One Perfect Rose (30 page)

After the first rush of talk, Rosalind decided to reveal the only important piece of news that she was free to discuss: the story of her newly discovered identity. Making it clear that she considered her adoptive parents to be her real family, she described how she'd met the Westleys. Thomas and Maria were startled and intrigued. When Rosalind finished speaking, Thomas said, “To think, the cuckoo in our nest was a countess!”

“No. Just a baby chick badly in need of tending.” The refreshments arrived, so Rosalind put on her best performance of a gracious hostess. As she poured tea, she suddenly realized how she should have answered when her husband had asked where her spiritual faith came from. She believed because surely a benevolent God had sent the Fitzgeralds down that street in St. Katherine's so many years before.

Day Twenty-seven

Stephen's session with the family solicitor was draining because he had finally revealed the reason behind his flurry of recent business. The solicitor had been shocked and uncomfortable with the news. The poor devil had barely had a chance to adjust to the old duke's death, and now he'd have to accustom himself to still another Kenyon.

It was a relief to emerge from the meeting and learn that the Fitzgeralds had arrived. Spirits rising, Stephen went to greet his guests. The Fitzgeralds and Rosalind were chattering like magpies when he entered. His wife rose and came to give him a kiss.

Under her breath, she said, “Papa is perishing to know why you asked them to come. I've done an admirable job of not telling him.”

“You're always admirable.” He hugged her for a moment, his fatigue diminishing at her touch. Then he turned to his guests. “It's good to see you both. Maria, you look beautiful.” He kissed his mother-in-law, then shook Thomas's hand. “How long can you stay?”

“Only a night, two at the most,” his father-in-law said. “The troupe can manage without us, but fewer players drastically limits what can be performed.” He gave a wicked smile. “I'm hoping we can see Kean tonight, so I can make catcalls.”

Knowing his in-laws would want to see a play, Stephen had checked the schedules. “Tonight Kean is performing as Sir Giles Overreach in
A New Way to Pay Old Debts
. My box at Drury Lane is only a short toss of a rotten orange from the stage.”

“My husband will give neither catcalls nor rotten fruit.” Maria gave Thomas a steely stare. “Will he?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I can dream, can't I?”

“Dreaming is permitted,” she conceded.

“Speaking of dreams…” Stephen took a seat and accepted a cup of tea from Rosalind. “Are either of you familiar with the old Athenaeum playhouse near Covent Garden?”

Maria nodded. “We saw
The Way of the World
there once many years ago. Decent Mirabell, terrible Millamant.”

“But she had good ankles,” her husband said, eyes twinkling.

“Not better than mine,” Maria informed him coldly.

“Perhaps I'd better check.” Thomas leaned toward his wife with the apparent intention of raising her skirt a few inches.

As Maria swatted at his hand, Rosalind said in perfect mimicry of Jessica, “The Parents are at it again!”

Everyone burst into laughter. After the amusement died down, Stephen said with studied casualness, “Would you two like to have the Athenaeum for your troupe?”

“It would be a fine place to perform, and no mistake.” Thomas took a sip of his tea. “A pity we can't take it on the road with us.”

“Actually, I was thinking in terms of giving you the theater so the troupe can be moved to London permanently.”

There was a moment of incredulous silence. Then Thomas banged his cup down on the saucer. “The devil you say!”

“The devil would have nothing to do with it. The Athenaeum is available freehold at a reasonable price with all properties and costumes, and a modest house nearby for you to live in.” Stephen smiled a little. “There are no strings attached. As owner-manager, you'll answer to no one except Maria, so I have every confidence that the two of you will make a great success of it.”

“But…but…” Stunned, Thomas looked at his wife. Her gaze met his in wordless communion.

If Stephen and Rosalind had spent so many years together, would they have developed that profound an understanding? The currents were so intense that Stephen could feel them. Thomas, startled and too independent to want to owe anyone anything. Maria silently reminding her husband of too many years of financial insecurity, the sacrifices that had been made, the dreams that had been put aside.

“How can we possibly accept such a gift?” Thomas said uncertainly.

“Very easily,” Maria said, her gaze still on her husband. “We're too old to be traipsing around the Midlands ten months a year.” For all of the years of their marriage, she had subordinated her brilliant talents for the good of her husband and family. Now she wanted the Athenaeum, and she expected Thomas to bend enough to accept it.

Thomas gave a faint nod and turned to his son-in-law. “Why?”

“For what you did for Rosalind,” Stephen said quietly. “And for me, and for others. In short, for being good. Why shouldn't goodness sometimes be rewarded?”

“Just accept, Thomas,” Maria said. “Plenty of plays have a deus ex machina. Why can't we have one in our lives?” She rose and gave Stephen a kiss. “Bless you, Stephen. I don't have to tell you what this means because you already know.”

She turned to her husband. “What play shall we put on first? It needs to be one with good strong roles for you, me, Jessica, and Simon.”

Thomas's lingering doubts vanished as the vision of opening in London took hold of his mind. “We must start with Shakespeare, of course. How about.
The Winter's Tale?
Meaty roles for you and me, and the young people as well.”

Maria nodded approvingly. “Excellent choice. Jessica and Simon will make poignant young lovers, you'll stun the audience with your kingliness, and I shall reduce all the females to torrents of tears as your unjustly accused wife.”

“All that, plus a happy ending to send everyone home smiling.” With a sudden whoop, Thomas swept Maria up in his arms and spun her in a circle. “Be damned to seeing Kean tonight. Let's go visit the Athenaeum right now!”

Laughing, the four of them did just that. Stephen spent the afternoon with Rosalind by his side and her parents darting around the playhouse like swallows, making plans, discussing how many new people would have to be hired, and cheerfully squabbling about the refurbishing. The Fitzgeralds also treated the younger couple to a dazzling segment from
The Way of the World
, with Maria showing how she thought Millamant should be played.

For years after Stephen was gone, Thomas and Maria would be bringing joy and tears to London audiences. Wealth had many advantages. But one of the very best was the way it could make dreams come true.

It had been a tiring day, so Rosalind was grateful that her parents had decided not to go to Drury Lane. Within two months they'd be living in London and able to go to the theater whenever they pleased, at least until the Athenaeum reopened. Probably that would be sometime in late winter, after the refurbishing and suitable public notices.

Following dinner the men were left to talk business over port while Rosalind withdrew to the salon with Maria. She was grateful for the opportunity to be alone with her mother, since the Fitzgeralds would be staying for only two nights.

“I can hardly wait to finish our season so we can come to London for good,” Maria said as she paced the salon, looking as young as on the day when she'd rescued Rosalind from the slums. “A house of my own, Rose! A theater in London that we can run as we choose! And the money to keep us going long enough to become established. Stephen isn't a deus ex machina, he's our guardian angel.”

Relaxing on the sofa, Rosalind smiled indulgently, feeling as if she were the elder.

Maria turned toward her, eyes dancing mischievously. “You're going to have to be a little easier on your husband, though. You're blossoming, while he looks burnt to the socket. You must remember that men are frail creatures, unable to match female endurance in the bedroom.”

Rosalind's pleasure in her parents' company burst like a punctured bubble as she was brought face to face with the stark reality of Stephen's condition. The tears that were very near the surface these days erupted into shuddering sobs.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?” Maria said with alarm. “Surely you and Stephen are getting along well. I can see it in the way you look at each other.”

“He…he's dying.” Rosalind tried to collect herself. “I knew before we married, but…oh, Mama, I didn't expect it to be so hard.” Her tears became worse.

“Dear God,” Maria whispered. She put her arms around Rosalind, cradling her to her breast as she had in the early years when her adoptive daughter woke screaming in the night. “What a terrible, terrible thing. Such a young man, and such a fine one.”

Rosalind cried as she had been longing to do ever since learning of Stephen's illness. Even though there was nothing her mother could do, it was a comfort to tell her the truth. When her tears ran out, she said in a rusty voice, “There is one piece of good news. I think I'm with child.”

“Oh, Rose, how wonderful! That must be a great comfort to you both.”

“I haven't told Stephen yet. I wanted to be sure.”

“Tell me what your body has been doing,” her mother ordered.

Rosalind obediently listed all of the definable changes, as well as her own inward conviction. At the end Maria gave a nod of satisfaction. “You're definitely breeding. God willing, you'll have a fine, healthy child to take your mind from its sorrow.”

A thought struck her. “Heavens, a boy would be the next duke from the moment he first draws breath.” She shook her head. “To think, my first grandchild a duke! It's a good thing you've discovered your grand relations, Rose. With Stephen gone, you'll need their support, for you'll have to be at ease in society for the child's sake.”

Maria had deduced that much more quickly than Rosalind had. “The Westleys have been all that is kind.” She took Maria's hand in hers and said, trying not to sound plaintive, “But you're still my mother, aren't you?”

“Always, Rose.” Maria smiled with a warmth that briefly alleviated Rosalind's underlying sorrow. “Always.”

Day Twenty-five

Much as he enjoyed the Fitzgeralds' visit, Stephen was glad to see them go. Their exuberance was tiring, and he was very aware of having to husband his strength. As he stood with Rosalind, waving good-bye to her parents, he was struck with the sorrow of knowing he would not see them again. Every day brought new losses.

After the coach rumbled away, Rosalind turned to him with a smile. “I'm going to Cassell House to have luncheon with my two new aunts.” She stretched up for a kiss. “And tonight I have something special to tell you.”

He held her close for a moment. Though passion was ebbing, he still craved her nearness and regretted that she would be away for several hours. But he had work to do.

After Rosalind left he went to his study, giving orders not to be disturbed. It was time to deal with his public responsibilities. He was Lord-Lieutenant of the County of Somersetshire, governor of two different schools, a trustee of the British Museum, and a dozen other things. One of the advantages of a slow death rather than a swift, unexpected one was that he had time to tie up neatly the loose ends of his life. And the sooner these ends were tied, the sooner they could return to the abbey.

The pain was bad today. Weighing it against the need for a clear head, he took two opium pills. Then he set to work on the small mountain of papers prepared by his secretary. With everything laid out so neatly, he should be finished by the end of the day.

The attack, as always, came swiftly, between one document and the next. He froze as agony seared through his esophagus and stomach. His hand spasmed shut, and the quill pen snapped as he doubled over, retching violently. A good thing he'd asked not to be disturbed. No one would come for hours. That would give him time to recover.

He levered himself upright with one hand on the desk, intending to go from his desk to the sofa on the other side of his study. But his head spun and his limbs were numb, incapable of support or balance. He pitched to the floor and scarcely felt the impact when he hit.

He lay dizzily on his side, unable to move, pain racking his internal organs. Even so, it was a shock to begin to lose consciousness. As the world blackened around the edges, he thought with astonished fury that surely he couldn't be dying now, today. He had more than three weeks until Blackmer's allotted time was up.

It was his last thought before darkness vanquished him.

 

“Stephen!”

Rosalind's voice pulled him from the dark, swirling mists. She was kneeling beside him, face white.

The intimate rustle of her petticoat. Warm fingers on his wrist as she felt for a pulse. Her scent, sweetly floral. He managed to say, “Not…gone yet.”

“Thank God! When I came in and found you lying here…” She stopped, tears glinting in her eyes. “If I help, can you get upstairs to the bedroom?”

He thought about it and realized bleakly that the boundaries of his world had just contracted to the walls of this house. He could no longer maintain even a pretense of normality. He'd never see the abbey again.
Christ
. He'd probably never make love to Rosalind again. He hadn't known that the last time was…the last time.

After absorbing the blow, he said in a rasping whisper, “No. Bring…two of the footmen.”

She stood and went to the bellpull, jerking it hard. Then she returned to kneel beside him, gently wiping the perspiration from his face with her handkerchief.

When the footmen came, she gave orders to take him upstairs. Her voice was calm on the surface, though he could hear the brittle edge.

The footmen were young, and shocked and alarmed to see their master in such a sate. They handled him gently. Dizzily Stephen thought that in moments like these, a man was rewarded for treating his servants well.

He maintained a tenuous thread of consciousness as he was taken upstairs and put to bed. In a nightshirt, the first he'd worn since marrying Rosalind. For warmth, he guessed, since he was shaking with cold.

Rosalind sat by the bed and took his hand in her warm clasp. “Can you hear me, Stephen?” When he nodded, she continued, “I'm going to call a physician now. I should have insisted on that when we first reached London.” She started to rise.

He caught her wrist, stopping her. “No! I've seen what physicians do when a rich man is dying. My father was bled and purged and blistered and put through every kind of hell. The beasts in the fields die with more dignity than he did. I swore then that when my time came, I would not let that happen to me.” He caught Rosalind's gaze with his to emphasize his seriousness. “I can face death. After all, I have no choice. But I see no reason to let a collection of damned butchers loose on my body.”

“But what if a doctor can help?” she said pleadingly. “You've only had the opinion of Blackmer. What if he was wrong and your disease is curable?”

“If I believed that, I would have been willing to try every quack in Britain.” He exhaled roughly. “But the body doesn't lie. I'm dying. Promise that you'll let me do it in my own way, Rosalind. Please.”

She bit her lip, on the verge of tears, then nodded. “I promise. Shall I get your opium pills for the pain?”

“On my dressing table. Bring me three.” A strong dose, but it should be enough to ease the agony, at least a little.

Rosalind went into his dressing room and returned with the jar. “This one?”

He nodded. “I thought the pills would run out before the end, but it appears that Blackmer's calculations erred on the side of generosity,” he said with the blackest of humor. “The medicine will outlast me.”

She raised his head and put the pills in his mouth, then gave him water to wash them down. Even the small effort of swallowing exhausted him.

Tenderly Rosalind laid his head back among the pillows. Strands of tawny hair had come loose to curl around her face, and her eyes were great dark pools of pain. Though his physical body was numbed, his emotional sensitivity was heightened to the point where he could feel her fear and devastation almost as if they were his own. In some ways that was harder to bear than the physical pain that was chewing at his vitals.

He wanted to tell her how much she meant to him. How precious their weeks together had been. But he didn't have the words. He'd never had such words.

As darkness flowed through him again, he watched her face, hoping desperately that this would not be the last time he would ever see it.

 

Rosalind held Stephen's hand as he drifted to sleep. What to do next? Unless he made a remarkable recovery, he would be unable to return to Ashburton Abbey. She must tell his secretary to summon Lord Michael, who might be waiting at the abbey now. Or perhaps he was still at his home in Wales. Fyfield would have to send express messages to both places.

What of herself? Should she ask her mother or Jessica to come stay with her? The company would be welcome, but it would inconvenience the troupe. She must think about that, and at the moment she was not thinking at all well.

Stephen's breathing was very slow but even. She hoped that meant the opium pills had reduced the pain. She rose and went to tell Fyfield to send for Lord Michael and take care of any other business needing attention. Luckily the staff had accepted her from the beginning and obeyed her orders without question.

Then she spoke with Hubble, Stephen's valet. Like her, his first instinct was to call a physician, until she explained why Stephen did not want one. Hubble had been part of the household when the old duke had died. Memory of the medical torture that had taken place then made him agree to abide by Stephen's wishes.

The valet wanted to sit with Stephen, so she gave permission. He'd known Stephen far longer than she, and had earned the right. Besides, she would not be able to do everything, much as she wanted to.

After the valet went in to his master, Rosalind hovered indecisively in the hall outside the bedroom. She wanted desperately to hide where she could break down without being overheard. Unfortunately privacy was hard to come by in a mansion full of servants.

Then she remembered the other suite, the one used by Lord Michael and his wife. Apart from a weekly cleaning, the rooms were left undisturbed. Numbly she went down the hall to their apartment.

The furniture was covered with holland covers, but that didn't matter. She went into the bedroom. There, aching as if her heart were being torn from her body, she threw herself onto the massive bed and gave in to her grief.