One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  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.

  Chapter 32

  It was good to be back at the abbey again. Stephen walked along the path that ran diagonally across the cloister garden, enjoying the crunch of gravel beneath his boots. The garden was perhaps his favorite spot on the estate. Some of his earliest memories were of playing here. He’d never seen it more beautiful than today. The flowers were at their peak, scents intoxicating and brilliant blossoms swaying languidly in the sun.

  Yet how could he be at Ashburton in summer? He was in London, and the season was autumn. Frowning, he halted to survey his surroundings. Everything seemed quite normal, including his own body, dressed in his usual country garb of riding boots, dark blue coat, and buff breeches.

  Except that he felt no pain. That was no longer normal.

  Puzzled, he began to walk again. The garden had been the private courtyard of the original religious foundation. All four sides were bounded by an open arcade of ancient stone arches. Long ago the nuns of Ashburton Abbey had taken their exercise here. The modern inhabitants of the abbey still did the same. He’d always particularly enjoyed the covered walkways on stormy days, when he could be protected by the old stones while rain poured down a few feet away.

  Louisa had also been very fond of the place. She would spend hours in the garden on fine days, or sheltered in the cloisters during inclement weather.

  In fact, there she was now, sitting on a stone bench and embroidering with her usual meticulous care. The sight was so natural that it took him a moment to realize that there was not usually a bench in that spot.

  And an instant longer to remember that Louisa was dead.

  Was this a dream? It must be. Yet he’d never had a dream that seemed so real.

  “Louisa?” he said doubtfully. He walked toward her.

  She looked up and smiled with a serenity he’d never seen before. Though she didn’t speak aloud, he sensed her greeting in his head. Stephen. I’ve been expecting you.

  He went down on one knee on the grass in front of her so that their eyes were level. Louisa was as petite and beautiful as ever, but her expression was different from what he remembered. She looked—accessible was the best word he could find. The invisible wall that had always separated them had vanished. “Where am I?” he asked. “And why am I here?”

  She laid her needlework on her lap and regarded him with tranquil blue eyes. This is a sort of anteroom to heaven.

  He stared at her. “So there really is life after death?”

  The word death has such finality. In truth, there is only life. What is called death is merely…transition. She smiled faintly. Admittedly, it’s a drastic one.

  He remembered Lady Westley’s garden of light. “A few days ago, I met a woman who told me of an experience rather like what is happening now. Have I died and you’re here to help me make that transition?”

  You are not dead. However, you are so near that the veil between the seen and the unseen has become very thin. That is why you can be here. She gave him a rueful smile. As for me—it’s true that I’ve come to help you, but also to make amends.

  “Make amends? For what?” he asked with surprise. “You never harmed me. You always behaved with grace and courtesy. It is no one’s fault that…that our marriage was not a closer one.”

  You’re wrong. The fault was mine. Her expression showed deep regret. I always knew, even when I was a small child, that I should not marry. But I let myself be persuaded that it was my duty because I desperately wanted to return to Ashburton Abbey. So I agreed to be your wife. By serving my own selfish needs, I deprived you of the warmth you deserved, because it was not in me to give. You are a good and loving man. Though I made you deeply unhappy, you always treated me with consideration and respect. Few men would have done as much. Can you forgive what I did to you?


  He rocked back on his heels, puzzled and shocked. Him, loving? No one had ever suggested that before. He was cool. Detached. A gentleman, even of temper and committed to justice. A good friend. But those mild virtues were certainly not love. He didn’t really know what love was.

  Then he thought of the aching silences of his first marriage. The physical and emotional despair that had sometimes overwhelmed him, and the banked anger that had burned deep inside. Perhaps those things were all signs of love that had never had a chance to be expressed. The idea was novel, and rather disturbing, for it meant that he was not the man he thought he was. Yet he could not deny that the passionate intensity of his feelings for Rosalind were not those of a cool, detached gentleman.

  He raised his eyes to Louisa’s, seeing the regret in the clear blue depths. “There is nothing to forgive, my dear. I also had doubts about marrying you, and let myself be coerced into going against my instincts. But—didn’t we both try our best? If there wasn’t love or passion between us, at least there was civility.” He hesitated, then added, “And surely, kindness?”

  Her delicate face became luminous. Yes, there was kindness, especially on your part. Thank you, Stephen.

  Deep within him he felt a sense of release as the guilt and remorse over his first marriage dissolved. They had both done their best. One could do no more.

  Louisa bent her head over her needlework again, and they sat in friendly silence. He had never felt more at ease with her. The garden was so tranquil that one of the exquisitely colored butterflies floated down to perch on his hand for a moment.

  But he wasn’t ready for ultimate peace. Remembering her earlier remark, he said, “You told me that you accepted my proposal because you wanted so much to return to Ashburton Abbey. Why? You’d never even seen the place before we married.”

  She set one last stitch and knotted the shimmering thread. Then she raised the embroidered panel to reveal an exquisitely wrought tapestry of the cloister garden. But not as it was in the present. The stone arches were not worn, the plantings were different, and the square shape of a chapel bell tower rose in the background. He recognized the scene from an old etching from before the dissolution of the monasteries. This was how Ashburton Abbey had looked in its days as a religious foundation.

  Louisa gave the tapestry a little shake, and suddenly it came alive and surrounded them, as if they had stepped back in time. They were both standing on velvety grass, and Louisa now wore a dark nun’s habit.

  She raised her calm gaze to his. Long ago, in another life, I lived at the abbey and was at peace. In this life I was drawn to the abbey again because I instinctively sought what my heart desired. But when I married you and came here to live, I learned that it wasn’t the stones that called to me. What my heart truly yearned for was the community of faith I had lost.

  The bell began to ring in the tower above, a deep, solemn call to prayer. She inclined her head for a moment. Good-bye, Stephen. May grace be with you.

  She turned and walked away, her long robes gliding silently over the grass. He saw that a line of similarly dressed women were walking in the west cloister. Louisa joined the procession at the end, her head bowed, the veil obscuring her face as she moved in stately time to the tolling bell.

  The first nun turned into the door that led to the chapel. One by one the women disappeared from sight. After Louisa, the door silently closed, and Stephen was alone.

  In the same wordless way as Louisa had communicated with him, he realized that once she had been part of the spiritual sisterhood that had lived and prayed here for centuries. Celibate and devout, she had been whole. Because she had not found that wholeness in her life with him, there had been a deep sadness in her that separated them more thoroughly than stone walls would have.

  Now she was whole again. He closed his eyes and gave a prayer of thanks on her behalf. The first true prayer of his life.

  If he really was alive. Life was Rosalind, not an empty courtyard that had again become the garden he knew and loved.

  He glanced around restlessly. His heart leaped when he saw Rosalind coming toward him along one of the diagonal paths, her hand tucked under the elbow of the man beside her. His wife and her companion were dressed in the sumptuous, elaborate clothing of a quarter century before.

  And yet—the woman was not Rosalind. Her eyes were blue, not brown, her height a little less, the shape of her spirit different. With eerily calm acceptance, he realized that he was seeing Sophia Westley and her husband, Philippe St. Cyr. The Count and Countess du Lac.

  Sophia gave him a smile as if she’d known him all his life, and offered her hand. It was warm and firm and very real. He bowed over it. When he straightened, he realized with a small shock that she was younger than Rosalind was now, and her husband only a few years older. Younger than Stephen.

  She continued to hold Stephen’s hand, and vivid images began to run swiftly through his mind. He saw an elderly woman stumbling through the woods holding a terrified child. Hiding from soldiers, using her small stock of coins to buy coarse peasant food and rides in farm wagons. Finally, on reaching a seaport—France? Belgium?—buying passage to London. Stephen had the uncanny sense that Sophia and Philippe had traveled with the nurse and her charge, guiding and protecting as best they could.

  But they could not save the old woman when her badly strained heart finally failed on the London quay. Stephen saw the uniformed guard reach for Rosalind, saw her run in terror, her small legs taking her into the stinking maze of streets behind the quay.

  Sophia and Philippe stayed with the child, using what small power they had to protect her. Sophia also searched for someone who might take her daughter and keep her safe, but without success. She had been only a ghost, and a new, confused one at that.

  Then came the day when Sophia found Thomas and Maria leaving the Tower of London, laughing and talking about their visit to the crown jewels. There had been a kinship of spirit in Maria that Sophia had been able to reach. Silently she urged Maria to walk through the mean streets of St. Katherine’s.

  Sophia brought the Fitzgeralds to the right place. It was Philippe who gave his small daughter the invisible nudge that had sent her into Maria’s arms. Then, finally, the Count and Countess du Lac had been free to seek their own Garden of Light.

  “I understand.” Stephen bent and kissed the smooth cheek of his mother-in-law. Then Philippe clasped his hand, shaking it firmly. He was a dark, handsome man with warm brown eyes. Rosalind’s eyes. Stephen continued, “You both did your work well.”

  Not us alone. Philippe made a gesture, and Stephen was looking into a walled garden. An elderly woman with a serene face was watching over several children who danced around in the sun. Madame Standish, Marguerite’s brave nurse.

  The old woman raised her head and smiled at Stephen, then turned her attention to her charges again. He realized that in this place that was not earth and not quite heaven, she was caring for children who had died young.

  Stephen glanced back to Sophia and Philippe. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I know that you didn’t save your daughter for my sake, but I have benefited from your actions. She has been the greatest joy of my life.”

  In his head Stephen heard the joint words, Tell Marguerite how much we love her. And that we look forward to the day when we shall see her again. Then they turned and walked away, toward the sun, until they disappeared into the light.

  Throat tight with raw, newly discovered feelings, Stephen watched them go, feeling the light burning through him, searing every fiber of his being.

  And the light was love. He sank down onto the bench that Louisa had used, shaking from the force of the emotions surging through him as internal barriers burned away.

  He could see quite clearly how he had built a wall to protect himself from the pain of caring. Construction had begun when he was an infant. His earliest memories were of being punished for being too free with his emotions. Bricks had been laid when his father scolded him for weeping
over the death of a pet, or beat him for playing with lowborn estate children. Whole courses had been laid when he first discovered his mother’s promiscuity. Fear, anger, shame, and betrayal, brick by brick the wall had risen until it separated him from the pain of living.

  And also, of course, from the joy. By the time the wall was completed, he was the very model of an English gentleman. Cool, detached, fair-minded, never too passionate for decorum. Never risking the heights and depths of love.

  The shock and painful flashes of emotion made him feel as if he were made of ice cracking in a spring thaw. But the light surrounding him was warm, healing his wounded spirit with love. There had always been love in his life, he realized, though he had not dared call it by that name. He’d loved his mother, for all her failings, and his sister, who was better able to give than receive. He’d always loved Michael, even though the emotion was twisted together with complicated strands of competitiveness and the scorn he had felt in an unrecognized desire to win approval from his father.

  Most of all, he loved Rosalind. Her warmth and understanding had illuminated the dark places of his spirit from the beginning, and the passion they shared was the closest thing to paradise he’d ever known. The fact that he’d found her, against all the odds, was clear evidence that there must be some kind of a divine plan underlying life.

  He closed his eyes, letting the blessed light flow through him. Rosalind. His wife, his beloved. He felt a deep sense of awe, and of gratitude, that in the shadow of death he had discovered the nature of love.

  And he would never fear death again.

  Chapter 33

  Long after she had run out of tears, Rosalind lay sprawled on the bed, chilled from the autumn cold but too drained to move. Stephen’s illness was progressing with terrifying speed, far swifter than her ability to deal with it emotionally.