One Perfect Rose (2 page)

He slid his arm under the bulging saddlebags and lifted them before remembering something else that must go. There was just enough room to add Blackmer's jar of pills.

Then he spun on his heel and headed for the door. He didn't know how much time he had left, but he intended to enjoy every minute of it.

“Rose!” Maria Fitzgerald cried. “My left wing is falling off!”

“Just a moment, Mama,” Rosalind replied. Swiftly she pinned the end of a long swath of shimmering blue-gray fabric onto the rough boards of the barn wall. The generous folds of material had done duty as royal hangings and misty seas, and they made quite a decent magical cave. She attached the other end of the fabric twenty feet away, studied the effect, then went to help her mother.

The barn was bustling as the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe prepared for the performance that would begin in a few minutes. Even though they were staging
The Tempest
in an isolated market town and half the people in the cast weren't really actors, the members of the company took their work seriously.

Sure enough, one of Maria's silvery wings was drooping. Rosalind retrieved needle and thread from her kit, then ordered, “Turn around.”

Obediently her mother pivoted so Rosalind could make repairs. Maria Fitzgerald's lush womanly curves were not what Shakespeare had in mind when he described the delicate sprite Ariel. However, the gauzy, floating layers of her costume would win approval from male members of the audience, and her acting skill allowed her to make any role her own.

Rosalind anchored the sagging wing to her mother's bodice with a dozen swift stitches. “There you are, as good as new. Just don't go flying into any trees.”

While her mother chuckled, a clear soprano voice wailed, “Rose, I need you most
desperately
! I can't find Miranda's necklace.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes as she responded to her younger sister's plea. Jessica, a blood-and-bone daughter of Thomas and Maria Fitzgerald, had inherited her parents' beauty and expressive nature. Her dark lashes sweeping upward, she said dramatically, “If I don't have my glittering sea creatures around my neck, everyone will watch Edmund instead of me. It will quite upset the balance of the play.”

Rosalind made a rude noise. “You know very well that the men who aren't staring at Mama will be staring at you. As to your necklace, I think it's in that box.”

Jessica dug into the chest that doubled as furniture in Prospero's sea cave. A moment later she pulled out a nine-foot-long silken rope with gilded shells, starfish, and sea horses dangling from it. “Yes! How do you keep everything straight?”

“Organizational skill is the boring gift of the untalented,” Rosalind said as she draped the long rope of ornaments around her sister's slim figure.

Jessica laughed. “Nonsense. You've all sorts of talents. The company would fall apart without you.” She surveyed her sister's tall form. “And if it weren't for that awful costume, the men would stare at you as well.”

“I can live without that pleasure.” Rosalind pinned the trailing necklace to her sister's costume. It wouldn't do for her to trip over a dangling starfish, as she had that time in Leominster. She'd fallen right into the mayor's lap, not that he'd minded. “Besides, I rather like my awful costume. You must admit that Caliban is a perfect role for me. Very little acting required.”

Jessica looked stricken. Since acting was her life, she had never really grasped that her adoptive sister didn't feel the same way. “You're quite a good actress,” she said loyally. “You do well at all sorts of roles.”

“Meaning that I speak my lines clearly and don't fall over my feet on the stage,” Rosalind said cheerfully. “That doesn't make me an actress, love.”

“Rosalind!” A rich baritone voice boomed across the barn, sending pigeons flapping from the rafters. “Help me with the lights.”

“Coming, Papa.” She crossed the improvised stage to where Thomas Fitzgerald, in full magician's robes for his role as Prospero, was setting the footlights. Gingerly she lifted one of the reflectored oil lamps and set it a foot to the left, then moved another a bit farther to the right. “There, that should light the corners better.”

“Right as always, darlin',” Thomas said with a fond smile. He gestured toward the door. “Brian says there's a good crowd gathering outside.”

“Of course—we're the most exciting thing to happen in Fletchfield this summer.”

As her father moved away, Rosalind scanned the straw-strewn stage. The simple set was decorated, all the actors costumed. Outside Calvin was selling tickets in a staccato cockney voice. All was in order for the performance.

How many such scenes had she surveyed-hundreds? Thousands? She suppressed a sigh. She had spent most of her life in similar places, creating evenings of magic for the entertainment of the locals before packing up and moving on to the next town. Perhaps at twenty-eight she was getting too old for the life, though age hadn't dimmed the zeal of her adoptive parents. But they were actors. Rosalind Jordan, foundling, widow, and de facto stage manager, was not. Sometimes she thought wistfully of how nice it would be to have a home to call her own.

But everyone she loved was under this roof, and that made up for the more tiresome aspects of life on the road. She raised her voice and called, “Places, please.”

The members of the cast darted behind the flimsy panels that acted as stage wings. When Rosalind had taken her own place, she signaled to her young brother, Brian, to open the doors and admit the waiting audience.

Let the magic begin.

Day Eighty-three

A week of aimless traveling had taken the edge off Stephen's first furious reaction to the news of his impending demise. His mood had ranged from anger to fear to a fervent hope that Blackmer was wrong, though two agonizing attacks of gastric pain made the diagnosis seem increasingly plausible. Luckily both seizures had been at night, in the privacy of a rented room. He hoped to God that he wouldn't have one in public, though it would probably happen sooner or later. He tried not to think about that.

With bitter humor he had decided to count down the days of his life. Assuming that he would have at least three months, he'd started the count at ninety. He would go down to zero. Then, if he still lived, he would begin counting up because every day after that would be a bonus.

With doom's own clock ticking in the back of his head, he had wandered north from Ashburton Abbey through the Marches, the ancient borderlands where the Welsh and English had skirmished for centuries. When he crossed the old Roman road that ran west into Wales along the southern coast, he had reined in his horse and considered going to visit his brother. Michael had been a soldier, and had more than his share of firsthand knowledge of how to face inevitable death.

But Stephen was not yet ready to reveal his grim news to his brother. Perhaps it was because he was the elder. Though they'd become friends in the last year and a half, he did not want to go to Michael as a fearful supplicant. Which proved, he supposed, that he might have renounced arrogance but pride was still very much a part of him.

His pace leisurely, he had continued north into Herefordshire, then angled east, enjoying the scents and sights of late summer. It had been interesting to book rooms at inns for himself, to negotiate the cost of a bed or a meal. As a gentleman he was always treated politely, but without the awed deference that was usual. He enjoyed the change. Being a duke could be a flat bore sometimes.

But his journey was a lonely one. He'd always been detached from the turbulent, often childish emotions that controlled most of humankind. Now he felt sometimes that he was already a ghost, watching the activities of mortal men but not participating. It was time to turn his horse for home and become the duke again. He must fulfill his responsibilities: update his will, notify those who had a right to know of his condition, decide what actions he wanted accomplished before the estate passed to his brother.

He must also visit his elder sister, Claudia. In recent years they had not been close, but he would like to see her again before he died. Perhaps they might find common ground before it was too late.

Storm clouds were gathering as he rode into the small town of Fletchfield. Since there was no good reason to continue riding and get soaked, he scanned the facades of the two inns on opposite sides of the high street, choosing the Red Lion because of its flower-filled window boxes.

Stephen engaged a room and was about to go upstairs when he noticed a playbill posted on the wall. The “Renowned Fitzgerald Theater Troupe” was going to present Shakespeare's
The Tempest; or, The Enchanted Island
that very evening. Stephen had always enjoyed the theater, and the tale of the magician duke who lived in island exile with his young daughter was a particular favorite. Heaven only knew what a cast of fourth-rate actors would do to the play, though.

Glancing at the innkeeper, he asked, “Is this company any good?”

“Well, I don't know what a gentleman such as yourself would think,” the innkeeper said cautiously, “but we like 'em. They come through every summer. Always put on a rousing good show. Action, excitement.” He grinned. “And some very attractive ladies givin' a glimpse of their ankles, and sometimes a bit more.”

It didn't sound like great art, but it would be a diversion. After Stephen had rested and dined, he went out to the high street. The air was heavy with August heat, but a distant rumble of thunder gave promise of cooling rain.

The temporary playhouse on the outskirts of town was easy to find, since a good part of the population of Fletchfield was going in the same direction. A few glanced curiously at the stranger, but most were too excited by the prospect of the play.

Outside the barn where the performance was to be held, fifty or sixty people were milling about while a foxy little man with a cockney accent sold tickets. A shilling bought a wooden disk stamped with an
F
that would be collected when the doors opened. No nonsense about box seats versus the pit here.

Stephen was waiting in line to buy his ticket when he saw two elderly ladies, clearly sisters. Their clothing was shabby but almost painfully clean. The smaller one said briskly, “'Twould be fun and no denying, but we simply can't afford two shillings.”

Her sister, tall and sweet faced, said wistfully, “I know, Fanny, I know. 'Tis better to eat than watch a play. But
Romeo and Juliet
was ever so lovely that time five years ago when the hens were laying well and we had a bit of money to spare.”

“No use thinking about it.” Clearly the leader, Fanny took her sister's arm and started to lead her away. “Let's go home and have a nice cup of raspberry leaf tea.”

It was Stephen's turn to buy a ticket. On impulse he handed the seller three shillings and received three disks. Then he circled around and made his way through the crowd to the elderly sisters. Bowing politely, he said, “Excuse me, ladies, but could you do a service for a stranger?”

Fanny surveyed him skeptically. “Are you in need of directions?”

He shook his head. “I was to meet two friends here to see the play, but I've just learned that they will be unable to come. Would you take these?” He held out two disks.

The tall sister's eyes lit up. “Oh, Fanny.”

Her sister said gruffly, “Can't you return them?”

“The chap selling the tickets looks like a stubborn sort to me,” Stephen said earnestly. “I'd rather not get into an argument with him.”

As Fanny debated the morality of accepting his offer, her gaze went from Stephen to her sister's hopeful face. Understanding flickered in her eyes. “Thank you, sir. You are most kind.” She put out her hand. Though she might not accept charity for herself, she would not deny her sister the pleasure of the play.

“It is you who are kind, ma'am.” He handed over the tokens, then bowed and moved away, feeling a warm glow. Each year he gave literally thousands of pounds to the local parish and charities for everything from supporting military widows to establishing schools for the children of laborers. But those things were done from a distance; he didn't even write the bank drafts himself. Spending two shillings from his pocket to give a treat to a pair of elderly ladies brought him more satisfaction than all of the money he had given away in the past. Perhaps he should become more involved with the results of his philanthropy.

His pleasure dimmed when he recalled that there was not much time to change his habits. Still, there were a few months ahead of him. He resolved to spend part of that time making sure that his charitable bequests would achieve the best results. He might visit some widows and schools, not to receive gratitude for doing what was his duty, but to appreciate the humanity of those he helped.

The doors swung open, propelled by a lively boy of ten or eleven from inside the barn. “Ladies and gentlemen, step inside,” the cockney ticket seller shouted. “
The Tempest
is about to begin!”

The approaching storm produced a timely rumble of thunder. Amid general laughter, the crowd moved into the barn, each receiving a playbill in return for handing over a disk. A pungent atmosphere gave evidence that cows were usually stabled within. Crude wooden benches were set in rows facing the improvised stage, which ran across the far end of the building. Light came from narrow clerestory windows and a half-dozen footlights that separated the audience from the actors.

The barn filled quickly, the elderly sisters managing to secure scats in the first row. Since there were not enough benches for everyone, Stephen took a position by the right wall. Not only was there a cool draft, but he would be able to leave quietly if the play was unwatchable.

Gradually the audience settled down, buoyant with anticipation. Stephen found that he shared the feeling. There was something magical about the theater, even under these crude conditions. Though he had a box at every important playhouse in London, it had been years since he'd looked forward to a performance this much. He mentally crossed his fingers that the actors were halfway decent.