One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  “No one knows that better than I,” he agreed.

  The next clearing held a sunny bench with a good view of the river. “Let’s stay here a bit,” she said. “This is my favorite spot. I like to watch the boats and barges.” They sat down side by side, the little dog curling up by the dowager’s feet.

  “Sophia was my youngest, you know,” the dowager said. “I almost died giving birth to her. Perhaps that created a special bond. Though truth to say, there is a special bond with each of my children. With Anne, my eldest, who fusses over me like a mother hen. With Richard, my only son. I’ve been fortunate in my children.”

  Stephen felt the familiar ache of regret for the children he’d never had. “And they have been fortunate in you.”

  He hesitated, weighing whether to proceed. Lady Westley had a faith and serenity that he wanted desperately to understand. It was scarcely proper to ask a woman who was a near stranger about such matters, but there was no one else he could ask. “How can you be so calm about your approaching death?”

  She gave him a look of mild surprise. “Death is a natural consequence of life. Something that comes to us all, and no bad thing.”

  “I’m dying, too,” he said harshly. “But I lack your philosophical calm.”

  “I see,” she said. “I wondered a little at what I saw in your face during luncheon. You watched as if you were a step away from all of the others. How advanced is your illness?”

  He appreciated her matter-of-factness. Many people would have been struck speechless with embarrassment at his announcement. “Quite advanced. I have weeks, at best. Every day I feel as if I’ve drifted farther away from the normal run of mankind.”

  “Does Rosalind know?”

  He nodded. “I told her before we married. She might not have accepted my proposal if it meant putting up with me for years, but she was willing to bear me company for the little time remaining.”

  “Nonsense. It’s quite clear that yours is not a mere marriage of convenience.” Her expression became troubled. “Death is much harder for a young person like you who isn’t ready. And it will be very hard on her. But death is not the end, you know. You shall see each other again.”

  He searched her face. “You really believe that?”

  “Not believe.” She gave him a tranquil smile. “Know.”

  “How?” he asked intensely. “What gives you such faith?”

  “You may not believe my answer.”

  “Perhaps not, but I’d like to hear it.”

  She clasped her arthritically gnarled hands on the gold head of her cane as she considered her answer. “As I said earlier, I almost died of childbed fever after Sophia was born. The pain was dreadful, and I was terrified because I could feel my life ebbing away. Then suddenly I found that I was no longer in my body but floating by the ceiling. I remember looking down at myself and feeling very sorry for the poor miserable young woman in the bed.

  “Then I heard someone call my name. I turned, and there was my mother, who had died five years before. I couldn’t believe it, until she hugged me.” Lady Westley pursed her lips. “It’s hard to explain, since I didn’t have a body, but it was still a very satisfactory hug. I had missed her terribly. She took my hand and led me into a garden of light. The most beautiful garden I’d ever seen.” The dowager gestured at their surroundings. “Ever since, I’ve tried to re-create that garden, but this is only a pale shadow of what I saw there.”

  Fascinated without quite believing, Stephen said, “What happened then?”

  “There were other people I knew, all of whom had died. They’d come to make me feel welcome and to help if I was confused.” She smiled. “It was rather like the best soirée of one’s life, only a thousand times better. As I looked around, I saw that in the center of the garden was a sort of temple of crystal that glowed with the brightest light of all. I wanted so much to go there, because I could feel the love radiating from it.” Her expression became distant, yearning visible in her eyes.

  “Did you go into the temple?”

  She blinked, brought back to the present. “No. I heard a child crying, and knew it was my new baby. Suddenly I was in the nursery with the wet nurse, who was holding my shrieking daughter.” The dowager smiled. “She wasn’t very pretty then, all red face and squalls. But I was troubled by the idea that she would grow up never knowing her mother. I drifted through a wall into the next room and found Anne and Richard curled up in a corner. She was patting him on the back and saying that surely Mama would be all right. But she was crying, too.”

  The dog whimpered, and the dowager bent to stroke his head until he was silent again. “Then I found myself back in my own room, still on the ceiling, mind you. My husband, James, was there by the bed, holding my hand. He didn’t say a word, but there were tears running down his face. I’d never seen him cry.”

  She glanced at Stephen. “We’d had an arranged marriage, you know. It turned out better than most. We got on well.” She flashed a suddenly mischievous smile. “Both in bed and out of it. But I never knew until then that James loved me. He wasn’t the sort to quote poetry or speak romantic words. Yet I could see the love inside him. He was glowing like a lantern with the same light that had been in the garden I’d just left.”

  Her brows drew together. “That was when I realized that I had a choice. I could go back to the garden or return to my family.”

  He studied her expression, trying to understand. “Surely remaining with your husband and children wasn’t a difficult choice.”

  “Believe it or not, it was difficult,” she said slowly. “I’d never felt so happy, so at peace, as in that garden. There were people I loved, and so much to learn. But I knew that my family needed me, and that the garden would always be waiting. I reached out to touch James. The next thing I knew, I was back in my bed, sweaty and feverish, and the physician telling me that I’d been unconscious for three days.”

  Stephen felt a crash of disappointment. “So it was all a dream.”

  “I said you wouldn’t believe me.” She shrugged. “It makes no sense, of course, but in that garden our kind of sense doesn’t apply. For what it’s worth, I later asked my husband if he’d sat by my bed, holding my hand and crying. He blushed the color of port wine but admitted it. Hard to see how I could have known that if I was unconscious, unless I really was floating up on the ceiling.”

  She could have been delirious and forgotten later that she had seen her husband. Still, it was a lovely story, and it gave her comfort. He asked, “Did you ever regret returning to your body?”

  “Not really. Except, perhaps, when we lost Sophia, and again ten years ago, when James died, too.” She gave a luminous smile. “But I’ll be with them soon.”

  Perhaps she really would rejoin her lost loved ones. But if faith was the key to that heavenly garden, Stephen was doomed to eternal darkness.

  A bank of clouds slid over the sun, and the air was suddenly cold. “I’d better take you in before you catch a chill,” he said. “Your assembled progeny will toss me in the river if I don’t take good care of you.”

  She gazed at him with a perception that seemed to slice to the center of his being. “You don’t have to believe me. You will still find existence beyond this life.”

  He felt an aching desire for such certainty, but desire was not enough to create faith. Bleakly he said, “I hope you’re right.”

  He got to his feet, then bent and kissed her cheek. “Even if you aren’t, it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Westley. I don’t know if Rosalind is like her mother, but she is surely like you, which is a great compliment to you both.”

  All of which was true. But as he helped the dowager to her feet and adjusted her shawl over her thin shoulders, he knew that he was no closer to the answers for his questions.

  Chapter 30

  Luncheon with the Westleys ran well into the afternoon. Rosalind might have stayed all night, except that she looked across the room and saw Stephen talking
with her uncle Richard. Her husband looked very tired. Immediately remorseful about her lack of consideration, she said her farewells and soon they were on their way back to London.

  Tired herself, Rosalind settled into her carriage seat and took her husband’s hand. “That was much nicer than I expected. You were right, Stephen. I’m lucky to have so many families. Perhaps someday I’ll have a chance to meet some of my French kin.”

  “I talked to Lord Westley about them,” Stephen said. “He said that your first cousin, another Philippe St. Cyr, fought with the royalists and reclaimed the du Lac title and property after the Bourbons were restored to the throne. Apparently the estate is in poor shape, but your cousin is slowly restoring the place to its former glory.” He glanced at her. “Of course, by rights it’s yours.”

  “Heavens,” she said blankly. “I’m entitled to an estate in France?”

  “I don’t think it will be hard to prove that you’re the rightful heir.”

  She thought a moment, wondering if her French cousin had brown eyes like hers, then shook her head. “I may be the direct heir, but it sounds as if the estate belongs to my cousin by right of blood and sweat. Besides, I don’t want to live in France. Let Cousin Philippe have it.”

  Stephen smiled at her. “I thought you’d say that. You’re very generous.”

  She laughed. “I can afford to be, when you take such good care of me.”

  “I’ll tell my solicitor to write your cousin. He should know of your existence, and it would be best if you formally renounced your rights in his favor.” He squeezed her hand. “In return, perhaps he might be willing to give you some pieces of family furniture or jewelry as a reminder of your French heritage.”

  She had a sudden, vivid memory of a bedroom furnished in graceful, un-English furniture. Her mother’s dressing table…

  “I’d like that.” She smiled. “A whole new family to discover! I wonder if they are as nice as my mother’s family.”

  “The Westleys remind me a bit of the Fitzgeralds,” he observed. “I hadn’t realized that members of aristocratic families could be so fond of one another.”

  His family certainly wasn’t a model of mutual affection. “My grandmother said that your mother was wild but had a good heart,” she said hesitantly. “Was that true? You’ve never really spoken of your mother.”

  “Wild was a polite way of saying promiscuous,” he said dryly. “She was very beautiful, and my father was obsessed with her. Their marriage was a strange, unwholesome struggle for power. My father hated the fact that he could not control his lust for her, while my mother disliked self-control on general principle. I used to give thanks that I hadn’t inherited my parents’ passionate dispositions. Michael did, and it has cost him dearly, though he has mastered it now.” A shadow touched his eyes. “And yet it’s true that my mother had a generous heart. I’ve wondered sometimes what she would have been like if she’d been born to less wealth or made a different marriage. She died when I was fifteen.”

  Strange that he did not consider himself passionate. She’d seen the passion in him the first time they met, and nothing that happened since had changed her opinion.

  He covered a yawn with one hand. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll nap.”

  Yawns are contagious. Rosalind covered one of her own. “An excellent idea.”

  Stephen closed his eyes and relaxed back in his seat. With his features in repose, she was acutely aware of the changes that had taken place gradually over the last weeks. His weight loss emphasized the lines and planes of his face, making him look twenty years older than his real age. And, to her dismay, she saw that there was a faint yellowish cast to his skin. The disease was attacking his liver. Her heart clenched at the knowledge of how quickly time was running out.

  She laid her head against his shoulder, and his arm came around her. So right, so natural. Yet she could not rest, despite her fatigue. A day where she had laid the foundations for new family relationships underlined the fact that Stephen had not been so fortunate with his relatives. As she closed her eyes, she made a silent vow to do what she could to change that.

  Rosalind stepped from the Ashburton carriage and climbed the steps of Herrington House. After wielding the knocker, she waited for a response with no visible sign of nerves even though her stomach was in knots. Wryly she thought that thespian training was excellent for someone wishing to swim in the treacherous waters of polite society. Maria had taught her daughter to mimic manners and accents, wear clothes well, and conceal her emotions. No aspiring lady could ask for more.

  A footman opened the door, and Rosalind breezed by him as if there could be no question of admittance. “I am the Duchess of Ashburton.” She handed the footman one of her newly engraved cards. “I wish to see my sister-in-law.”

  The footman hesitated. “Lady Herrington does not usually receive this early.”

  Rosalind narrowed her eyes in the expression Maria used when playing Queen Elizabeth as she regarded the Spanish Armada. The footman flinched.

  “Of course, you are family,” he said hastily. “Pray take a seat in the drawing room, Your Grace. I shall inform her ladyship that you’ve arrived.”

  Rosalind went where he directed, but preferred to pace rather than sit. The drawing room was beautifully furnished, immaculately kept, and about as welcoming as the average tomb. Not unlike Claudia.

  Speak of the devil…The door opened, and Lady Herrington marched in, her expression coldly furious. “How dare you come to my house when you know how I regard you! I suppose you think that propriety will prevent me from having you thrown out. Well, you’re wrong. If you do not leave within one minute, I shall have my servants pitch you into the gutter, where you belong.”

  This was even worse than Rosalind had expected. “Believe me, it’s not my habit to force myself where I’m not wanted,” she said in her most reasonable tone. “But I have something of the greatest urgency to discuss with you. Will you give me five minutes to explain? If you do, I promise never to trouble you again.”

  Claudia’s expression became even colder, but she said grudgingly, “Very well. It’s worth five minutes of my time on the chance that I’ll be permanently rid of you, though I doubt your word is to be trusted.” She stationed herself behind a wing chair, as if protecting herself from possible assault.

  Rosalind took a deep breath. “Perhaps it will make you more tolerant to know that we have just learned that my mother was Sophia Westley, sister of the present Lord Westley and Lady Cassell.”

  Claudia shook her head with disgust. “You’re nothing if not a bold liar. I knew Sophia Westley. She married a Frenchman and died many years ago in the Reign of Terror. I’ve never heard that she left children.”

  Rosalind felt a flicker of pain as the image of that death crossed her mind. “She had one daughter. Me. By birth, Marguerite St. Cyr, Countess du Lac,” she said calmly. “My English nurse brought me to London but died before we could reach my mother’s family. I was adopted by the Fitzgeralds, and you know the rest. I shall not apologize for either them or myself. However, given your obsession with breeding, you should be pleased to hear that the Westleys have accepted me as Sophia’s daughter. If you doubt it, ask any member of the family. For that matter, if you knew my mother, just look at me. Apparently I am the image of her.”

  Claudia’s eyes narrowed as she studied her visitor. Rosalind guessed that the other woman wanted to dispute the resemblance but couldn’t.

  “It’s true you look much like I remember Sophia,” she said reluctantly. “But even if you are her legitimate daughter, it takes more than good birth to make a lady. Being raised among some of the coarsest elements of society has left its mark. Look how you used your actress wiles to seduce my brother and turn him from his duty.”

  “You overestimate my wiles, and underestimate Stephen’s intelligence,” Rosalind said with real amusement. “Obviously nothing will change your opinion of me. Still, you mu
st at least be grateful that in the eyes of your world, Stephen will be seen as having made a match worthy of the Duke of Ashburton.”

  Claudia’s lips thinned. “The world may approve. My father would not have.”

  Guided by what she had gleaned about the Kenyons from Stephen, Rosalind said quietly, “Your father is dead. No matter how hard you try, nothing you do now will earn you his approval, or his love.”

  Claudia turned white. “Leave this house instantly!”

  Mentally kicking herself for straying from her purpose, Rosalind said swiftly, “I have a minute left to tell you why I came.” She hesitated, then decided on bluntness. “Stephen is dying. He is unlikely to survive more than a few weeks longer. Scorn me as much as you like, but please go to him before it’s too late.”

  The other woman’s eyes widened with shock. “Stephen dying? That’s impossible. Kenyons always live to a ripe old age.”

  “Not Stephen. He has some sort of horrible internal disease,” Rosalind said, unable to keep the bleakness from her voice. “Clear proof that only the good die young, because he’s the best man I’ve ever known. He cares for you deeply, and your repudiation hurts him. If he dies when you are estranged, I think that fact will hurt you even more than it does him.”

  “Dear God, not Stephen,” Claudia whispered, her expression agonized. She closed her eyes with a shudder. When they reopened, they were full of bitterness. “You’ve done very well for yourself, haven’t you? Since my brother is generous to a fault, a few weeks of acting the role of a devoted wife will allow you to spend the rest of your life with wealth and status.”

  Even though Rosalind knew protest was futile, she said coldly, “I didn’t marry him for his money.”

  “No?” Claudia’s mouth twisted. “Is he really dying of natural causes? Or did you turn Borgia after deciding that you would prefer the freedom of being a rich widow?”

  Rosalind gasped as if she had been struck physically. Even though it was clear that Claudia didn’t mean the charge, that she was lashing out from shock and grief, the words were scalding. “It’s hard to understand how a man like Stephen could have a sister as vicious as you,” she said, voice shaking. “He was already mortally ill when we met. If you doubt that, ask the Ashburton physician, Dr. Blackmer.”