One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney
His gaze went to Michael. “And to you, Lord Michael. I caused you great grief and separated you from your family. There was not a moment of time during our journey when I did not regret that.”
Stephen thought suddenly of The Tempest, the play performed by the Fitzgerald Troupe the first time he saw them. One thing he’d always liked about the story was the way Prospero forgave his brother Antonio for a murder attempt a dozen years before. Stephen had always thought of the play in terms of himself and Michael. But between them there had been no real crimes to forgive, only a history of wariness.
Stephen drew a deep breath, his whole body aching, his stomach burning with agony. He’d suffered months of savage pain because of what Blackmer had done. He should be furious, except that anger would take more strength than he could afford.
He’d always thought of himself as a man committed to justice for all. Where did justice lie in this case?
The key fact was that Blackmer hadn’t intended murder. Being a magistrate had taught Stephen to tell the difference between true and false repentance. The physician’s remorse was genuine, as was his statement that he had never intended serious harm.
As head of the Kenyon family, it was Stephen’s responsibility to rectify the crimes of his father. “If I pack him off to Australia, Great Ashburton will be without a physician, and Blackmer is a good one. I prefer a different approach.” Face stern, Stephen caught his half brother’s gaze. “Will you give me your word, as a Kenyon, never to deliberately harm anyone again?”
Blackmer blinked with shock, then stammered, “I—I will.”
“Then return to your home and your medical practice.” Stephen’s voice turned dry. “While I don’t believe you’ll ever commit another crime, I imagine you’ll understand that I prefer to find a different physician for myself and my household.”
“You…you’re going to let me go?” Blackmer said incredulously. “After what I’ve done?”
Stephen laid his hand on Rosalind’s. Her touch revived his flagging strength and made him understand why he felt so little anger. “While being poisoned is not something I would have chosen, I’ve done very well from it.” He glanced up at his wife, who was regarding him with grave, dark eyes. “I would never have met Rosalind if not for what you did.”
Nor would he have discovered the spiritual faith that was now part of him and that gave his life a profound new dimension. Having found joy as a result of disaster made compassion surprisingly easy.
His gaze went back to Blackmer. “I will acknowledge you as the old duke’s son. If you wish to take the name Kenyon, I will not object. Someday I will be ready to become better acquainted with you. But not quite yet.”
Blackmer’s stoicism shattered. “Dear God. Your generosity makes what I did seem even worse.” He covered his eyes as he struggled to compose himself, then dropped his hand and said in a low voice, “I swear to…to go forth and sin no more.”
Stephen looked at Michael. “Will you accept my judgment? I’m not asking you to become friends with Blackmer. Just not to kill him.”
Michael sighed. “Rosalind’s remark about how we all make mistakes reminded me of the monumental errors I’ve made. Having benefited by the forgiveness of my friends, I’m in no position to complain if you choose to be lenient.” He put his arm around Catherine and drew her to his side. “What matters most is that you will recover. But I think I’ll leave sainthood to you and my wife. It will never be my style.”
Too tired to move anything more than his eyes, Stephen glanced at Ian Kinlock. “You are the only one here who is not a member of the family. Are you willing to keep silent about what has happened?”
“I suppose so.” Kinlock scowled at Blackmer. “But why couldn’t you have been a lawyer? Then wickedness wouldn’t have been a shock. I expect better of a doctor.”
“You can take comfort in the fact that I will never forgive myself for breaking my oath,” Blackmer said starkly. “The punishment might seem light compared to my crime. But I assure you, it will be punishment.”
Kinlock studied the other man’s face, then gave a nod of grim satisfaction.
Rosalind sent a stern gaze to the people around the bed. “If everything essential has been said, it’s time for everyone to leave so Stephen can rest.”
“Everyone but you,” Stephen murmured, his voice barely audible now that the crisis had passed.
Kinlock looked at Stephen. “Plenty of rest, plenty of milk, and no more arsenic. I’ll come by in a couple of days.” He collected his medical bag and left the room.
Catherine glanced at Blackmer. “I’ll order a room to be prepared for you,” she said without enthusiasm.
He inclined his head. “You’re very gracious, Lady Michael, but I think it would be best if I went to an inn.”
She nodded and kissed Stephen’s cheek. “Ian said he couldn’t provide a miracle, but he did,” she whispered. “God be thanked.”
Michael laid a hand on Stephen’s shoulder, his feelings evident in the brief, wordless touch. Then he and his wife left the room arm in arm. Blackmer started to follow, looking broken and tragically alone.
Reminded of Michael’s appearance when his younger brother was at the shattering point, Stephen summoned the strength for one last effort. “You can’t change your past, Blackmer, but you can change your future. Since your father failed you, create a family of your own that will be more satisfying.”
The physician paused. “I’ve wanted to, but I felt…unworthy. That it would be wrong to offer marriage to Jane when she’s the daughter and sister of clerics, and I’m a bastard whose own father would not acknowledge him.”
“Marry her, Blackmer. Though I’ve never met the woman, your Jane must have already accepted your illegitimacy or she wouldn’t be keeping company with you,” Rosalind said crisply. “Stephen is giving you a second chance. Use it well.”
There was a faint lightening of the physician’s features. “Perhaps…I will.” He left, closing the door gently behind him.
The exhaustion that had been hovering over Stephen descended like a London fog. He rolled over, his grip on his wife’s hand bringing her down onto the bed. “Oh, Rosalind,” he whispered, barely coherent. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but he had used every last iota of strength. “Rose…”
Tears shining in her eyes, she stretched out beside him on top of the covers and drew him into her arms, cradling his head to her breasts. “Sleep, my love,” she murmured. “Sleep, and be well.”
Releasing his breath in a ragged sigh of contentment, he sank into the blessed welcome of her embrace and let the darkness take him.
Rosalind woke when Stephen kissed her under her ear. She opened her eyes and gave him a shining smile. It was morning, the room was full of light, and they were lying face to face wrapped around each other like ivy. As soon as she saw his expression, she knew that his escape from the valley of death had not been a dream born of her desperation. He was going to live. He was going to live. “I won’t ask if you slept well,” she said lazily, “because I don’t think you moved all night.”
“Probably not.” He patted her breast with interest. “That being the case, how did you get into this fetching shift? Or were you wearing it last night during all the melodrama, and I simply failed to notice?”
She smiled. “I got up in the middle of the night and changed, then came back. You never stirred.”
“You could have marched a regiment through here and I wouldn’t have noticed. It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months.” He flexed his fingers. “I feel better already. The numbness in my hands and feet is lessening, and the ache in my stomach is almost bearable.”
“Wonderful!” She stretched joyously. “I’m so happy that I’d be turning somersaults if it weren’t so much nicer being in bed. You must feel even happier.”
“Oddly, last night when I learned that I wasn’t going to die, I felt…numb. I guess I had adjusted so well to the prospect of death that it t
She stared at him, her heart seeming to freeze. “What do you mean?”
“If you’ll recall, when I proposed I made the point that even if we didn’t suit, you’d be safe because I wouldn’t be around to plague you for more than a few months. As you said, we’d have only the cream.” His hand came to rest on her hip, his palm warm through the thin fabric of her shift. “Now you’re stuck with me indefinitely, which means milk and cheese and other mundane things along with cream.”
“You beast!” she exclaimed as her heart started again. “I should push you out of bed. I thought you meant that now that you have the time to take a good look around the Marriage Mart, you’d like to put me aside in favor of a more suitable wife.”
He looked startled. “Quite apart from the fact that it’s almost impossible to put aside a wife, even if I wanted to, which I most certainly don’t, what kind of wife do you think would be more suitable than you?”
She shouldn’t have spoken, but now she must continue. “One more like Louisa.” She swallowed. “A wife you could love.”
After a moment of stillness, he said gravely, “I didn’t love Louisa, and she didn’t love me. In fact, our marriage made us both wretched, though we tried our best.”
“I…I guess I misinterpreted what you said, or didn’t say, about your first marriage,” Rosalind said, startled. “I thought you loved her so much that no other woman could ever be more than a bedmate.”
“You think that I only regard you as a bedmate? I owe George Blackmer and the valley of the shadow even more than I thought for the forced lessons on life.” He smoothed back her hair with one warm hand. “As a Kenyon, love was not part of my view of the world, until I had that dream or visit to heaven or whatever it was. I realized then that love was the essence of being.”
His eyes darkened with the force of his feelings. “I desired you the moment I saw you. I liked you as soon as we spoke, and knew that I must have you with me after we became intimate. But only when I neared death and was beyond desire did I fully realize how much you mean to me.” He bridged the few inches between them for a kiss of exquisite tenderness. “I love your body, love your mind, love your soul. I was incapable of saying that earlier, so now I’ll make it official. I love you, Rosalind. I’ve never said that to a woman before.”
Her eyes widened. “Never?”
“Well, I said it to Claudia yesterday.” He smiled. “But the meaning isn’t quite the same with one’s sister.”
She felt a glow of warmth that started in her heart and swiftly spread through her whole being, driving out pockets of cold shadow that she had not recognized herself. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “At first I didn’t dare admit it to myself, and then I didn’t speak because I didn’t think it was right to burden you more. But the truth was always in my heart. I love you now, and I will forever.”
He kissed her again. “You are my heart and my beloved,” he said softly. “It was worth going to the brink of death to find you, my perfect rose.”
Even as she luxuriated in the warmth of his love, her conscience prodded her. “Since it’s truth-telling time, I have a confession to make—I’m not perfect, though heaven knows that I’ve tried. I did my best to be the perfect daughter, the perfect stage manager. I wanted to be the perfect wife to you, always warm, loving, and reasonable.” She regarded him a little anxiously, feeling foolish but needing reassurance. “I think I could have maintained the illusion if we were only going to be married for a few months, but I can’t do it for years on end. I have a temper and I’m selfish and I’ll never be perfect. I thought I’d better warn you before your expectations get too high.”
He laughed and hugged her closer so that her soft curves molded against him. A pity that his body wasn’t strong enough to express the fierce passions of his mind and soul. How long would it be until he recovered enough to make love to her?
Not long, judging by the way he was feeling now. “I shall modify my statement. You aren’t perfect. I’m sure that if I think for a week or two, I shall be able to come up with at least five or six examples of imperfect behavior on your part.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But you are the perfect woman for me.”
Epilogue
London, 1819
Naturally the Duke and Duchess of Ashburton had the best box in the Athenaeum Theater. Rosalind was bubbling with excitement when she and Stephen arrived for the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe’s grand opening production of The Winter’s Tale. Five months of refurbishing had transformed the company’s new home into an extravaganza of rich colors, ornate moldings, and glittering chandeliers.
Before taking her seat, she paused by the railing and surveyed the auditorium. Men and women in brilliant evening dress were entering the boxes and milling about in the galleries, laughing and talking over the lively strains of the orchestra. In the opposite box, an assortment of Cassells and Westleys were taking their seats. She waved to her relatives, then to the Duke and Duchess of Candover, who had come to see the troupe that had been their personal discovery.
There were other friends, too, for society had proved very welcoming to an actress who was a French countess by birth and a duchess by marriage. She picked out the Strathmores, the Aberdares, the St. Aubyns, and knew that other couples were in seats not visible to her. “It’s a full house, Stephen. With all of your grand friends taking boxes, this has become the most desirable location in London tonight.”
He laughed and put his arm around her waist. “This time there will be no need to go out into Covent Garden during the interval to bring people back.”
She leaned against him contentedly and looked up into his face. It was hard to believe that he had been at death’s door five months earlier. Now he was strong and whole, better-looking than any man had a right to be, and—since it was in the privacy of her mind, she could admit it-marvelously virile. Inventive, too, which was useful considering her ever expanding figure.
His pas de deux with death had left another legacy, for both of them had found that every day, every hour, every minute was charged with a special sense of life’s preciousness. They had discussed that more than once, grateful and determined never to take each other and their love for granted. She smiled into her husband’s eyes. “You’re looking particularly handsome tonight, my love.”
“And you are ravishingly beautiful.” He looked as if he wanted to kiss her, but restrained himself since half of fashionable London was watching.
She laughed as she settled, carefully, into her chair. “I’m the size of a cart horse.”
“Yes,” he said equably. “But still beautiful.” He sat on her right and unobtrusively put his hand on her swelling belly, receiving a kick for his reward. “She’s active tonight. It must be the Fitzgerald in her responding to an upcoming performance.”
Rosalind chuckled. “He is being quite aristocratic and demanding the attention which is his due, like a Kenyon or a St. Cyr.”
The door to the box opened, and Lord and Lady Herrington stepped in. Claudia looked both younger and softer than she had five months before. “Good evening, Stephen, Rosalind.” Claudia gave her sister-in-law a light kiss. “Congratulations. Your family’s theater is going to be a great success.”
Amazingly enough, Rosalind and Claudia had become friends. Not that Claudia couldn’t still be caustic, but she was far more relaxed and tolerant than she’d been before. Stephen’s doing, from what Claudia had confided to her sister-in-law.
Taciturn as always, Andrew bowed to Rosalind and shook hands with Stephen, then helped Claudia into a chair as tenderly as if she were made of porcelain. His wife gave him a glance that was positively sultry.
Rosali
Stephen murmured in her ear, “I like seeing a couple who have been married for two decades acting like newlyweds. Will we be like that in twenty years?”
“Without question.” Wearing her most demure expression, Rosalind used her fan to mask touching her husband in an exceedingly improper way.
Stephen caught his breath, his eyes going green. “Do you have any plans for later, Duchess?”
“I intend to go backstage to celebrate the night’s triumph with the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe.” She gave Stephen a slanting glance. “Then I want to go home and seduce my husband.”
He gave her an intimate smile. “You won’t have to work very hard to achieve that.”
Rosalind glanced at the stage and saw that Maria, costumed as Hermione, was peeking out from the wings, her expression blazing with excitement. Seeing that Rosalind was looking her way, she waved, then ducked out of sight.
All was probably chaos backstage at the moment, but Rosalind had perfect faith that by the time the curtain rose, the troupe would be ready to create magic. Mary Kent, Simon’s sister, had stepped capably into Rosalind’s shoes as a competent actress and an excellent stage manager. She and Jeremiah Jones were planning to marry in May, a week after the wedding of Jessica and Simon.
Stephen asked, “Do you wish you were backstage, waiting to step out and create magic for all of these people?”
“Not at all,” she said with complete sincerity. “How could I be happier than I am now?”
The last guests for the Ashburton box arrived: Lord and Lady Michael Kenyon and Catherine’s beautiful fourteen-year-old daughter, Amy, who was shimmering with excitement at attending an adult event.