One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney
“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.
Chapter 25
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 ungrate
ful 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.”
“And if your sister marries Simon Kent, or another actor, they can carry the Athenaeum into the middle of the century. Perhaps have children who will follow them.” He smiled a little wistfully. “Even though I won’t be here to see it, I like the idea of helping to establish a Fitzgerald theatrical dynasty.”
“Oh, Stephen, this is the most wonderful idea I’ve ever heard, and you’re the most wonderful man. And not only because of your financial generosity.” She came into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You looked at Thomas and Maria and didn’t see just a pair of provincial strolling players who lived hand-to-mouth. You saw their goodness, their talent, their dreams.” She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “And you’re taking those dreams seriously enough to help them come true.”
He looked at her glossy hair and lithe, womanly figure, and thought of the terrified child she had been. “They saved your life. If you hadn’t been rescued from that slum, you would have
died in some horrible way. Maria and Thomas were young, they had little money and no security. Yet they took you in and made a loving home for you.” Tenderly he cupped her face between his hands. “For that, I would happily give them every penny I have.”
“A theater will be quite enough.” Laughing through her tears, she raised her face and kissed him, her lips saying more than words ever could. He kissed her back. The desire that had been slowly building between them flared into a hot, fierce need to possess her so deeply that she would never again know fear.
She broke the kiss, saying huskily, “Let’s go home.” Her eyes had darkened to nearly black and her lips were ripe with sensual promise.
“Later.” He wanted her now. The night before, he’d been too drained by pain for intimacy. Every day he felt the advance of his disease. How many more times would he have the strength to make love to her? Should he start counting down the potential couplings as well as the days until doom?
Urgently he set her against the wall among the costumes. King Henry’s knee-length velvet gown tumbled from its peg to the floor. As he captured her mouth again, his body imprisoned hers, his chest crushing the nosegay in her bodice into bittersweet scent. She exhaled, startled, but her tongue touched his with eagerness and her hips rocked against his groin.
He put his hand on her full breast. Feminine ripeness, both erotic and nurturing.
She might have died of starvation or disease. Or of horrible abuse at the hands of some adult monster. Christ, he might never have known her. The thought was unbearable.
A fragment of Andrew Marvell’s poetry flitted through his mind: “Had we but world enough, and time…”
But they didn’t have time. The days and hours were spilling away. He slid his hand between them to the juncture of her thighs, caressing. She moaned, and her hands slid under his coat, making restless circles on his back.
“But at my back I always hear / Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.” He raised her skirt, delving through layered undergarments until he found intimate heat. The pulse of life. Her eyes closed, and her head went back into the rich fabric of the royal costume as his hand moved rhythmically against her slick, secret flesh.
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.
Chapter 25
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 ungrate
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.”
“And if your sister marries Simon Kent, or another actor, they can carry the Athenaeum into the middle of the century. Perhaps have children who will follow them.” He smiled a little wistfully. “Even though I won’t be here to see it, I like the idea of helping to establish a Fitzgerald theatrical dynasty.”
“Oh, Stephen, this is the most wonderful idea I’ve ever heard, and you’re the most wonderful man. And not only because of your financial generosity.” She came into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You looked at Thomas and Maria and didn’t see just a pair of provincial strolling players who lived hand-to-mouth. You saw their goodness, their talent, their dreams.” She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “And you’re taking those dreams seriously enough to help them come true.”
He looked at her glossy hair and lithe, womanly figure, and thought of the terrified child she had been. “They saved your life. If you hadn’t been rescued from that slum, you would have
“A theater will be quite enough.” Laughing through her tears, she raised her face and kissed him, her lips saying more than words ever could. He kissed her back. The desire that had been slowly building between them flared into a hot, fierce need to possess her so deeply that she would never again know fear.
She broke the kiss, saying huskily, “Let’s go home.” Her eyes had darkened to nearly black and her lips were ripe with sensual promise.
“Later.” He wanted her now. The night before, he’d been too drained by pain for intimacy. Every day he felt the advance of his disease. How many more times would he have the strength to make love to her? Should he start counting down the potential couplings as well as the days until doom?
Urgently he set her against the wall among the costumes. King Henry’s knee-length velvet gown tumbled from its peg to the floor. As he captured her mouth again, his body imprisoned hers, his chest crushing the nosegay in her bodice into bittersweet scent. She exhaled, startled, but her tongue touched his with eagerness and her hips rocked against his groin.
He put his hand on her full breast. Feminine ripeness, both erotic and nurturing.
She might have died of starvation or disease. Or of horrible abuse at the hands of some adult monster. Christ, he might never have known her. The thought was unbearable.
A fragment of Andrew Marvell’s poetry flitted through his mind: “Had we but world enough, and time…”
But they didn’t have time. The days and hours were spilling away. He slid his hand between them to the juncture of her thighs, caressing. She moaned, and her hands slid under his coat, making restless circles on his back.
“But at my back I always hear / Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.” He raised her skirt, delving through layered undergarments until he found intimate heat. The pulse of life. Her eyes closed, and her head went back into the rich fabric of the royal costume as his hand moved rhythmically against her slick, secret flesh.