do the right thing for you. Don't grow up to hate me for it. Please, forgive me if I got it all wrong. Please...

Next Post: "I trust I may not trust thee."