One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  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.

  A metallic boom of artificial thunder filled the barn, causing several nervous feminine squeals. Then, as flashes of false lightning illuminated the shadowy corners of the barn, two sailors staggered from the left wing and started talking loudly about the storm and the likelihood that their ship would sink.

  The sailors were soon joined by their noble passengers, all of them bewailing their imminent drowning. After they left the stage, there was a long moment of stillness before the magician Prospero and his lovely young daughter Miranda emerged from the flimsily curtained right wing. Both players had dark hair and striking blue eyes, and were clearly blood kin. Stephen glanced at his playbill. Thomas and Jessica Fitzgerald.

  Prospero had such a commanding presence that it took a moment for Stephen to really see Miranda. His first look was followed by another, for the girl was a beauty. The audience greeted her with applause and whistles of appreciation. Miranda gave her admirers a saucy smile and waited for quiet. When she had everyone’s attention, she began to speak in a crystalline voice that carried easily throughout the barn.

  Prospero replied, his rich baritone explaining that he was really the Duke of Milan and she was a princess. Stephen straightened from his lounging position, attention riveted. Fitzgerald and his daughter were splendid, with a natural style that suited the intimacy of the improvised theater perfectly. Stephen had never seen the scene played better.

  Next to enter was the sprite Ariel, accompanied by more whistles and claps from the rowdier men in the audience. Stephen didn’t blame them; Ariel was a voluptuous woman of mature years named Maria Fitzgerald, surely wife to Prospero and mother to Miranda in real life. She could also act. Her rich voice brought poignance to the role of the invisible spirit who served the magician faithfully yet yearned for freedom.

  Stephen crossed his arms over his chest and relaxed against the wall, more than willing to surrender to the illusions of the play. Nature helped by contributing a genuine tempest and drumming rain to counterpoint the story. Within the darkened barn, it was easy to believe in a distant island of mist and magic.

  Though the other actors weren’t as talented as the three Fitzgeralds, all were competent. The monster Caliban drew laughter when he appeared in a shaggy ape suit that completely disguised the age and appearance of the actor. Cheerfully unsubtle, the monster’s stomping about the stage was received with great approval. The handsome young man who played Ferdinand, the yearning lover, wasn’t much of an actor, but his appearances brought happy sighs from females in the audience.

  The Tempest wasn’t noted for a strong plot. However, Stephen particularly liked the story because of the way Prospero forgave his brother Antonio for the latter’s murder attempt a dozen years before. The world needed more forgiveness, which was why Stephen had taken such efforts to reconcile with his own brother. He had been rewarded many times over for reaching out across years of anger and misunderstanding.

  By the time the lovers had been united, Ariel had been joyfully released from the magician’s service, and Prospero had drowned his magic book, Stephen felt better than he had in days. The Fitzgerald company was an unexpected gem. He joined the enthusiastic applause after Prospero’s final speech.

  One by one the other actors emerged from the wings to take their bows. Dropping her sprite’s playfulness, Maria Fitzgerald was regal, while her daughter Jessica was a charming coquette.

  Then Caliban strode out onto the stage and swept off the shaggy headdress to reveal the tawny hair and pleasant features of an attractive young female. Though she was not so beautiful as Jessica Fitzgerald, there was something about the young woman’s laughing expression that appealed to Stephen. She seemed like someone he would enjoy knowing.

  She glanced in his direction, and he saw that her eyes were dark brown, a striking contrast to her light hair. She was older than Jessica, perhaps in her mid-to-late twenties. A woman, not a girl.

  He looked down at the playbill and saw that Caliban was played by Mrs. Rosalind Jordan. No Mr. Jordan was listed in the cast. He raised his eyes as the players departed from the stage. For a moment he indulged himself in the fantasy that this was London and he was a well man so that he could go to the greenroom and meet that laughing, tawny lady. Discover if she was as winsome as she seemed, and what sort of figure was concealed beneath that enveloping costume.

  But this was not London, and he was not a well man. It was hard to be interested in amorous play when concerned about survival. Good-bye, Lady Caliban.

  The performance was to conclude with a one-act afterpiece, but Stephen decided he’d had enough of the smoke and smell of the improvised theater. He edged his way to the door and went outside. The storm had passed, leaving a light misting rain and refreshing coolness. The days were long in August, and the lingering, cloudy twilight turned Fletchfield into a hazy fairyland.

  Stephen walked along the empty high street, enjoying the scents of wet earth and growing things, of wild-flowers and the faint, delectable aroma of baking bread. He liked the feel of moisture on his face and the otherworldly beauty the misty droplets lent to the landscape. Rain was one of many things he appreciated as never before. The only positive effect of Blackmer’s pronouncement was that, in an odd way, Stephen felt more alive than he ever had.

  His reaction to Rosalind Jordan had reminded him that although he was dying, he wasn’t dead yet. What was the right course of action for a man in his circumstances? He’d intended to look for a new wife until he heard Blackmer’s death sentence. Of course, there were some who would say it was his duty to remarry swiftly in the hopes of fathering an heir. His brother Michael would be delighted if that happened.

  But years of dutiful marriage had produced no children before, and Stephen was not convinced that the fault had lain with Louisa. It was as likely that he was the one incapable of creating new life. Or perhaps the emptiness of their marriage had made it impossible to produce something as full of vitality as a baby.

  The thought of marrying in cold blood for dynastic reasons made his mouth tighten to a thin line. He’d made one dutiful marriage, and he’d be damned if he would do it again. So he would not seek a wife.

  What about an affair? In London there were beautiful women who would give a convincing illusion of passion to a man who could pay the price.

  But would he want even that? The loneliest times of his life had be
en in Louisa’s bed, where their bodies joined but nothing he did could call forth a single spark of response from his wife. A purchased pretense of love might be equally bleak, especially now, when passion was not in the forefront of his mind.

  No, if he was dying, he would do it as he had lived—alone. Many men, and women, too, had done that with dignity. Surely he could do the same.

  The rain was becoming heavier. He raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes, letting the cool liquid trickle over his face as he thought of some lines from the play he had just seen: “Full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made.” Or perhaps he should be pondering the words from the funeral service: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  In this case it would be Ashburton to ashes.

  Expression grim, he lowered his gaze from the heavens and continued down the street in the lovely, lonely rain.

  Chapter 3

  Thomas Fitzgerald frowned out the window of the private parlor at the steadily falling rain. “Performing The Tempest during a real tempest was all very well, but the roads are in terrible shape this morning.”

  Rosalind glanced up from the costume she was mending. “True, but the rain should stop soon, and it’s only eight or nine miles to Redminster.”

  “It will take all day to cover them,” Thomas said gloomily.

  Maria leaned across the breakfast table and poured the last of the tea into her husband’s cup. “And what else would we be doing with the time, my lord and master?”

  Thomas leered wickedly at his wife. “We could stay tucked up in this snug inn while I remind you what’s best to do on a rainy day. Instead, I’ll be spending my time pulling wagons out of the mud.”

  Maria batted her long dark lashes demurely. “There’s still time to go back to our room for a quick reminder, since the young ones haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “Behave yourself, you two,” Rosalind ordered as she slipped half a piece of toast to Aloysius, the family wolfhound, who was lazing beneath the table. “With the weather like this, we need to be off as soon as possible. If you’re planning to spend the day in mud, Papa, be sure to change into your oldest clothes.

  “Not a romantic bone in her body,” her father grumbled.

  “And a good thing, too.” Rosalind was knotting her thread when Jessica floated into the private parlor.

  “Good morning.” her sister said with a languid sigh. “Are The Parents treating us to another show of embarrassing marital devotion?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Rosalind snipped her thread and put all the sewing tools back into her box. “Who are you this morning—Juliet?”

  Jessica draped herself gracefully across a chair. “Yes. I think I shall die of love. Did you see that absolutely splendid gentleman in the audience last night? He was standing against the left wall. Such an air! Such presence! Such a tailor! He must be a lord. We shall have an affair.”

  “You will not!” her mother said firmly. “You’re not too big to be spanked, young lady.”

  Not missing a beat, Jessica continued, “His lordship will admire me extravagantly, but I shall spurn his advances. Consumed by love, he will offer marriage despite my humble station, but I shall say I can never leave the stage for the boring life of a society matron. He will sink into a decline and die of unrequited passion.”

  Rosalind had also seen the man, for he was the kind a woman noticed—tall, confident, handsome. Well worth a few fantasies. But there was no time for fantasy this morning. “The fellow is more likely a lawyer than a lord,” she said briskly. “Or perhaps a successful corn broker. Eat your eggs before Brian arrives and devours everything that isn’t nailed down.”

  Her sister chuckled and got to her feet, her affected manner vanishing as she served herself a hearty breakfast. “I’ll bet Juliet was never told to eat her eggs before her little brother got to them.”

  “She would if Brian had been her brother.” Rosalind folded the garment she had mended and packed it into the costume trunk. “And speak of the devil…”

  Clattering feet could be heard racing down the stairs outside the parlor. They ended abruptly in a crash. Rosalind frowned. As she was getting up, her little brother entered the parlor. He was pure Fitzgerald, with dark hair and bright blue eyes, but now his face was pale and his left hand curled protectively around his right wrist. “I just fell and broke my wrist, I think.”

  In the Fitzgerald family, it was very hard to tell real problems from imaginary ones, but Rosalind, her parents, and Aloysius all converged on Brian just in case his injury was serious. The boy gave a genuine yelp when Rosalind carefully examined his right wrist. “It looks like a mild sprain,” she said when she was done. “I’ll bandage it, and you’ll be fine in a day or two. Next time, don’t run on the stairs.”

  “I shall not be able to do my mathematics today,” her brother said hopefully.

  “You can and you shall,” Thomas said sternly. “One does mathematics with one’s head, not one’s hands.”

  “Not true. Brian needs his fingers to count on,” Jessica said with deliberate provocation.

  “I do not!” her brother said indignantly. “You’re the one who never got through algebra.” Using his left hand, he spooned the last of the eggs onto a plate while Aloysius watched with keen canine interest.

  Jessica tossed her head. She was extremely good at it. “A goddess of the stage does not need algebra. It’s quite enough that I can estimate the box office receipts after a single glance at the theater.”

  Rosalind rolled her eyes. “I’ll get my medical kit while you two squabble.” She headed for the door. Since Brian had a ten-year-old boy’s talent for damaging himself, she always packed the kit last, so she could find it quickly. But before she left the parlor, she paused for a moment to glance at each member of her family.

  Her heart swelled with love. Once again she gave thanks for the fate that had sent Thomas and Maria along a shabby waterfront street, and the generosity that had caused them to take in a beggar child. Rosalind had only a few vague, nightmarish memories of her time on the streets, but she remembered meeting the Fitzgeralds with absolute clarity. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the kindness in Maria’s eyes.

  She noticed with a pang the signs of age in her parents. Both were handsome still, but they were nearing fifty, with silver threads in their dark hair. Life with a traveling theater troupe was hard. How much longer would they be able to continue? And what would happen when the long hours and constant moving became too much? They lived with modest comfort, but there was little put by. Salaries and costumes and wagons cost money.

  Not that Thomas worried; he had faith that the Lord would provide. Unfortunately Rosalind lacked his belief that the Lord took a personal interest in the Fitzgerald finances.

  She left the parlor, closing the door gently behind her. Perhaps Jessica would decide to try the London stage and become so wildly popular that she could afford to support her parents in their old age. She had the talent, and the ambition. Or perhaps Brian would be a great success, since he also showed signs of significant acting ability. The two of them were the family’s best hope for prosperity, for Rosalind’s talents were modest. One might almost say nonexistent.

  With a sigh she climbed the stairs to the small room she had shared with her sister. There was change coming; she could feel it in her bones. Of course she’d always known that the family could not stay together forever. Jessica might joke about falling in love with handsome strangers, but it was a sign that she was ripe for the real thing. Someday soon she would find a husband and leave the troupe.

  Rosalind only hoped that when her beautiful young sister married, she would show better judgment than she herself had.

  Day Eighty-two

  By the time Stephen finished a leisurely breakfast, the rain had stopped, so he set off on the long ride home to Ashburton Abbey. The violent gastric pains he’d suffered during the night had made it clear that it was time to end this self-indulgent
escapade and become the duke again. There was much to be done at the abbey, and in London.

  As he left Fletchfield, he crossed an arching stone bridge. Underneath ran the river that roughly paralleled the road that had brought him into town the day before. He’d thought the river placid and pretty. This morning, though, the waters had been swollen to a torrent by the night’s heavy rain. Since he was taking the same route south again, he thought a moment, trying to remember if there had been a ford. No, the river and road had not crossed, which was fortunate because the floodwaters would make fording very dangerous today.

  As the morning advanced, the sun emerged from behind the clouds. He halted to admire the view from the crest of the highest hill in the area. That was part of a promise he’d made to himself: for whatever time he had left, he would never be too busy to admire a landscape or sniff a flower. He saw beauty in things he’d scarcely ever noticed before, and found a bittersweet pleasure in that.

  This view was well worth admiring. Miles of lush English countryside spread out before him, the multicolored fields and copses divided by blooming hedgerows. To his right, the swollen river cut a wicked path through the green fields. The channel was narrower and the current even more turbulent than downstream at Fletchfield.

  His gaze went along the road below him. A half mile ahead, a carriage and four wagons had pulled over to the side of the road because the last wagon had become mired in a muddy wallow. As Stephen watched, two men went to unfasten the team from the middle wagon to help pull the trapped vehicle free.