One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney
“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
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.
When the Fitzgeralds reached him, Thomas said in a stage whisper that filled the glade, “Mind you take care of her well, lad, or you’ll rue the day.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” Smiling, Stephen took Rosalind’s hand. This was the most unusual wedding he’d ever seen. And the best.
She returned his clasp firmly, her dark eyes glowing. He had to restrain himself from kissing her immediately. They both turned to the vicar while her family withdrew to join the other guests.
In a deep voice that compared favorably with that of Thomas Fitzgerald, the vicar began the wedding ceremony. Stephen heard the familiar words as never before, perhaps because his first marriage had not been of his own choosing.
There was a faint puzzled stirring when the vicar said the name Kenyon, but no one reacted. For Stephen the difficult moment came when the cleric first asked the question “…so long as ye both shall live?”
Rosalind’s gaze involuntarily went to his, and he saw in her eyes a reflection of his own bittersweet emotions. “I will,” he said firmly. His hand tightened on hers, and she gave him a tremulous smile.
When her time came, she said, “I will,” in a clear, stage-trained voice that contained no hint of doubt.
Jeremiah produced the ring with the flourish of a man who knew how to make the best of his moment at center stage. Stephen slid it onto Rosalind’s finger and said gravely, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
She smiled, her hand closing over the ring without looking. He wondered when she would notice that the band was embedded with small, exquisite diamonds. Because, after all, he’d wanted to give her both jewels and barn cats. He wanted to give everything in his power in return for the miraculous gift she was making of herself.
“I pronounce that they be man and wife together.”
The ceremony was over, and Stephen could kiss his radiant bride. Their lips touched only lightly, but he pulled her close in his arms, feeling her heart beating against his. Rosalind. His wife. His perfect rose.
Then they were surrounded by well-wishers, men clapping Stephen’s back and shaking his hand, the bride getting hugged by everyone. The informality of the setting brought a joyous abandon to the congratulations.
When the excitement died down, Stephen put an arm around his new wife. “Shall we proceed to the wedding breakfast?”
Frowning, Thomas said, “A moment. The vicar said your name is Kenyon?”
“Stephen told me about that this morning,” Rosalind gave her new husband an affectionate glance. “I misunderstood his name the first time he said it, and he was such a gentleman that he never corrected me.”
Several people chuckled, but Thomas’s frown deepened. “Seems damned irregular to me.” Then his eyes widened with shock. “Kenyon. Ashe. Ashburton. Isn’t the Duke of Ashburton named Stephen Kenyon?”
Stephen braced himself. This wasn’t the way he would have chosen to break the news, but Maria had interrupted him when he had tried to tell Rosalind earlier.
He looked down at his wife, his arm tightening around her waist. “Yes. And the Duchess of Ashburton’s name is Rosalind Fitzgerald Kenyon.”
Chapter 18
There was stunned silence. Rosalind stared at her new husband. Surely he was joking. But there was no teasing in his eyes, only wary resignation.
Stephen was Ashburton, one of the wealthiest noblemen in the country? She said feebly, “If that isn’t a joke, no wonder Papa kept casting you as a duke.”
Stephen’s mouth twisted. “It’s no joke, Rosalind.”
Thomas Fitzgerald exploded. “Damn you, Ashburton, what kind of mockery is this? Did you get a false marriage license so that you could have a pretend marriage?”
“Of course not,” Stephen said in a level voice. “The marriage is entirely legal. Everything I said about myself was true, except for my last name.”
Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but Maria forestalled him with a hand on his arm. “Control that Irish temper of yours, my dear.”
Her husband growled, “He lied, and there’s no excuse for it.”
“No?” Maria gave Stephen a piercing glance. “Thomas, my love, you and I can play any role we wish onstage, then walk away. It’s harder for a man to walk away from the role of duke.”
“Exactly. I’ve never had the chance to be less than a lord.” Stephen cast an ironic gaze around the circle of wedding guests. “Given the way everyone is stepping back as if I’ve suddenly developed leprosy, perhaps you can understand why I enjoyed the anonymity of being plain Mr. Ashe.”
Jessica came forward. “Well, I, for one, think it’s positively splendid. I long to tell people, ‘I just dined with my brother-in-law, the Duke of Ashburton.’ Or perhaps, ‘You like my shawl? It was a gift from my dear sister, the Duchess of Ashburton.’ I shall flaunt your title shamelessly.” She gave Stephen an energetic hug. “And I like you very well even if you are hopelessly noble.”
Silently blessing her sister for breaking the ice, Rosalind said, “He did try to tell me, Papa, but Mama shooed him away before he could.”
Yet even though she instinctively tried to smooth over the awkwardness, she was struggling with her own shock. She looked up at her new husband, unable to comprehend the implications of her new status. A duchess? Rosalind Fitzgerald Jordan, foundling, actress, and widow?
Her gaze fell to her wedding ring. It sparkled with a fortune in brilliant gems. Her mouth tightened. Even the ring was vivid proof that they came from different worlds.
She would think about that later. Right now, she sensed, Stephen needed her to accept that he was still the man he was before. Lightly she said, “I’m going to want a diamond-studded collar for my kitten, my dear.”
His expression eased. “If that’s what you want, Portia shall have it.”
Thomas still looked dissatisfied. Rosalind suspected that while much of his anger was because he’d been deceived, a small part was a father’s ambivalent feelings about the men who took their daughters away. His anger would pass soon; it always did.
Before Thomas could speak again, Brian said in his most Puckish voice, “Good sirs and madames, may I respectfully suggest that it is time to begin the wedding breakfast?” He gave the bride and groom a mischievous glance. “Surely even dukes and duchesses must eat.”
His comment occasioned general laughter, and people began to move toward the banquet tables. Stephen’s arm stayed around Rosalind as they crossed the glade. She fou
The wedding feast was a great success, though Rosalind’s nerves were too tightly strung for her to fully enjoy it. She laughed and talked and silently cooperated with Maria in keeping Thomas and Stephen apart.
Lavish amounts of food and drink eliminated the wariness the troupe members had briefly experienced upon learning that they’d been asking a duke to carry scenery. Stephen was at his most charming and unpretentious; by the time the bridal couple was ready to leave, almost everyone was inclined to treat the matter as a great joke.
Rosalind hugged everyone at least once—family members twice—then accepted Stephen’s help into the elegant carriage he had hired. At least she thought he’d hired it; perhaps he’d bought it from pocket change. Then, Portia’s travel box in hand, he climbed in and closed the door, taking the rear-facing seat opposite Rosalind.
She waved and smiled when the carriage pulled away, continuing until she could no longer see her family. Then, as they began to move at the speed that could only be achieved with first-rate horseflesh, she leaned back against the velvet seat and contemplated her new husband. Oddly, now that the original shock was past, she was not really surprised to learn that he was a peer of the realm. It had been clear that he was a gentleman, and he’d always had an unmistakable air of authority. He had silenced the bullying poor law overseer, Crain, with a single glance. She had tended to overlook that side of Stephen’s nature because he was so easygoing with her and her friends.
But he was one of the most powerful men in England. If he spoke, the Prince Regent would listen. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.
“You have a headache?” Stephen asked with concern.
“A bit of one. Jessica pulled my hair too tightly when she styled it.” Rosalind took out her hairpins and the wilted chrysanthemums, exhaling with relief as her hair fell around her shoulders. “Plus, of course, I feel as if I’ve wandered into the tale of King Cophetua and the beggar maid.”