One Perfect Rose (11 page)

The midwife nodded. “Can you move them into my cart?”

Stephen opened the end of the wagon and slid his arms under the new mother, ignoring the fact that Ellie and her gown were a filthy, bloody mess. Effortlessly he lifted mother and baby together and transferred them to the cart, which was padded with old quilts. Rosalind followed with Ellie's pathetically small bag of possessions.

Mrs. Holt swiveled in her seat and took the infant, wrapping him in a worn, clean towel while she crooned nonsense talk. Then she returned him to his mother. Rosalind smiled wearily, glad Ellie would be under the care of a woman who clearly loved her work and her patients.

Mr. Brown said nervously, “The fact that Mrs. Holt is taking the girl into Whitcombe doesn't mean this parish is responsible for her.”

“Don't worry,” Stephen said dryly. “Mrs. Jordan and I will bear witness to the fact that the baby was born in Cowley Parish.” He turned to Crain, who had come to reclaim his wagon. “I shall call on the chief man of your vestry council tomorrow with some suggestions as to how they may best support Ellie Warden and her son.”

“'Tis none of your affair,” Crain growled. “And she made a mess of my wagon.”

Stephen simply repeated coolly, “I shall call tomorrow.”

Belligerence gone, the overseer climbed into his wagon and turned to head back toward his own town. After a quick businesslike exchange between Stephen and Mrs. Holt, the alderman and the midwife took Ellie and her baby away.

As soon as they were out of sight, Stephen sank down by the edge of the road, braced his elbows on his knees, and buried his head in his hands. “Thank God it was a simple, uncomplicated birth. Heaven knows what would have happened otherwise.”

Rosalind gave a shaky laugh and dropped down beside him. Now that the crisis was past, she felt weak all over. “You were wonderful! Are you a physician?”

He looked up, “Not at all. Merely a farmer who's delivered his share of foals and calves and lambs.”

Rosalind stared. “Good heavens, all your confidence was false?”

He cocked a brow with mock disdain. “I may not be much of an actor, but I can play the role of a doctor.”

Rosalind collapsed against the grassy bank and began to laugh helplessly. “Wretched man! I thought one of us knew what to do.”

“I knew the principle for humans is the same as for livestock,” he said mildly.

“So that's why you cleaned the poor infant with hay!” She laughed even harder, and Stephen joined in. She felt very close to him, and more than a little awed. He was no physician, yet he could deliver a baby. He was a gentleman, yet he cared about the fate of a desperate girl who had been rejected by her own community. And though he claimed to be merely a farmer, he was used to being obeyed, which implied ownership of an estate.

Nonetheless, he was here, and his presence had been a godsend. She studied his face fondly. “You're very brave. Most men would bolt when confronted by a strange woman in labor.”

“Someone had to do something, and it was clear that I was the best qualified.” He smiled reminiscently. “My head groom once treated me to a detailed description of how he had delivered his daughter when his wife went into labor too quickly to get the midwife. At the time, I rather wished he had kept the subject to himself, but what he said came in handy today. His daughter is a lively little thing of five, and God willing, Ellie's baby will do equally well.”

His expression was wistful. She realized that he liked children and probably had none of his own. A great pity—and a lack that she could identify with all too easily.

Her exhilaration faded and she relaxed, her gaze on the summer sky. “We have less than an hour to get back to Whitcombe, clean up, and prepare for tonight's performance.”

He groaned. “I'd forgotten all about that.”

“Which proves you're not really an actor.” Rosalind got to her feet and offered a hand to help him up as he had done with her earlier in the afternoon. Sternly she said, “The show must go on, Duke Claudio.”

Stephen smiled and accepted her help in rising. “Since the role involves me kissing you, I believe I shall be able to manage.”

Rosalind blushed a little but said primly, “It was very conscientious of you to take me off for private practice.”

He gave a shout of laughter. Then they resumed their walk to Whitcombe. Hand in hand.

Lord Michael Kenyon pulled his horse to a halt in front of Dr. George Blackmer's house, then swung wearily from the saddle. He hoped the blasted man would be in because Michael had ridden a long way to find answers and was in no mood to wait.

The elderly servant ushered Michael into the doctor's dispensary, where Blackmer was using a mortar and pestle to grind some chalky substance. Michael had met the man only once before, at the funeral of the Duchess of Ashburton, his sister-in-law. The circumstances had not been such as to give him much faith in the physician's abilities.

Blackmer glanced up, then scrambled to his feet. “Ashburton! I'm glad to see that you've returned. I've been concerned.”

“Look again.” Michael removed his hat so the physician could see his face more clearly. “Not Ashburton, but Ashburton's brother.”

Blackmer stopped in his tracks. “I see. Sorry. You do look much like him.”

Since Michael had been hearing that all his life, it was not news that interested him. “I was away from home and didn't receive your letter until yesterday. I came at once, of course, but when I stopped at the abbey, I was told that my brother left over three weeks ago, and they haven't heard a word from him since then. What the devil is going on?”

Blackmer sighed. “So the duke has not been visiting you in Wales. I had hoped that he might be there.”

“No, nor is he in London, because I was there until a few days ago,” Michael said impatiently. “Your letter said that my brother is seriously ill. What is wrong?”

Blackmer hesitated, as if wondering how to break the news. “He has a tumefaction, a deadly internal disease that is destroying his stomach and liver. He will almost certainly be dead in a matter of months.”

Michael went rigid. Blackmer's carefully worded letter hadn't led him to expect such bad news. Stephen was almost never ill. He'd visited Michael and Catherine in Wales only a couple of months earlier and had been in the best of health. How could he suddenly be dying? Tightly Michael said, “There is nothing that can be done?”

Blackmer looked away uncomfortably. “Prayer, perhaps.”

Michael had to fight off an impulse to strike the man. There was no point in killing the messenger. Another unpleasant thought occurred to him. “Might Stephen have left because the illness has affected his mind?”

“Certainly not,” the physician said, startled by the suggestion. “My guess is that the duke wanted some privacy to come to terms with his affliction.”

Michael could see Stephen doing that. Still…“Three weeks' absence seems excessive. Might his illness have worsened suddenly, so that he is lying ill somewhere?”

Blackmer shook his head. “Possible, I suppose, but very unlikely.”

Michael weighed what to do next. Stephen had spoken well of Blackmer's skill, but for a country physician that meant dosing fevers and setting broken bones. The man hadn't saved Louisa, and he obviously hadn't the vaguest idea what to do for Stephen.

Perhaps Ian Kinlock could help. A surgeon friend of Catherine's, he'd saved Michael's life after Waterloo with a daring experimental procedure. Kinlock was now at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, working at the frontiers of medical knowledge. If anyone could help Stephen, it would be Ian. All Michael had to do was locate his brother and get him to London.

Intensely relieved at the prospect of positive action, Michael said, “Thank you for your information, Doctor. Good-bye.” He spun on his heel and headed toward the door.

“What are you going to do?” Blackmer asked.

“Find my brother, of course,” Michael flung over his shoulder.

“Wait! I want to come with you.”

Michael paused, saying impatiently, “Why the devil would you want to do that?”

Blackmer looked down and absently touched the stone mortar on the table in front of him. “He's my patient. If you can find him, I should be there.”

Michael frowned, on the verge of flatly refusing to allow the other man to come. He didn't want the company of a stranger, and he really couldn't tell Blackmer that his goal was to find Stephen and take him to a different doctor. Still, Michael had to admire the man's conscientiousness. He compromised by saying, “I suppose you can come if you wish, but you'd better be a good rider. I won't slow down for you.”

“I'll manage,” Blackmer said tersely. “But I'll need a little time to make arrangements and ask another physician to look after my patients. It's late in the day now. Can we start in the morning?”

Michael glanced out the window and saw how low the sun was in the sky. “I suppose so,” he said reluctantly. “I need to question the abbey servants and write some letters. Until tomorrow, Dr. Blackmer. Meet me at the abbey at dawn.” Then he left, telling himself that surely Ian Kinlock could help Stephen if anyone could.

He refused to believe that his only brother might be beyond help.

 

After his visitor left, Blackmer sank back into his chair, shaken. Like his late father, Lord Michael had his full share of Kenyon abrasiveness, with the addition of an army officer's formidable air of command. Traveling with him would not be easy, and not only because Kenyon had years of experience with hard campaigning.

Blackmer had met Lord Michael only once and had been left with the impression of a man who looked much like Ashburton but with ramrod posture and piercing green eyes. He had not expected to see such unmistakable pain at the news that his older brother was critically ill. Most men would secretly rejoice at the news that a dukedom would fall into their hands in a matter of months.

The physician stared at the unlit fire. As he had feared, notifying Lord Michael had stirred up a hornet's nest. Ashburton could be anywhere in Britain, and the chances of locating him were slim. It was far more likely that the duke would return on his own than that he would be found. But if Lord Michael managed to find his brother, the duke's physician should be there as well.

Blackmer stared at his cold hearth and wondered with deep foreboding what he had let himself in for.

Rosalind awoke late to a sunny morning. Jessica had already gotten up, dressed, and gone down for breakfast. But then, Jessica had not taken a long walk by the river nor had she helped deliver a baby.

Rosalind rolled over and stretched luxuriously. The high drama of the previous day had ended with a very successful performance at the local theater. Maria's wildly emotional role in
Isabella
had reduced the audience to happy sobs. The farcical afterpiece had been well received, and she and Stephen had reached the point where they could kiss with pleasure and no danger—at least when they were in front of an audience.

She thought of that kiss, and the others earlier in the day by the willow tree, and heat flooded her limbs. For a few moments she allowed herself to imagine what would have happened if they had continued. It would have been a rare and wonderful thing to share such passion with a man she cared for deeply.

But caring for him too much was the problem. She sighed and swung her feet from the bed. Stopping before it was too late had been the right thing to do. And not stopping sooner had left her with lovely memories. Better than nothing, she supposed.

After washing and dressing, she went downstairs. To her disappointment, Stephen had already gone out. In fact, he did not appear until after luncheon. Rosalind had finished a lunch of bread, cheese, and ale in the private parlor, and was making lists in her notebook. Seeing Stephen go down the hall, she waved for him to join her.

He changed course and entered the parlor. “What mischief are you up to?”

“Nothing very exciting.” She indicated her lists. “In a couple of days we'll be doing a private performance at an estate near here. A very prestigious engagement, so I'm taking extra care to make sure we have everything we need. Unfortunately, the one thing we need most, good weather, I can't arrange.”

“An outdoor stage?”

She nodded. “There's a lovely little Greek-style amphitheater, perfect for performing
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. If the weather is awful, we can move indoors, but it won't be anywhere near as nice.” She set aside her notebook. “Have you eaten?”

Stephen shrugged off the question, as he often did his food, and unconsciously rubbed his stomach. She surveyed him critically. He was definitely getting thin, and she realized that she had seen that gesture before. Perhaps he suffered from indigestion, or even an ulcerated stomach.

Before she could decide whether it would be impertinent to ask about his health, he said, “Would you like to visit Ellie Warden?”

She smiled, forgetting about his lack of appetite. “I'd love to.” She went and got her bonnet, and together they left the inn.

As they walked toward the far end of Whitcombe, he said, “In case you're wondering, I went to Cowley this morning.”

“Ah, of course,” she said, enlightened. “Were you able to talk to the head of the vestry council about Ellie's future?”

“Yes,” he said, but volunteered no more. Nobly Rosalind refrained from further questions. She'd find out soon enough.

Mrs. Holt lived in a pleasant cottage surrounded by the brilliant, heavy-headed flowers of late summer. A perfect place for the cheery midwife. Mrs. Holt herself opened the door after Stephen's knock. “Ah, here are the good angels!” She stood back so they could enter. “Ellie and her boy are doing just fine.”

“I'm so glad to hear that,” Rosalind said warmly. “Can we see them?”

“Right this way.” Mrs. Holt led them up a narrow stairway to a sunny bedroom at the back of the house. Ellie was sitting in an upholstered chair by the window, her baby sleeping in her arms. As Rosalind had expected, cleaned up and in a nice robe, she was a very pretty girl, with soft brown curls and a sweet face.

She lit up when she saw her visitors. “I'm so glad to have the chance to thank you properly. I don't know what I would have done without you.”

Rosalind's heart melted at the sight of the sleeping infant. He had a full head of silky dark hair. “May I hold him?”

“Of course.” Ellie passed her son over carefully.

Rosalind cradled the warm, malleable form and felt a terrible urge to run away and keep the baby for herself. She had expected to have children, and babies would have done much to compensate for the shortcomings of her marriage. But she was barren, and would never hold a child of her own in her arms. Huskily she said, “He's lovely.”

“So small and perfect.” Stephen touched a tiny hand gingerly, as if fearing that he'd damage it. “Will you name him for his father?”

“Aye. And…” Ellie ducked her head shyly. “I never did learn your name, sir.”

“Stephen Ashe.” His gaze never left the baby. Rosalind felt in him, as clearly as spoken words, the same hunger for a child that she had.

“Then I'd like to call him Daniel Stephen, if you don't mind, sir.”

Stephen looked up with an expression of startled delight. “I'd be honored.” His gaze dropped to the baby again. “I've several godchildren,” he said softly, “but this is special.”

Rosalind silently blessed the girl for giving Stephen a gift greater than she knew. Then she regretfully returned the infant to his mother.

Stephen touched the baby's petal-soft cheek. “Sleep well, Daniel Stephen.” He looked up, his expression businesslike. “Do you have any plans for the future, Ellie?”

The girl's happiness dimmed. “I'll try to find a position where I can keep him with me. It won't be easy, but I'm not afraid to work.”

“This morning I spoke to the Cowley vestry council,” Stephen said. “They agreed that the amount of parish relief that went to you and your mother was much less than the value of your cottage, so you will receive two hundred pounds in compensation.”

Ellie gasped. “Two hundred pounds! It's a fortune!”

“Not a fortune, but a good cushion against disaster,” he agreed. “I believe that I know of a suitable position as well. A friend of mine has an estate in Norfolk, and the place could use another maid. The housekeeper is a good-natured widow who likes babies.” He smiled. “A woman rather like Mrs. Holt. And perhaps you'll find some relatives in the area.”

Ellie stared, stunned, tears forming in her hazel eyes. “That would be perfect, sir. You and your wife have been so good to me. I shall never forget you.”

Rosalind and Stephen exchanged startled glances. “We're not married. Just…friends,” she said, knowing the words were inadequate.

Ellie blushed. “I'm so sorry. I thought…the way you two are with each other…”

“An easy mistake to make, because we're very
good
friends,” Stephen said with a smile in his eyes. “Incidentally, when you go to Norfolk, if you wish to call yourself Mrs., with your Danny's last name, no one need ever know differently. After all, you were married in your hearts, if not in the church.”

This time she did start to cry. “So no one will ever call my baby bastard. Oh, sir, it's…it's like a miracle.”

Looking embarrassed, Stephen said, “You've had your share of ill fortune. It's time for a change.” He glanced at Rosalind. “And it's time for us to be off.”

She nodded, then bent to give Daniel Stephen a feather-light kiss on the cheek. His eyes opened, and he regarded her gravely. Knowing that she also would be crying if she stayed any longer, she squeezed Ellie's hand and wished her well. Then they went downstairs. Stephen explained Ellie's prospects to Mrs. Holt, who agreed to keep the girl until she was strong enough to take a coach to Norfolk. There was a discreet clinking of coins as he paid for Ellie's expenses.

Rosalind waited until they were well away before asking, “How on earth did you get the Cowley vestry to give Ellie money from the sale of the family property?”

“Threats,” he said cheerfully. “I've some knowledge of the law, so I pointed out their misdeeds and said I'd get the lord lieutenant of the shire on them. In fact, I'll do that anyhow. Ellie is not the only one they have abused.”

Rosalind remembered how he had looked the day before when dealing with Crain, and she had no trouble believing that he had intimidated the vestry into fulfilling their responsibilities. He probably hadn't even had to raise his voice. “Was the cottage really worth two hundred pounds?”

He hesitated. “Half that, after they had deducted every penny that had ever been spent on her family, plus interest. I doubled the amount to give her some security.”

“So you're giving her a hundred pounds, plus expenses at Mrs. Holt's. That's incredibly generous.”

“It's only a hundred pounds,” he said, embarrassed. “Not a great amount.”

If she'd had any doubt about his station in life, they were now resolved. “A small fortune by most people's standards,” she said wryly. “Certainly to a Fitzgerald.”

When he glanced at her, expression troubled, she said, “We come from different worlds, Stephen. Even more different than you realize, I think.”

He turned and laid his hand over hers, where it rested on his arm. “But haven't we built a bridge between those worlds?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “A frail one that will dissolve as soon as you leave.”

His face tightened, and there was bitter regret in his eyes when he said, “Why do things have to be this way?”

“They just are. You're a gentleman, and I'm an actress. Most of the time, the only way people like us meet is behind closed doors.” She smiled at him. “And we've been lucky enough to have a little holiday from the usual way of the world.”

He released his breath in a sigh. “You're right. As always.”

She resumed walking, keeping her hand tucked in his arm as she said aloud what she had sensed. “You're running away from something, aren't you?”

He slanted a glance at her. “Am I that transparent?”

“I'm enough of an actress that I watch people closely.” And because she cared about Stephen, she watched him very closely indeed.

“Nothing illegal,” he said after a long silence. “I've been running from…life, I suppose. It's time to go home and take up my responsibilities again. As soon as Edmund Chesterfield's replacement arrives.”

It was suddenly very important for her not to let him know how much she would miss him. Lightly she said, “It's been a lovely flirtation.”

He glanced at her, an indefinable blend of emotions in his eyes. “So it has.” He caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth for a brief kiss. Then, using a deliberately theatrical voice, “I shall remember you all of the days of my life, Lady Caliban.”

As she would remember him. And someday, in a year or two or three, she would probably be able to think of him and it wouldn't hurt.