One Perfect Rose (25 page)

She smiled bleakly. “How much I owe the Fitzgeralds. I trusted Maria immediately. I…I think she reminded me of my mother. When she picked me up and asked me if I wanted a new mama and papa, I remember very clearly vowing to myself that I'd never, ever cause her any trouble.”

“And you didn't. Thomas said that you were the perfect child.” Stephen smiled a little. “Unnaturally so.”

“I was afraid that if I was bad, they'd bring me back here.” She nervously brushed her hair away from her face. “Nonsense, of course, but I could never put the idea entirely out of my mind.”

Stephen's stomach clenched with pain at the thought of the terror Rosalind must have lived with for years after her adoption. “No wonder you were unnaturally good.”

They turned another corner. In the middle of the block, an ancient woman sat on the steps of a decaying house, a clay pipe clamped between her gums. Rosalind gasped. “I recognize her! Or at least, there was a woman who would sit outside like that every day. Old Molly. I…I think that she was married to a sailor, so she spent much of the time when he was at sea watching what happened in the neighborhood.”

“Could this be the same woman?” Stephen asked.

Rosalind bit her lower lip as she thought. “Molly seemed very old then, but her hair was dark. This woman looks just the same, except that her hair is white and she has more wrinkles. I think it really is her.” Rosalind scanned the dingy buildings. “Because this is the street where she lived. I remember the odd shape of those building facades.”

“The style is Dutch.” Stephen tried to imagine how the street had appeared to a small, frightened child. It wasn't a happy thought. “Is there any particular reason why you remember her after so many years?”

Rosalind nodded. “Thomas and Maria found me right here, and Molly was watching when it happened.”

“Then let's see if she remembers that day, too.” Keeping a steady hand on Rosalind's elbow, Stephen approached the old woman. She drew in on herself but didn't attempt to flee. Her face was so lined and weathered that she might well have spent a good part of the last few decades sitting outdoors.

“Good day,” he said politely. “My wife would like to ask you a question.”

The old woman removed her clay pipe. “Aye?”

“A long time ago—twenty-four years—there was an orphaned child in this neighborhood who lived by scavenging scraps,” Rosalind said. “Do you remember that?”

The old woman shrugged. “Lots of orphans.”

“This one was a very small girl.”

The old woman drew on her unlit pipe reflectively. “Oh, aye, her. Not many little girls on the streets. They worth more in a whorehouse. Dark-haired man and woman took 'er. Didn't look like whoremongers, though mebbe they were.” She looked up at Rosalind, and her gaze narrowed. “Be you that girl? Not be many with blond hair and brown eyes.”

Rosalind nodded.

The old woman's gaze went to Stephen. “If this be your husband, you done well for yourself, girl.”

“Believe me, I'm very aware of that,” Rosalind agreed. “You were good to me, too. You gave me bread once.”

“Not
give
.” The crone cackled. “Old Molly don't give food away for nothin'.”

“That's right, I traded you something,” Rosalind said slowly. “But I can't remember what I had to trade.”

“Handkerchief,” Molly announced. “Fine stuff, pretty stitching. Kept it for a long time, then sold it for two shillings.”

Rosalind caught her breath, her eyes widening. “A handkerchief. Can you remember what it looked like?”

Molly screwed her face up. “Flowers. Some kind of animal, and a letter.
M
, it was, like my name.” She cackled. “Almost kept it 'cause of that.”

Rosalind said tensely, “Stephen, do you have paper and a pencil?”

He produced a pencil and a folded letter. Rosalind swiftly sketched a small square with a stylized lion in one corner and an elaborate initial
M
in the other, with a scattering of flowers around both. Showing the drawing to Molly, she asked, “Did the embroidery look like this?”

The old woman squinted at the sketch. “Aye, that's it. 'Twas yours, then.”

Stephen took Rosalind's free hand. It was trembling. To Molly he said, “Do you remember anything else about how my wife came to be on the streets?”

Molly shrugged. “'Twas said a wherry brought 'er and an old woman from a sailin' ship. Woman had some sort of fit soon as she stepped onto the quay. As she was dyin', a guard tried to catch the girl and she run off. So 'twas said.”

An old woman. That confirmed Rosalind's belief that she hadn't been traveling with her mother. “How long was my wife on the streets before she was adopted?”

“Two months mebbe. Don't remember.”

So Rosalind had spent perhaps eight or nine weeks living in filth, dodging rats and perverts, scrounging food scraps whenever possible. Sixty days, maybe more. The thought made him almost physically ill and redoubled his resolve to do something for Thomas and Maria. He inclined his head to Molly. “Thank you, madame.”

She gave him a toothless smile. “A fine gent like you must have somethin' for old Molly's help.”

He pulled a gold coin from his pocket-a year's salary for a housemaid—and gave it to the old woman. Cackling gleefully, she went inside with her gold before he could change his mind and take it back.

Stephen examined Rosalind's sketch. “This lion looks like it might be from a coat of arms. Do you remember anything more about it?”

Rosalind shook her head. “The image just jumped into my mind.”

He traced the elaborate initial. “I wonder if your real name begins with
M
. Mary? Margaret?”

Rosalind gasped and backed away from him, her face going dead white. “Oh, God. This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come here.”

Wondering what dark memories had been stirred by his words, Stephen put his arm around her shoulders. “We'll go home now,” he said soothingly. “It's all right, Rosalind. Whatever happened then, it's all right now.”

She looked up at him with dazed eyes. “It will never be all right again.” And she spoke in French.

He'd been a damned fool to agree to bring her here. Taking Rosalind's arm, he turned back toward the waterfront. “We'll be on the river soon, and then home. You don't ever have to come back here, little rose. Never again.”

She walked blindly, stumbling sometimes on the rough ground. His concentration on her made him less watchful. Then they turned a corner and almost walked into a burly man with a wickedly gleaming knife held low and menacing in one hand.

“Give me the gold, guv,” the thief said menacingly. He was tall and flabby and stank of whiskey. “I saw you give some to old Molly, but I bet there's plenty more for me.” His mouth stretched in a gap-toothed smile. “Be quick about it, and I won't cut you or the lady.” But his gaze went to Rosalind and lingered speculatively.

She shrank back against Stephen and gasped, “No.
No
.”

The rage that had been building since they'd stepped ashore exploded into swift, lethal violence. Stephen kicked the hand holding the knife, sending it spinning through the air. Then he moved in with a hard right fist that knocked the man to the ground.

The thief bellowed an obscenity. Stephen whipped out his pocket pistol, cocked it, and aimed it between the man's eyes. His finger was squeezing the trigger when he saw the terror in the bloodshot eyes. Poor bloody bastard.

Reminding himself that if one goes into a snake pit, one should not be surprised to find snakes, he eased off on the trigger. “Find an honest line of work,” he said icily.

His two footmen, who had been told to stay well behind, came around the corner. Seeing trouble, they barrelled down the street to Stephen's side. “Your Grace, are you and the duchess all right?” the taller one exclaimed, his face ashen.

“No harm done. But take this fellow's knife.” Stephen flicked the barrel of the pistol toward the fallen weapon. “A defanged serpent can't cause much damage.”

He uncocked the pistol and put it back under his coat, then turned to Rosalind. Drawing her into his arms again, he said, “Shall we leave this place to the rats?”

She didn't reply at first. Her whole body was trembling, and she seemed almost fragile despite her height. He stroked her silky hair and murmured soothing words, feeling a confusing blend of protectiveness and desire.

Then she looked up, and her face was eerily serene. “You keep showing unexpected new talents, Stephen. If you had been the younger son who went into the army, you'd have made a good job of it.”

He realized that he was witnessing an almost supernatural ability to detach from fear and distress. That must be how she had managed to survive the horrors she had suffered. Releasing her from his embrace, he said, “It never hurts for a man to know how to defend himself.”

He kept his arm around her shoulders as they returned to the water stairs and the waiting wherry. The footmen stayed much closer this time.

But though they could leave the filthy neighborhood, Stephen doubted that the dark memories aroused in Rosalind would be put so easily to rest.

For the first part of the ride back, Rosalind drifted in the mental place where she'd learned to hide when she was a small child. Her mind was full of light, obscuring the terrifying world. Nothing could hurt her there. Gradually she emerged, remembering what had happened but safely separated from the crippling emotions she had experienced.

When she realized that Stephen was watching her with sharp concern, she smiled and took his hand. “Tell me about the ships moored over there by the Customs House.”

He relaxed and began a running commentary on the sights. After the wherry had picked its way through the heaviest concentration of lighters and barges, he said, “If you're not too tired, there's a place I'd like to show you near Covent Garden.”

Welcoming a distraction, she assured him, “I'm not tired.”

Stephen should be, perhaps, but he looked fine. Vanquishing villains seemed to agree with him. They disembarked by the new Waterloo Bridge, with Stephen sending his servants the rest of the way in the wherry. Then he hailed a hackney cab, and they set off for Covent Garden.

Just past the bustling market, Stephen signaled for the hackney to stop and paid the driver to wait for them. Rosalind stepped from the cab and found herself in front of a small playhouse. “The Athenaeum Theater? I've never heard of it.”

“It's been closed for years. I thought you might like to see the place because of its historical interest. It's the last remaining example of the London playhouses that were built after Charles II was restored to the throne and lifted the Puritan ban on theaters. The others have burned or been torn down and replaced.” Stephen went to a small door at the right of the main entrance and knocked hard.

While they waited for a response, a flower girl from the market came by carrying a basket heaped with warm-toned autumn blossoms. Sizing up Stephen with a glance, she said, “Flowers for the lovely lady, sir?” She held out a nosegay temptingly.

She'd chosen her mark well. Stephen paid a generous price for the flowers, then presented them to Rosalind with a smile. “No roses here, I'm afraid.”

“A world with only roses would be less interesting.” She buried her nose in the autumn blossoms. “Thank you, Stephen. You take such good care of me.”

His mouth twisted. “If that were true, I'd never have taken you to that slum.”

She shivered as something dark and menacing stirred under her carefully constructed calm. Nonetheless, she shook her head. “It was good that I went.” Her mouth curved into a rueful smile. “But like so many things that are good for us, it was not a pleasant experience.”

The theater door opened then, revealing an elderly man with a piece of cheese in his hand and a sad-eyed hound by his side. “Yes?”

“I'm Ashburton,” Stephen said. “Sorry to disturb your luncheon. If you're Mr. Farley, the caretaker, you should have been informed that I would call soon.”

“Oh. Aye.” Farley stepped aside so Stephen and Rosalind could enter the shabby lobby. Stephen waited gravely for the hound to give him a sniff of approval before asking, “Do you mind if we explore on our own?”

“Suit yourself, sir. I'll be back in the greenroom.” Farley took a bite of cheese and headed down the side corridor, the dog ambling lazily by his side.

Rosalind went through the lobby doors into the auditorium. It was dimly lit from clerestory windows high above. “What a nice theater,” she said, running an experienced eye over the stage and seating. “Large enough for a good-size audience, but small enough so that an actor can be subtle instead of having to shout. Not at all like Drury Lane, which is beautiful but makes most barns look cozy.”

“Because the Athenaeum wasn't a royal patent house, it's had a checkered past. Many managers and different kinds of entertainment.” Stephen strolled down the left aisle past the rows of backless benches. “Lack of prosperity saved it from being rebuilt into a huge playhouse like Covent Garden or Drury Lane. I always liked coming to performances here, and was sorry when it closed.”

She sneezed as she followed him. “It's in dire need of refurbishing.”

“Very true.” He reached the orchestra pit. Against the wall a narrow set of stairs went up to the stage. Turning, he extended one hand. “Hippolyta, will you join me?”

Life had been much simpler when he was Mr. Ashe and she a strolling player. Wanting to return to that, if only for a few minutes, she flipped her cloak back like a royal cape, donned the character of Queen of the Amazons, and took her husband's hand. “My pleasure, dearest Theseus.”

They climbed onto the stage as if they were making their grand entrance in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. Stephen changed roles, sweeping her into the absurdly histrionic kiss he'd performed when playing the wicked duke in
The False Lover
. Except that in an empty auditorium, the kiss was quite genuine. Clearly her husband had recovered from his attack the night before.

She emerged from the kiss laughing, a stir of passion warming the inner chill left by the morning's trip into her past. His hand cupped her breast and slowly stroked the tip with his thumb. She sucked in her breath. “Sir, you are too bold. Have you forgotten that we have an audience?”

He smiled, his tanned skin crinkling around his eyes. “Only mice and spiders.”

“Not true.” She twirled from his embrace into the middle of the forestage. “The house is full of the ghosts of old audiences, ready to laugh and weep or throw rotten oranges if they aren't pleased.” She made an elegant curtsy to the unseen watchers, holding her skirts with her left hand and her nosegay with her right.

He said with interest, “Does that mean we should practice our kissing to ensure that it is competently done?”

She gave him a naughty smile but shook her head. “You know where that would lead, my lord husband. We'd frighten the spiders to death.”

Chuckling, he strolled past the proscenium into the shadowy depths of the stage. “From the looks of the set, the last thing performed here was a gloomy Gothic melodrama.” He pushed at a canvas flat that portrayed a distant, menacing castle. It slid sluggishly back along the grooved runners. Behind was another flat showing a sunny, idealized pastoral scene that must have been used for the happy ending.

Rosalind watched his smooth, athletic movements, recording the moment as another image for her private gallery. Mentally she labeled it. “Stephen, looking handsome and heroic.” He would be a sensation in the black costume traditionally worn by Hamlet. The dark doublet and trunk hose would emphasize his long, muscular legs and broad shoulders. And the codpiece…

The direction of her thoughts made her blush. She was tempted to suggest that they return to Ashburton House immediately, but that would seem ungrateful when Stephen had arranged a visit to this charming theater just because he'd thought it would please her. Besides, anticipation would enhance eventual fulfillment.

She sniffed her nosegay, feeling cherished. Though Stephen's love might be reserved for his first wife, his second wife had no cause to complain.

He glanced upward. “I suppose those ropes and walkways above are used for flying effects?”

She nodded. “And I've counted no less than three trapdoors for ghosts and other creatures to leap from. Brian would love this place.”

Stephen grinned. “One doesn't need elaborate rigging to get flying effects. At Bourne Castle, even Maria was swinging through the trees like a monkey.”

She laughed at the memory. Saint Katherine's and old Molly seemed years away. “Shall we explore the rest of the Athenaeum?” She tucked her flowers provocatively into her bodice. “Then, alas, I shall need to go home and take to my bed for a time. The rigors of the day, you know.”

“Ah, so that is what will happen.” He nodded sagely as he opened a door that led behind the stage. “Rigors.”

Laughing, she sailed through the door. Stephen really would have made a good comic actor; when he wished, he could inflect even the simplest of statements with wicked meaning.

The Athenaeum was a warren of dressing rooms and workshops. Having grown up in the theater, Rosalind had a store of trenchantly amusing comments that kept Stephen chuckling. The tour was enhanced by the fact that the two of them slid into a delicate duet of glance and touch that gave a foretaste of what would happen when they returned home. She would pass him closely when he held open a door, her skirts brushing him provocatively. He used any excuse, such as helping her over a rough floorboard, to take her hand, caressing her palm when he did.

Maximum temptation and maximum opportunity.

After exploring the main floor, they ascended to the level above. Much of the floor was taken up by the scenery construction shop. “This is downright eerie,” Rosalind commented when she saw a partially constructed set sitting in the middle of the room. “The theater must have closed very suddenly.”

“It did. The principal financial backer went bankrupt. The theater owner held on to the property but was unable to find a new backer willing to pay off the existing debts. Everything is pretty much the way it was the day the theater closed.” Stephen left the scenery shop and began opening other doors. Most led to storage rooms packed with jumbled furniture and set pieces.

The last door led to the costume department. Shelves contained hats and false royal regalia and similar props, while silent costumes hung on wall pegs. Rosalind went to the nearest and lifted the protective fabric covering. “Ah, if it isn't King Henry the Eighth. He's always dressed exactly as in the portrait by Holbein.”

Stephen smiled as he recognized the slashed and padded sleeves and rich materials. “Thomas would look splendid in that. Very regal.” He raised the next holland cover. “This costume has a ruff and Cavalier boots. Falstaff, I presume?”

“Probably—that's how he's usually dressed. Lately there has been more interest in historically accurate costumes, but we have a long way to go.” Rosalind lifted a tawdrily glittering crown in both hands. “This would suit Papa. He's planning on doing
King Lear
next season. He says no man should play Lear unless he's at least fifty.”

Stephen picked up a prop sword from a pile by the wall and hefted it thoughtfully. “Thomas is right. Youth believes it's immortal. Could a young actor really understand the vanities and desperate folly of age, when death is inescapable?” He winced when he heard the elegiac note in his voice. It came perilously close to self-pity.

Experimentally he cut the air with his blade to test the balance. “This sword isn't fit for slicing cheese.”

Rosalind watched him with sultry admiration. “I assume that swordplay is one of those aristocratic skills that you learned early.”

He nodded. “I was fairly good at it. In my melodramatic youth, I occasionally hoped to be challenged to a duel so I'd have the pick of weapons and could choose blades over pistols.” He lunged forward, his blade skewering an invisible opponent.

“How bloodthirsty young men are.” Rosalind set down the large crown and lifted a smaller one. “I'll have to find a theatrical costumer so I can buy Papa a new crown. The old one is in sad shape.”

“You'd better get a queen's crown for Maria at the same time.”

“Actually, I was thinking of a really sumptuous, ermine-trimmed cloak.” Her gaze went around the room with some sadness. “Do you think the Athenaeum will ever come alive again?”

“It's quite possible.” He set the prop sword on top of the pile of weapons. Thinking that the time was right, he continued, “Would your parents like the Athenaeum?”

“They would adore it. Imagine Mama lying on a sofa as the dying Isabella, the audience weeping hysterically.” Rosalind smiled fondly. “Or Papa as Lear, staggering blindly about the stage with Jessica guiding him as Cordelia.”

“Shall I buy this theater for them?” Stephen asked in a conversational tone.

Lost in her imaginings, it took Rosalind a moment to register his words. Then she lowered the crown, her eyes round as saucers. “You're joking.”

“Not at all. I've been weighing how to give your parents security for the future. What better way than if they have their own theater? As owner-manager, your father can do exactly as he wishes. Together they can finally find the success they deserve.” He studied a plaster pillar that held a battered bust of Julius Caesar. “Since I remembered the Athenaeum fondly, I had my solicitor look into its current status.”

Voice hushed, Rosalind said, “The lease is available?”

“Actually, the theater, all the contents, and a modest house behind this building are for sale outright. I thought I'd give the property to your parents freehold and pay for the refurbishing and a fund to cover two years of operating expenses.” He took the crown from Rosalind's limp clasp and set it jauntily on Caesar's head. “Since they won't have to pay rent, they should be able to operate the theater very profitably even though it's small by modern standards. Luckily the rules for unlicensed theaters have relaxed quite a bit in the last few years, and a good thing. London entertainment needs fresh blood.”

Rosalind's elegant jaw dropped. “Buying and redecorating this place would cost a fortune!”

“I have a fortune,” he pointed out. “Several of them, in fact, and I can't take any of it with me.”

She ran a dazed hand through her hair. “Papa is very independent. He might not accept such a gift.”

“From his son-in-law? Why not? He's independent, but not a fool.” Stephen grinned. “Think of the Athenaeum as your bride price. I could have paid in cows or camels, but I thought a theater would be more appropriate.”

Rosalind's eyes began glowing as the possibilities began to sink in. “If they come to London, Jessica won't have to leave the troupe in order to achieve success. Nor Brian, either, when the time comes.”