One Perfect Rose (16 page)

Thomas nodded. “That's all right. The barn I went to was quite suitable. I made arrangements for us to perform there tonight.” He turned back to Kent. “Let's see how you act What role would you like to show me?”

Kent's jaw dropped. “Now?”

“Now.” Thomas's voice was jovial, but his eyes were dead serious. Stephen suspected that this was a deliberate test of me young actor's mettle.

Taking pity on the newcomer, Jessica stepped forward, a touch of mischief in her eyes. “You listed Romeo as one of your roles, Mr. Kent. Shall we run through the balcony scene together?”

“That would be very helpful,” he said gratefully.

The onlookers stepped back a little, leaving the two actors some space. Mary Kent, a small, fair girl who resembled her brother, looked on nervously.

Jessica climbed onto a sturdy chair and struck a pose in the air, as if she were leaning on her window frame and gazing out into the night. She sighed, elaborately unaware of the young man admiring her from below.

Simon Kent cleared his throat, then began, “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!”

His voice was uncertain for the first lines, but he swiftly gained strength and power. Before Stephen's fascinated gaze, the actor was transformed into a yearning lover. Kent was not merely a competent actor; he had the fire to be one of the great ones.

As he spoke, Jessica's levity dropped away. Her gaze caught Kent's, and when she made her first speech, it was with the sweet blossoming desire of Juliet The dialogue rippled back and forth with the easy rhythm of natural speech, emphasizing the almost unbearable excitement of young love. It was a riveting performance.

Stephen felt the hair prickling at the back of his neck. This was more than a scene between two very talented performers—the attraction between Simon Kent and Jessica was palpable. Or was he imagining that because of his own romantic mood?

When Jessica delivered her last lines in a throaty whisper, she poignantly extended her hand to her admirer, wanting to touch him. He reached out also, their fingers failing to meet by mere inches.

“Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” She exited by climbing from the chair, but not before casting a last longing glance at the man who had captured her heart and would be her doom.

Kent delivered Romeo's last lines with the passion of a man who had found the love of his life. Then he turned and withdrew several steps to signal the end of the scene.

There was a hushed silence. Then the onlookers burst into spontaneous applause.

“Well done, sir!” Face rosy with pleasure, Jessica offered her hand to Simon. They took a bow together, as if they were onstage.

Applauding, Stephen whispered to Rosalind, “How much of that was acting?”

She was staring at her sister. “Not all of it, I'll wager.”

On the other side of the room, Maria was regarding Kent with a speculative air. Probably evaluating him as a prospective son-in-law. Kent himself was looking happy and relieved. He'd forgotten to release Jessica's hand.

Stephen found Thomas's expression the most interesting. On his face was excitement and approval, but also the wistful regret of an old lion who sees the young lion who will someday replace him.

To his credit, he stepped forward and clapped Kent on the shoulder. “You'll do very well, my boy. But would you mind unhanding my daughter?”

Kent turned scarlet and dropped Jessica's hand. The young lion was still a long way from being king of this particular jungle.

Stephen put an arm around the waist of his fiancée. “This seems like a good time to announce that Rosalind has done me the honor of consenting to be my wife. I do hope that we shall have her family's blessing as well”

All the Fitzgeralds whipped around to stare at the newly betrothed couple. Maria said, “How wonderful! But…a bit sudden? You've known each other only a month.”

Rosalind glanced up at Stephen and smiled affectionately. “Long enough.”

“Ah, you sound like me when I met Thomas.” Maria crossed the room and gave a hug first to Rosalind, then to Stephen. “I always wanted another son, and who better than the man who saved my baby from drowning?”

Stephen hugged her back, trying to remember if his mother had ever embraced him with such enthusiasm. If so, he had forgotten the occasion.

Thomas's eyes narrowed, and Stephen wondered if they'd missed a telltale stalk of hay. With an expression that said “Engaged, and not a moment too soon!” he shook Stephen's hand and gave his daughter a long hug. The other members of the troupe crowded around to offer their congratulations, the men pumping his hand and the women hugging him exuberantly.

Stephen was acutely aware of the extent to which one married not just an individual but a family. He'd been less conscious of that when he married Louisa, probably because her parents, the Earl and Countess of Rotham, were very like his own parents. But now he was becoming part of the Fitzgerald family, and they were part of his. He grinned at the realization that Brian would be his brother-in-law.

After Jessica hugged her sister, she asked, “When will the wedding be?”

“Wednesday,” Rosalind said imperturbably.

That created another startled silence. Then Jessica exclaimed, “We've got a lot of work to do!” Seizing her sister's hand, she hauled her away upstairs. Rosalind cast a laughing look over her shoulder at Stephen just before she vanished.

“I had thought you had a wife,” Thomas said to Stephen in a low, controlled voice that was not quite accusing but which demanded an explanation.

“I'm a widower. No children,” Stephen said succinctly. “There were…other reasons why I hesitated to propose, but I decided to explain my situation to Rosalind and let her choose for herself.”

The older man nodded, looking relieved. “My girl has a level head. If she thinks you're decent husband material, that's good enough for me.”

“I have been honest with her, and I'm very grateful for the choice she made.” Stephen paused, then added, “Rosalind said that her leaving would not cause problems for the company. Is that true, or should we stay with you until you can replace her?”

“You're taking her away from us,” Thomas said sadly.

Stephen nodded. “But not forever. She'll want to see her family often.”

Thomas frowned and turned to survey the room. His gaze fell on Mary Kent. “You, girl,” he said in his booming voice. “Can you act?”

She jumped visibly at the unexpected notice. After swallowing hard she said, “Yes, sir. I'm not so good as Simon, but I've had several years' experience in small roles.” She smiled unexpectedly. “I'll make a fine maid to Miss Jessica's heroines.”

Thomas laughed. “Very well. Will you work for me for two pounds a week?”

“Oh, yes,
sir
!” she said fervently. Stephen guessed that her brother would be making three or four pounds for larger roles. Between them, they'd be comfortable.

Everything was working out with amazing smoothness. He wondered how long such good luck could last.

 

Chattering with excitement, Jessica flopped on the bed in the small room the sisters shared. “What shall you wear for the wedding—that pretty blue gown you wore when you married Charles?”

Rosalind made a face as she unbuttoned her rumpled dress. “Definitely not. I was considering the Ophelia gown in the costume chest. What do you think?”

“Perfect! You've always looked wonderful in that.” Jessica grinned. “The way it laces up the back really shows off your figure. Stephen will be blinded by your beauty. I'll go get it now so we can decide what accessories you'll need.”

Rosalind nodded and pulled off her gown. As soon as she laid it aside, she realized that Jessica was staring at her. Rosalind looked down and saw bruiselike marks on the exposed upper curves of her breasts. Her face flamed and she made a futile effort to cover the love bites.

Before she could decide what to say, Jessica said with horror, “Did he hurt you? I swear, if he did—”

“Oh no! Not at all.”

Remembering that despite Jessica's apparent worldliness, her sister was still a virgin, she sat on the sagging bed and said evenly, “I'm sorry—I should have been more careful, but you and I have been sharing a room so long that I simply didn't think. Believe me, Stephen did not hurt me. We behaved very badly, and it was…quite wonderful.” Her voice took on a warning note. “Remember, I'm a widow of mature years, and allowed a little license. You are
not
to copy my behavior, no matter how romantic your Romeo!”

It was Jessica's turn to blush. “He's not my Romeo. But Mr. Kent is a very fine actor, isn't he?”

“Yes. I'm sure that you'll enjoy initiating him into the troupe,” Rosalind said teasingly. “You can find out if you like his kiss as much as his talent.” She thought of the shimmering sense of wonder between her sister and the new actor, and suddenly, to her complete shock, she began to cry.

As she buried her face in her hands, her sister's arms came around her. “Rose, what's wrong?” Jessica said worriedly. “These don't look like tears of happiness.”

Rosalind wept even harder. She had a desperate need to tell someone the full story, and Jessica was her closest friend. Together they had shared a thousand late-night confidences; her sister could be trusted with this one as well. “Stephen is very ill,” she said unsteadily. “He…he probably will not survive more than a few months.”

“Dear God.” Jessica's arms tightened. “Oh, Rose, I'm so sorry. Is that why he was slow to propose, even though he was obviously smitten with you?”

Rosalind nodded. “He had intended to leave without speaking, but he had a horrible attack and I made him tell me the truth, and…and one thing led to another and now we're getting married in four days.”

She turned into her sister's embrace, her body shaking with sobs. Jessica held her quietly, patting her back until Rosalind had run out of tears. She would not be able to cry like this in front of Stephen. With him she must be calm and controlled.

Making an effort to collect herself, she straightened and dug out her handkerchief. “Don't tell Mama and Papa. I don't want them to be upset any sooner than necessary.”

“Very well,” Jessica said gravely. “But…are you sure you want to marry him? I like Stephen immensely, but he had no right to ask you to do something so painful”

“He had every right.” Rosalind clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Her voice dropped so that she was speaking more to herself than her sister. “And there is nothing on earth I want more than to be Stephen's wife—for however long I can be.”

A cold, penetrating autumn rain had been falling since dawn, knocking yellow leaves from the trees and turning the roads to mud. Lord Michael Kenyon was tired and thorougly exasperated. After a fortnight of seeking his missing brother, he'd learned very little esxcept that tracing a man on horseback was far more difficult than following a carriage would have been.

Despite Dr. Blackmer's repeated assurances that Stephen was unlikely to be lying ill somewhere, it was a relief every time Michael found someone who could say definitely that his brother had passed that way. When there had been no sighting for too long, they would painstakingly retrace their way and try other roads until they found the trail again.

It didn't help that Stephen's route seemed entirely random.

On the meandering way north, Michael stopped at the estate of his friend Lucien, Earl of Strathmore and spymaster extraordinare, to enlist help. Luce had offered several good suggestions and promised to see what he could learn through his own vast network of informants. Nonetheless, the search still came down to stopping at half the taverns and villages in the West Midlands to ask if anyone had seen Stephen. Luckily the duke had been riding Jupiter, one of the superlative horses bred by Michael's friend Lord Aberdare. Men remembered the horse, if not always the rider.

Jupiter had been Michael's birthday present to Stephen the year before. The memory produced a twisting in his gut. At heart, Michael could not believe that Stephen was really mortally ill. Physicians were often wrong, and Stephen had been in fine shape the last time the brothers had met.

And yet—men and women died at all ages and from many causes. Perhaps Stephen's time had come. Michael acknowledged that in his head, though it seemed bitterly unfair that he might lose his only brother so soon after they had become friends.

It was remarkable that Stephen had turned out so well even though, as heir, he'd borne the full weight of the old duke's critical eye and meanness of spirit. Michael had spent as little time as possible at the abbey; that distance had saved him from emotional destruction. Stephen, however, was made of tougher stuff. He had survived and grown both strong and just. His strength and usually even disposition were what made this disappearance so strange.

Michael glanced at his companion, who was hunched morosely against the rain. Though he knew the feeling was irrational, he wanted to blame Blackmer for his brother's illness. The physician should have broken the news to Stephen better, or not spoken at all. Michael knew from his own experience of critically ill soldiers that state of mind had much to do with recovery. Telling a man he was dying could go a long way to making the prediction come true. For a doctor, honesty might not always be the best policy.

The saturnine physician was something of an enigma. Even after a fortnight during which the two men had spent virtually every waking hour together, Michael had no sense of what lay behind Blackmer's unreadable eyes, except that he was obviously deeply concerned about Stephen's welfare. Or was he merely worried that losing his most prominent patient would be bad for business?

A weary voice interrupted Michael's thoughts. “Will we be stopping for dinner?”

“I thought the next town. Redminster, I believe,” Michael replied. “The horses could use an hour or so of rest. Then we can continue until dark.”

Blackmer lapsed into silence until they rode into Rcdminster in late afternoon. The rain had stopped, and pale sunshine was gleaming on the puddles. Just before they reached an inn called the Three Crowns, Michael had to swerve his horse abruptly to avoid a little girl of four or five who raced into the road after a ball. The child's pretty, dark-haired mother darted from the yard of her cottage to retrieve her wandering offspring. She offered Michael a smile of apology, then carried her daughter inside.

Tiredly he turned his horse into the Three Crowns. Feeling a little guilty at how he was pushing a man who had not been hardened by years of campaigning, Michael said to his companion, “I'll take the horses back. You go and order us something to eat.”

Blackmer nodded gratefully, then dismounted and went inside. Michael led the horses into the stables. An ostler with a clay pipe was at work cleaning a harness.

Michael was about to speak when the man glanced up, then smiled. “Good to see you again, sir. 'Tis a terrible day for travel and no mistake.”

Michael became alert “You've the wrong man. I've never been here before, but has someone who resembles me?”

The ostler squinted for a closer look, then made an apologetic gesture with his pipe. “Oh, yes indeed. You and your horse are very like a guest we had a few weeks back.”

“Actually, I'm trying to locate my brother, who was riding a horse sired by the same stallion as this one.”

The ostler gave a satisfied nod of his head. “Ah, so you're another Mr. Ashe. That would explain it, for 'tis too strong a likeness to be chance. Will you be leaving your horses here for the night, sir?”

Mr. Ashe? Stephen must be traveling incognito; it wasn't likely that there were two men with Michael's face and a similar horse roaming the Midlands.

“My companion and I are stopping only to dine. I'd be grateful if you'll take care of the beasts for an hour or so.” Michael took off his hat and ran a weary hand through his damp hair. “Do you happen to know where my brother was going from here?”

The ostler frowned with concentration. “I believe the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe was heading toward Whitcombe next.”

Michael's brows drew together. “Theater troupe?”

“Aye, your brother went off with 'em,” the ostler explained. “Saved Fitzgerald's young son from drowning and got injured in the process. Quite the hero he was.”

“Injured?” Michael asked swiftly.

“Not badly,” the ostler assured him. “Mr. Ashe seemed in fine fettle by the time he left here. In fact, they say he acted in one of the plays.” The ostler winked. “Myself, I think he went with the troupe because of the actresses. Fitzgerald has several very pretty fillies, and—well, actresses, you know.”

Michael listened with a combination of shock and hope. Would Stephen have really gone onstage with a company of strolling players? Granted, he'd always enjoyed the theater and had acted quite capably in amateur productions with friends, but that was a very different matter. And would he have a fling with a common actress? He'd always been a sober sort. But then, who the devil knew what a man would do when told his days were numbered? Stephen was no longer married, so there was no good reason not to indulge himself with a bit of muslin if he chose.

If he was with this theater troupe, it should be easy to find him because actors must travel slowly, and they would leave a clear trail. Feeling elated, Michael thanked the ostler and went into the inn. Over a dinner of beef and boiled potatoes, he relayed what he'd heard. Blackmer seemed equally surprised to hear that the duke may have taken to the boards, but characteristically he didn't comment. Instead, he silently got to his feet when the meal was done and prepared to continue on to Whitcombe.

Outside, the temporary lull in the rain had been followed by ominous looking thunderclouds. As the two men stepped into the courtyard, there was a flash of lightning, quickly followed by a long, rumbling thunder roll. Rain began to fall hard.

As more lightning flared across the sky, Blackmer said in a neutral voice, “Not the best travel conditions.”

It was the closest the physician had come to asking for respite. Michael hesitated. The fact that he was an old campaigner didn't mean he enjoyed being wet and cold and exhausted. Still, the new information from the ostler made him eager to press on. “Thunderstorms usually blow over quickly. We should be able to reach Whitcombe before dark.”

Blackmer sighed faintly but did not protest.

They were just outside the stables when an immense bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, filling the courtyard with searing blue-white light. The booming thunder-clap was instantaneous.

Michael ducked reflexively, as if he were caught in a French artillery barrage. As he straightened, a long, echoing crash reverberated through the rain-filled air.

“Good God, what was that?” Blackmer exclaimed.

Michael swung around, trying to locate the source of the crash. “At a guess, that lightning bolt brought a tree down.”

A woman's piercing scream issued from nearby. Recognizing the sound of disaster, Michael pivoted, then ran across the courtyard and into the street. The cause of both crash and scream was instantly visible. A huge elm had been shattered by the lightning and crashed onto the cottage of the pretty dark-haired woman who had retrieved her small child from the road earlier. The timber-framed house was made of the woven lath and clay material called wattle and daub, and the elm had crushed it like an eggshell.

Grimly Michael went to investigate. Smoke curled from the blackened wood of the elm, but at least the heavy rain was preventing a fire. When he reached the house, he found the dark-haired woman clawing at the wreckage.

“Are you hurt?” Michael yelled over the sound of rain and storm.

She swung around, water streaming down her face and her eyes glazed with shock. “I…I came outside to pick herbs for supper and wasn't touched, b-but my husband and little girl are in there, in the back.” She caught Michael's arm with trembling hands. “Please, help them!”

His mouth tightened when he looked at the devastation. The chances were that anyone in the building was dead or severely injured.

Blackmer arrived on the scene, panting from the run. “There are people in there?”

“This woman's husband and child.” Michael surveyed the crushed house with the experienced eyes of a mine owner. Clumsy rescue work could shift the cracked timbers and crumbling walls, dooming anyone inside who might still be alive. But at least this rescue was not taking place five hundred feet below the surface, as when his Welsh coal mine had exploded. “The best bet is to lift the tree straight upward to minimize further damage.”

By this time a dozen neighbors had arrived. One of them cried, “Dear God, look at the Wyman house!” Another, probably the woman's brother, based on the similarity of their features, gasped, “Emma, are Jack and Lissie inside?”

When Emma nodded, shaking, he enfolded her in his arms, his face ashen.

Michael had long since learned that it was better to concentrate on what needed to be done than to worry uselessly about the injured. Since no one else was taking charge, he began rattling off orders. Once an officer, always an officer, he thought dryly as he sent men running for lumber, block and tackle, and a team of oxen.

Then a child's cry came from the wreckage. Emma broke away from her brother and ran closer. “Lissie! Are you all right?”

The child wailed, “Yes, b-but Papa's bleeding, and I can't wake him up.”

Michael scanned the wreckage. The little girl was only a few feet away, apparently on the other side of what had been the wall of the kitchen. Perhaps it would be possible to free her before the tree was removed. He gripped a slab of wattle and daub and tried to shift it, working carefully so as not to precipitate a collapse.

Blackmer took hold of the other end of the slab. It always surprised Michael when he noticed that he and the physician were the same size; the other man's self-effacing personality made him seem smaller. Between them, they were able to move the crumbling material safely. A dark, irregular hole was revealed at ground level.

Lissie called out excitedly, “I see light, Mama!”

Emma wiped the rain from her tense face. “Can you crawl toward the light and come outside, sweeting?” she said with forced calm.

There was a pause. Then Lissie quavered, “I can't get there from here, Mama. Papa and pieces of house are in the way.”

Blackmer examined the hole. “I'll try to crawl in from this side. If Wyman is between here and the child, maybe I can help him.”

“You can't do that,” Michael said immediately.

Blackmer looked at him with contempt. “If you're in such a rush, go on to Whitcombe alone. I'll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Usually the physician's expression was an impervious mask, so Michael was startled to see a complex blend of emotions visible in the gray-green eyes. Resentment, certainly, and irritation.

Irritated himself, Michael snapped, “Don't be a damned fool. I'm concerned because of the danger. The rest of the house could come down at any time.”

“I'm a doctor. I must try to help.” Blackmer lay down on the muddy ground and began inching into the hole while the onlookers held their breath. Michael tensed when there was a rattle inside the wreckage, but it stopped quickly.

After a long two minutes, Blackmer called, “Wyman is alive. His heart is strong, but he's unconscious and bleeding from a torn artery.”

Emma said reverently, “God be thanked!”

Knowing enough of wounds to understand the danger, Michael said, “Can you stop the bleeding with a tourniquet?”

“No—there's a blasted beam in the way,” the physician growled. “I can hold the wound for now, but get that damned tree out of here quickly.”

The equipment had arrived, so Michael supervised the attachment of block and tackle. When they were ready to begin, he called, “Blackmer, we're ready to lift. Better come out now.”

“Can't,” the physician said tersely. “Wyman's lost quite enough blood.”

An older man said urgently, “But the doctor will die if the walls collapse!”

“He knows that.” Michael grimly gave the signal to begin.

With a creaking of harness, the oxen began to move. The ropes squealed with protest at the weight. Michael held his breath as they stretched. If they broke, a slower, more dangerous rescue method would have to be attempted—assuming that a failure didn't kill all three people within the structure.