One Perfect Rose (9 page)

It was Edmund's turn to pale. “You peacocking parasite! I've seen how you've wriggled your way into this troupe, wanting to be something you'll never be. And I've seen you sniffing around Jessica, too. Well, she's never going to drop her handkerchief for an aging lecher like you!”

Rosalind clenched her fists, feeling an instinctive desire to attack. How
dare
Edmund say something so vicious and untrue!

But Stephen was not a temperamental actor, and he was not disturbed by the insults. He actually smiled faintly. “I've been despised by experts, Mr. Chesterfield. I'm afraid you really can't say anything that will upset me. I have no desire to be an actor, nor have I been, as you so vulgarly put it, ‘sniffing' around Jessica.” He shot a swift ironic glance at Rosalind. “And I am certainly aging. All of us are.” His mouth twisted. “It's better than the alternative, don't you think?”

Enraged beyond recovery, Edmund spat out, “That does it! I'm leaving today. The manager of the Theater Royal in Bath has been begging for me to join him, but I stayed with this hopeless lot of strolling players from loyalty.” Voice trembling, he spun on his heel and stalked up the aisle. “Be damned to the lot of you.”

He progressed a dozen steps before Stephen broke the strained silence by saying dryly, “One can't deny that he makes a rather decent exit.”

The tension shattered as everyone in the troupe began to laugh. Edmund gave one last furious glare, then stormed out of the theater.

When the laughter died down, Thomas said, “I won't be sorry to sec the last of him, and that's the Lord's own truth. The lad has some talent, but no discipline.”

Jessica sniffed. “Plus the manners of a pup in need of housebreaking.”

Thomas sighed, his amusement fading to reveal a concerned theatrical manager. “Still, losing him is awkward.” His brows drew together for a moment. Then he shot Stephen a glance. “Join me for a pint at the inn. I'd like to talk to you.”

Expression a little wary, Stephen agreed and the two men left the theater. Rosalind watched with a frown and wondered what her father had to say.

Day Sixty-nine

Thomas Fitzgerald collected brimming pints of ale, then chose a private corner of the taproom. The inn was quiet at midafternoon, so they would not be disturbed.

Stephen's stomach was uneasy, but he sipped at his ale anyhow as he wondered what Fitzgerald wanted. Might the older man object to seeing his daughter embraced rather too enthusiastically during rehearsal? Stephen had done his best to be an actor rather than a man with a wonderfully desirable woman in his arms, but he was uneasily aware that he had not quite succeeded.

Trying a different topic to deflect justified criticism, he said, “Sorry I spoke as I did to Chesterfield. If I hadn't goaded him, he might have calmed down and apologized.”

“I doubt it.” Thomas shrugged. “If the truth be known, I'd considered discharging him myself more than once. He was grateful for the work in the beginning, but gradually he started thinking he was God's own gift to the theater. Too many adoring milkmaids, I suppose.” The actor shook his leonine head. “However, he had a contract. It's not easy to replace someone in the middle of the season, so I would have kept him on until the end of the year. Now I'll have to find someone else.”

“Until then, can you perform plays that require smaller casts?”

“We may have to, but it would be a great complication. More rehearsals, changes in sets and costumes.” The older man paused, then said craftily, “It would simplify things greatly if you took Chesterfield's place.”

Stephen choked on his ale. “Surely you're joking.”

“Not at all.” The older man made an expansive gesture. “I know you haven't the passion to perform that makes a serious actor, but you're a very decent second lead and character actor. You have considerable stage presence, you're an extremely quick study—very useful under these circumstances—and your voice has excellent power and range. It's almost as good as mine. Surprising for an amateur.”

Not surprising at all—there were a fair number of similarities between acting and addressing the House of Lords, Stephen reflected. But the troupe's season would go on for months. Heaven only knew how much longer his health would hold up. He'd noticed a slight but unmistakable deterioration in the three weeks since Blackmer had given him the news. “Sorry. It's rather flattering, but I really can't accept.”

Thomas sighed. “I didn't think so, you being a gentleman and all. Still, it was worth asking since you seem to be enjoying yourself with us. You have the great advantage of not having a damned actor's temperament”

Stephen smiled. “That's because I'm not a damned actor.

Thomas chuckled, then said seriously, “It's asking a great deal, but could you fill in until I replace Chesterfield? That shouldn't take long. By chance I just got a letter from a friend in northern England extolling a young fellow called Simon Kent. Bates says the lad has great potential and is in dire need of a position. I'll write today and hire him for the rest of the season. But until he arrives, I'll be shorthanded. You know how little slack there is in the troupe—the loss of a single member will be felt.”

Stephen nodded. That was why his own modest skills had been useful. Ironically Thomas was offering the perfect excuse for Stephen to do what he wanted. Instead of returning home as he ought, he could stay with the pious excuse that he was helping his friends. “I must leave in a fortnight or so, but I'd be pleased to help out until then.”

“Good, good.” Beaming, Thomas downed the rest of his ale. “Just mind you don't seduce my daughter.”

Stephen stiffened. “Surely you don't think I've been ‘sniffing around' Jessica.”

“Of course not. It's clear to anyone with eyes in his head that it's Rosalind who takes your fancy. I commend your taste—any man can appreciate a beauty like Maria or Jessica, but it takes more discernment to realize that Rosalind is every bit as lovely in her way.” His expression became satiric. “I must also thank you for your restraint. My little Rose may be a woman grown, but that doesn't mean her heart couldn't be broken again.”

At least he was being given credit for restraint, Stephen thought gloomily. Embarrassing to realize just how much Thomas, and surely his wife as well, had observed. “Believe me, I have no desire to hurt Rosalind. She and I are both aware that it would not be wise to become involved.”

“Because the adopted daughter of a pair of strolling players is beneath a gentleman's touch?” Thomas asked tartly.

Stephen clamped down on his surge of temper. It was a fair question, for many men of his class would consider an actress fair game for seduction, and nothing more. As if the label “actress” could even begin to describe a woman like Rosalind. “You were a gentleman, yet you married Maria, a common actress.”

“There was nothing common about Maria!” Thomas retorted. Then he stopped, realizing he had been baited. “Sorry. It was unfair of me to suggest that you're no better than a London rake. A father's feelings aren't always reasonable.”

Perhaps being with actors was loosening his sense of propriety, for even though it was none of his business, Stephen found himself asking, “Is there any difference between how you feel about your adopted daughter as compared to your two natural children?”

“When you've watched a child grow and laugh and wake up sobbing in the night, she's yours, never mind what man fathered her. If there's a difference, it's maybe an extra bit of protectiveness, for she was such a tiny mite.” Thomas absently traced a Tudor rose in a few drops of spilled ale. “And so good. Rosalind was a perfect child—almost unnaturally so. I sometimes think that if we hadn't given her a home, God might not have given us Jessica and Brian later. And that would have been a great tragedy, for having a child to raise is what turns a boy into a man.” He stopped, embarrassment on his face. “There's no denying that we Irish are a sentimental lot.”

Stephen lifted his glass in an impromptu toast “Perhaps, but Rosalind was blessed the day you and Maria found her.” His voice became bleak. “I only wish that I were in a position to pursue a…a serious relationship.”

Thomas exhaled roughly. “So you've a wife. I suspected as much. See that you remember that.”

Better the other man think him married than know the truth. “Believe me, I will not forget my situation,” Stephen said without inflection.

Though they'd concluded their business, he was in no hurry to leave. This was the first time he had talked to Fitzgerald at length, and he was enjoying the experience. He signaled for the landlord to refill his companion's empty mug. As that was done, he asked, “Do you think that Chesterfield really had an offer from the Theater Royal in Bath? It's one of the best playhouses in England.”

The older man shrugged. “If they wanted him, it was for very minor roles, not substantial ones like he had with me. More likely he was lying. After all, what is an actor but a man who lives a lie? Or rather, a whole series of lies. No wonder players have always been viewed with suspicion.”

It was quite a jump from the life of a gentleman to a disreputable player. Curious about Fitzgerald's motives, Stephen said, “You said you were considered a ‘likely lad' when you were at university. Did you ever regret giving that up for a life in the theater?”

“Not for a moment,” the older man said instantly. “But I do regret holding Maria back. She could have been one of the great tragediennes-the equal of Sarah Siddons. Marrying me meant exile from the great playhouses because I'm incapable of getting along with theater managers who are damned fools.” He smiled self-mockingly. “Which is to say, all of 'em excepting my own fine self.”

Stephen smiled a little but shook his head. “Your talent is the equal of hers. Did you ever try to compromise in order to achieve the fame you deserve?”

Thomas sighed. “Oh, I tried a time or two, but within a few days I was always at daggers drawn with whoever hired me. Perhaps if my father hadn't been such a tyrant, theater managers wouldn't make me so stubborn. But if he were a reasonable man, I probably wouldn't have gone on the stage and gotten myself disinherited.”

In a few words, the actor had revealed a great deal about what and who he was. As the son of another tyrannical father, Stephen understood stubbornness very well. But he had chosen the path of detachment and obedience rather than rebellion. Did that make him wiser than Thomas, or more of a coward? If he'd had a burning passion to act, would he have run away for a life on the boards? Or would the immense wealth and responsibility of Ashburton have held him hostage?

Almost certainly yes, for responsibility had been drilled into him from the day he was born. Yet he felt a deep grief that his gaze had been so firmly fixed on the obvious path that he'd never seen the myriad other routes he might have taken. His brother had rebelled, and found his way to happiness. But not Stephen. He'd lacked the courage, or the imagination, to know that he had choices. Perhaps there would have been ways to balance responsibility with other interests, if he'd looked hard enough.

But now he was dying, and the knowledge that he had done his duty was thin gruel compared to the rich banquet of Fitzgerald's life. He sipped more ale and wondered if it was his imagination that it tasted of ashes. “Starting your own company must have been difficult, but you have a freedom that very few men achieve.”

“Aye.” Thomas smiled a little, his eyes distant “I used to dream of someday having a little theater of my own in a city like Bristol or Birmingham. A snug house and enough money to buy my wife and children a few luxuries. I could try all my theories about realistic acting and historical costumes and…” He broke off. “But I'll never have the money for that, and in another ten years I'll be too old to play any of the great roles except Lear. Like Edmund said, I'll be a pathetic old wreck, sitting by the fire and thinking of my failures.”

His expression was so theatrically woebegone that Stephen had to laugh. “You exaggerate—which is, after all, your business.”

Thomas grinned. “There's none like the Irish for self-pity, lad. I've had a good life, speaking great words, bringing pleasure to many people, and with the finest woman in the world at my side. Many of the players I've trained have gone on to successful careers in famous theaters, so there must be something in my methods. I'm leaving that, plus three children who would make any man proud. Not a bad monument, eh?”

The grief Stephen had been feeling intensified to dagger sharpness. If children were a man's best monument, he'd failed there, too. He should have adopted a child, but it had never occurred to him to try because only a son of his own blood could inherit Ashburton, and he'd thought more about the succession than the state of his soul. Now it was too late. Quietly he said, “You're leaving a legacy to be proud of.”

Then he got to his feet, knowing that otherwise he would end up demonstrating that the English could match the Irish for self-pity. “I'd best go back to the theater to see about a costume for the dastardly duke.”

Thomas drained his mug. Then, seeing that Stephen had left some of his ale, he drained that mug as well. “Pity to waste it,” he explained as he stood. “I'm off to write Mr. Simon Kent. Pray that he's half as good as my friend Bates says.”

Stephen nodded and left the inn. But it wasn't a costume that he wanted, it was Rosalind. Her warmth and sunny nature would cure his gray mood.

As he headed down the high street toward the theater, he would not let himself think about how powerfully he craved her.

 

Rehearsal over and everything ready for the performance, Rosalind left the theater. She was closing the door when Stephen appeared, coming toward her with his long, loose-limbed stride. Lord, he was good-looking, with his broad shoulders and the sun finding russet highlights in his hair. But he'd lost weight in the two weeks since he'd saved Brian. The planes of his face were more sharply defined, revealing the strength of the underlying bones. They must be working him too hard.

Or perhaps she was simply looking at him more closely. She gave him a wide smile, wishing fervently that she weren't dusty and disheveled from her work. Ah, well, she usually was, so there was no point in regret.

Stephen came to a stop in front of her, his admiring gaze indicating that he didn't mind a bit of dust. “Rosalind, has anyone ever mentioned that when you smile, it's like seeing the sun rise?”

She laughed, pleased even though she didn't take his words seriously. “Consorting with actors is gilding your tongue, Mr. Ashe. What did Papa want?”

Stephen made a sweeping, theatrical bow. “You are looking, Madame Caliban, at the company's newest actor—at least until your father gets a proper replacement for Chesterfield. He's hiring someone recommended by a friend.”

“Wonderful!” That meant Stephen would stay for another week or two. “Since you're so quick at learning dialogue, you'll do splendidly.”

“I thought I should see about a costume for tonight. Do we need to go through the wardrobe to see what will suit?”

Even though she already knew the answer, she spent several moments studying his tall frame for the pleasure of it before saying, “You'll have to wear the same robe you wore as Theseus. We haven't much for a man your height, and that costume is the only one splendid enough for Duke Claudio.”

“Oh.” He looked disappointed.

She was disappointed, too, because that meant they had no excuse to spend time together. Well, who needed an excuse? They were adults; they could be together without pouncing on each other. Probably.

“Would you care to go for a walk?” she asked recklessly. “There's a footpath along the river that I use whenever we come to Whitcombe.”

He gave a warm, slow smile and offered his arm. “I'd like that very much.”