One Perfect Rose (17 page)

Cheers went up as the massive elm slowly rose from the ruined cottage. There was a rattle of shifting debris, but no major collapse. Eager hands helped swing the shattered tree to one side. Just as the trunk cleared the house, one of the ropes snapped. The other two followed immediately, and the trunk crashed with a force that caused the wet earth to shake. It barely missed an onlooker, but miraculously no one was hurt.

As Michael had hoped, the removal of the tree revealed a gaping hole in the roof and made it possible to enter the house directly. Working with painstaking care, the rescuers soon reached the little girl. The first was Emma's brother.

Lissie cried, “Uncle John!”

A moment later her uncle emerged from the wreckage with the child clinging to him. Emma swooped Lissie into her arms, holding her daughter as if she would never let go. Tears of thanks mingled with the raindrops on her face.

Not wasting time on observing the reunion, Michael turned back to the wreckage. Working carefully, he and a burly, taciturn blacksmith were able to clear the way to the injured man. Wyman lay on his back, his shirt saturated with blood. Luckily the beam that had blocked access from the other side had also protected Wyman from more serious injury, except for the long gash in his arm.

All that was visible of Blackmer were his right wrist and hand where they emerged from a hole in the rubble and clamped around Wyman's upper arm. Working entirely by touch, the physician had located the wound and stopped the lethal bleeding.

Michael pulled out his handkerchief and tied it tightly above the wound. “You can get out now, Blackmer. We'll take him from this side.”

Michael and the blacksmith lifted the injured man free and passed him to waiting hands outside the wreckage. As soon as Wyman was laid on the ground, Emma dropped to her knees beside him, one arm around her daughter and her other hand clasping her husband's. “Thank God,” she whispered. “And thank you all.”

Wearily Michael climbed from the wreckage. The older man who had spoken to him earlier said, “I'm William Johnson, mayor of Redminster. We're all grateful for what you and your friend have done, especially you being strangers.”

“I've owed my life to strangers,” Michael said with a faint smile, “and I always pay my debts.” Then he circled to the other side of the cottage to see if Blackmer needed help. The rain had stopped and it was nearly dark.

The physician was backing out of the narrow tunnel. He was almost out when the wreckage began shifting with a horrific groan. Michael grabbed Blackmer around the waist and yanked him clear just as the tunnel collapsed. A fragment of hardened clay struck the physician's cheek, but he was otherwise unhurt.

Silently giving thanks that luck had been on their side, Michael helped the other man to his feet. “Wyman looks as if he'll be all right. How are you?”

Blackmer wiped at the scratch on his face, smearing blood across his cheek. “Uninjured. I guess divine retribution has other plans for me.”

As the physician started to turn away, Michael stopped him with a hand on one arm. “That was well done,” he said soberly.

Blackmer flinched, looking at Michael's hand as if it were a scorpion before he said in his usual sardonic manner, “Does that mean it's time to leave for Whitcombe?”

Michael gave a lopsided smile. “I think we could both use a bath, a couple of glasses of brandy, and a good night's sleep at the Three Crowns.”

The physician expelled his breath in a ragged sigh as he let his fatigue show. “An excellent idea.” Then he went to check on Wyman.

Michael watched him go. He still didn't understand Blackmer-or particularly like him-but by God, the man had courage.

“Hold still, Rose, or you'll go to your wedding with half your hair down,” Jessica said in a threatening tone.

Rosalind obediently settled onto her chair again and locked her hands in her lap. She hadn't entirely adjusted to the shock of marrying so quickly. She didn't know quite how he had managed it, but Stephen had procured a special license from London. Since the license specified that the ceremony could be held at any convenient time and place, Maria had suggested that as the weather was good, they could use a pretty woodland glade outside Bury St. James, the troupe's latest stop.

It was a crisply sunny autumn day, and in an hour Rosalind would be wed.

Jessica pinned her sister's tawny hair into an elaborate chignon, then carefully arranged small bronze chrysanthemums around it. “You look splendid. Can you stay out of trouble while I go and dress myself?”

“I think I can manage,” Rosalind said with a wry smile. “I've been through this before, you know.”

“Yes—but you didn't look quite so dazed then,” Jessica said tartly before she left the room. Rosalind leaned back with a sigh, grateful for a few minutes of quiet. The fact that it was a second wedding did not mean that she was free of tension.

How was this different from her first wedding?

Then she had been full of dreams and excitement, driven more by youthful passions than love for Charles Jordan. She had been a girl. Now she was a woman, and what she felt for Stephen went far deeper than what she had been capable of feeling before.

And this time she knew what awaited her in the marriage bed. Her face heated at the thought, but she could not stop from smiling with anticipation. There had been no opportunity to be alone together since that magic hour in the loft. Ridiculous how desperately she wanted Stephen when it had been only four days. Thank heaven that in a few hours they would be together. Legally.

A knock sounded on the door. Then the voice of her betrothed called, “Will the heavens fall if I come in?”

Rosalind rose and went to open the door with relief. “Am I glad to see you! We should have run off to Gretna Green. How can one mother and sister create so much chaos in four days?”

With a laugh, Stephen set a medium-size wooden box on the table and drew her into his arms. “I'm glad for it. You deserve to have a special day.” He stepped back, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. “You look truly beautiful, Rosalind,” he said quietly. “I'm a lucky, lucky man.”

The Ophelia gown did look rather nice. Rosalind's gaze traveled over her intended. He'd procured some new clothing—again, she had no idea how. Though he was a little thin, the excellent tailoring made the most of his tall, broad-shouldered figure. “You look so distinguished that I'm almost afraid to marry you,” she said, only partly joking.

“There are good reasons not to marry me, but looking too distinguished isn't one of them.” He hesitated before continuing, “I came to warn you so you won't be surprised during the ceremony. My family name is actually Kenyon, not Ashe.”

She blinked. “Why on earth did you use Ashe?”

He smiled wryly. “You misunderstood what I said when half-conscious. Letting the error stand seemed a convenient way to lose myself for a few days.”

She could understand that, but she asked warily, “Are you still Stephen? If not, we may have to call this off.”

“Luckily I was christened Stephen Edward Kenyon.” He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips warm and firm.

“Mrs. Stephen Kenyon. That will do very nicely.” She relaxed into his embrace with a sigh of pleasure. For today, at least, she would try to suppress the thought of how terribly little time they would have. Nonetheless, it was at the back of her mind. She tightened her arms instinctively.

He stroked her neck beneath her upswept hair with a delicacy that sent tingles through her whole body. “There's something else I need to tell you.”

She tilted her head and looked at him through lazy-lidded eyes. “You are full of surprises, Mr. Kenyon. Are you going to reveal that you're a highwayman escaped from Newgate Prison?”

He smiled faintly. “Almost as bad.”

Before he could continue, a squeaky cry came from the box he had brought. Rosalind glanced over and saw that the box had a brass carrying handle and a number of holes drilled through the wood. “What on earth…?”

“Your wedding present.” He lifted the lid. Inside the box was a fuzzy little blanket, a small tray of sand—and the tortoiseshell kitten from the barn loft. It reared up on its hind legs and braced its paws on the side of the box, the huge green eyes bright with curiosity.

“At first I had trouble deciding between diamonds and a worthless barn cat,” he explained. “Being a miserly sort, naturally I settled on the kitten.”

“Oh, Stephen!” Delightedly Rosalind scooped up the tortoiseshell. The tiny face was mostly black, but with a dashing orange swash across the forehead and a white patch on the chin. Rosalind allowed the kitten to scramble up to her shoulder, blithely ignoring the trail of black fur left on the ivory fabric. She gazed at her future husband, eyes shining. “This is a better present than all the diamonds in England.”

He touched her cheek tenderly. “I'm glad to have pleased you.”

Her heart ached at the knowledge that one reason he'd chosen the kitten was to give her a source of uncomplicated pleasure in the difficult months ahead. He was so good. So dangerously lovable.

Dropping her gaze so that Stephen would not see her feelings in her eyes, Rosalind took the kitten from her shoulder and set her on her bed. The kitten bounded vigorously across the counterpane, the short, plump tail pointed straight in the air.

The door opened and Maria entered, magnificent in the blue gown she wore when she played a queen. Aloysius loped amiably at her side. As soon as he scented the kitten, his ears stiffened with excitement. He covered the distance to the bed in one leap and thrust his nose at the newcomer.

“Don't you dare!” Rosalind exclaimed, diving toward the bed to prevent her new pet from being swallowed whole.

Stephen also moved to intervene, but their efforts were not needed. Completely unafraid, the kitten looked up at the looming canine head and panting mouth. Then, with casual precision, she lifted her tiny paw and smartly spatted Aloysius's nose.

The dog yelped and jumped. The kitten took two steps toward the dog and stared with the ferocity of a Siberian tiger. There was a long, tense silence, broken only by a high-pitched feline hiss. Aloysius's nerve broke first. He bounded behind Maria.

Rosalind's mother laughed. “What on earth is going on here? Poor Aloysius may never recover from the humiliation.”

Rosalind picked up the kitten and scratched her head. “Portia is Stephen's wedding present to me.”

“Portia?” he said with amusement.

“A good name for a cat,” Maria decreed. Then she swung around with Lady Macbeth's theatrical grandeur. “But you, treacherous man, are trespassing! Have you never heard that it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?”

“I wanted to talk to Rosalind,” he said meekly.

“You have a lifetime for that,” Maria said firmly as she shooed him from the room. “Out, out, out!”

He gave Rosalind a rueful glance and withdrew in defeat. For a moment she wondered what else he had wanted to say. Then she shrugged. It would keep. Next to the grim reality of his illness, all else was trivial. What did it matter that he was named Kenyon instead of Ashe?

Maria said, “Let me look at you.” She circled her daughter with a critical eye before giving a nod of approval. “You look as a bride should look, my dear.”

“Surely a bit long in the tooth,” Rosalind suggested.

“Beauty is timeless and ageless.” Her mother settled on the bed. Portia promptly came and rubbed against Maria's hand for attention.

As Maria started petting the kitten, Rosalind said softly, “All defenseless little creatures come to you trustingly. I did.”

“It seems like only yesterday that Thomas and I found you in that horrible stew,” Maria said with a nostalgic smile. “How did you turn into a woman so quickly?”

“Oh, Mama.” Tears in her eyes, Rosalind sank onto the bed and hugged Maria. “I can't imagine what my life would have been like if not for you and Papa. You have given and given and given. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

“Taking you home was the best day's work we ever did.” Maria took hold of her daughter's hand and squeezed tightly. “Sometimes I think it's a blessing that we never joined one of the famous companies. Success on such a scale would have brought many temptations and distractions to both of us. The family would have suffered, and when all is said and done, family matters most.” She smiled suddenly. “Not that I would have minded acting
Isabella
at Covent Garden when Sarah Siddons was playing the same role at Drury Lane. I don't think the audiences that saw me would have felt ill-used.”

“You would have been better than Mrs. Siddons, Mama,” Rosalind said loyally.

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Maria shrugged. “It doesn't matter that I never had the chance to play before grand audiences. I played the roles grandly, and that's enough.” She rubbed noses with Portia. “We have a few minutes. Should I give you a mother's lecture on the facts of life and love?”

Rosalind laughed. “I think I know most of them, Mama. After all, I was married for three years.” She frowned as she saw her mother wipe her eyes. “What's wrong? You don't object to me marrying Stephen, do you? I thought you liked him.”

“I do like him, enormously. He's a very special man.” Maria pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “It's just that after today, life will never be the same. You didn't leave us when you married Charles, but Stephen will take you away into another world. Soon there will be other changes. You've seen how Jessica and Simon Kent look at each other. It won't be long till they're headed to the altar, too, particularly if your father catches them kissing over the costume chest. They'll go off to join a grander company. That will leave us with just Brian, and him a growing lad.”

Rosalind swallowed the lump that was forming again in her throat. “If…if, God forbid, something should happen to Stephen, you'd let me come back, wouldn't you?”

“Of course, but losing your husband is no topic for your wedding day,” Maria said, scandalized.

The remark made Rosalind glad she hadn't told her parents about Stephen's illness. There would be time enough for that later, when she needed to come home. Jessica hadn't spoken of the matter, though sometimes she had studied her sister and Stephen with sorrowful eyes.

Enough. Rosalind got to her feet and picked up the bouquet she was to carry. It was made of autumn blossoms in gold and orange and amber. “It's time, Mama.”

As she and her mother descended the stairs, she remembered Stephen saying gravely, “It's time, Rosalind.”

Time was her enemy.

Day Fifty-five

Despite calming comments by the elderly vicar, Stephen paced restlessly around the sunny glade where the ceremony was to be held. It was a splendid setting for a wedding, with the trees at the brilliant height of their autumn glory. All members of the troupe except the wedding party were present, and other women besides Rosalind had robbed the costume chest in order to look their best for the occasion.

Also present were some citizens of Bury St. James who had become family friends over the years, including the theater-loving squire who owned the glade. As the company musicians played Handel, guests hovered hungrily around the heavily laden tables at the edge of the clearing. Stephen was providing an al fresco wedding breakfast, and the local innkeeper had provided an impressive spread of cold meats, made dishes, and a haunch of beef roasting over an open fire. Old Nan stood guard over the food, giving her best imitation of a Shakespearean witch when anyone tried to steal a premature bite.

Stephen paced, praying to the God he didn't believe in that he would not suffer from one of the convulsive pain attacks. This was one day that he wanted to be perfect.

Jeremiah Jones, who was acting as groomsman, said soothingly, “You're going to wear a hole in the turf with your pacing, Stephen. Never fear, Rose will be here.” He chuckled at his unintended rhyme. “Jane Landers and Mary Kent will do well enough with the acting roles, but we're going to miss having Rosalind as stage manager, and no mistake. The next few weeks of performances will be chaotic.”

But
would
Rose be here? Perhaps she had suffered a last-minute change of heart. Stephen still could not understand why she was willing to marry him despite his condition. It wasn't for the financial security he'd promised her, since no Fitzgerald seemed to care much about money. She must have accepted him from pity.

Gad, if that was true, don't let her run out of pity now. He continued to pace.

Then the music stopped. He turned and saw that the wedding party had arrived at the opposite end of the clearing. Rosalind was so lovely that it hurt to look at her. The Ophelia gown was designed with stark elegance, the ivory silk flowing to the ground in sumptuous folds. The simplicity suited Rosalind, as did the bronze flowers in her hair and the back lacing that caused the fabric to cling seductively to her splendid figure. She was far more appealing than any Ophelia he'd ever seen onstage. Hamlet's lady had been a weak creature, while Rosalind radiated warm, womanly strength.

Stephen took his position by the altar, Jeremiah beside him. The musicians began to play a solemn march. Since there was no aisle, the bride advanced gracefully across the grass with her father and Brian on one side and Maria and Jessica on the other. The whole Fitzgerald family was giving her away.

Stephen's throat tightened. He had no right to take her from the family she loved-but he could not regret his selfishness.