One Perfect Rose (31 page)

It was good to be back at the abbey again. Stephen walked along the path that ran diagonally across the cloister garden, enjoying the crunch of gravel beneath his boots. The garden was perhaps his favorite spot on the estate. Some of his earliest memories were of playing here. He'd never seen it more beautiful than today. The flowers were at their peak, scents intoxicating and brilliant blossoms swaying languidly in the sun.

Yet how could he be at Ashburton in summer? He was in London, and the season was autumn. Frowning, he halted to survey his surroundings. Everything seemed quite normal, including his own body, dressed in his usual country garb of riding boots, dark blue coat, and buff breeches.

Except that he felt no pain. That was no longer normal.

Puzzled, he began to walk again. The garden had been the private courtyard of the original religious foundation. All four sides were bounded by an open arcade of ancient stone arches. Long ago the nuns of Ashburton Abbey had taken their exercise here. The modern inhabitants of the abbey still did the same. He'd always particularly enjoyed the covered walkways on stormy days, when he could be protected by the old stones while rain poured down a few feet away.

Louisa had also been very fond of the place. She would spend hours in the garden on fine days, or sheltered in the cloisters during inclement weather.

In fact, there she was now, sitting on a stone bench and embroidering with her usual meticulous care. The sight was so natural that it took him a moment to realize that there was not usually a bench in that spot.

And an instant longer to remember that Louisa was dead.

Was this a dream? It must be. Yet he'd never had a dream that seemed so real.

“Louisa?” he said doubtfully. He walked toward her.

She looked up and smiled with a serenity he'd never seen before. Though she didn't speak aloud, he sensed her greeting in his head.
Stephen. I've been expecting you
.

He went down on one knee on the grass in front of her so that their eyes were level. Louisa was as petite and beautiful as ever, but her expression was different from what he remembered. She looked—
accessible
was the best word he could find. The invisible wall that had always separated them had vanished. “Where am I?” he asked. “And why am I here?”

She laid her needlework on her lap and regarded him with tranquil blue eyes.
This is a sort of anteroom to heaven
.

He stared at her. “So there really is life after death?”

The word death has such finality. In truth, there is only life. What is called death is merely…transition
. She smiled faintly.
Admittedly, it's a drastic one
.

He remembered Lady Westley's garden of light. “A few days ago, I met a woman who told me of an experience rather like what is happening now. Have I died and you're here to help me make that transition?”

You are not dead. However, you are so near that the veil between the seen and the unseen has become very thin. That is why you can be here
. She gave him a rueful smile.
As for me—it's true that I've come to help you, but also to make amends
.

“Make amends? For what?” he asked with surprise. “You never harmed me. You always behaved with grace and courtesy. It is no one's fault that…that our marriage was not a closer one.”

You're wrong. The fault was mine
. Her expression showed deep regret.
I always knew, even when I was a small child, that I should not marry. But I let myself be persuaded that it was my duty because I desperately wanted to return to Ashburton Abbey. So I agreed to be your wife. By serving my own selfish needs, I deprived you of the warmth you deserved, because it was not in me to give. You are a good and loving man. Though I made you deeply unhappy, you always treated me with consideration and respect. Few men would have done as much. Can you forgive what I did to you?

He rocked back on his heels, puzzled and shocked. Him, loving? No one had ever suggested that before. He was cool. Detached. A gentleman, even of temper and committed to justice. A good friend. But those mild virtues were certainly not love. He didn't really know what love was.

Then he thought of the aching silences of his first marriage. The physical and emotional despair that had sometimes overwhelmed him, and the banked anger that had burned deep inside. Perhaps those things were all signs of love that had never had a chance to be expressed. The idea was novel, and rather disturbing, for it meant that he was not the man he thought he was. Yet he could not deny that the passionate intensity of his feelings for Rosalind were not those of a cool, detached gentleman.

He raised his eyes to Louisa's, seeing the regret in the clear blue depths. “There is nothing to forgive, my dear. I also had doubts about marrying you, and let myself be coerced into going against my instincts. But—didn't we both try our best? If there wasn't love or passion between us, at least there was civility.” He hesitated, then added, “And surely, kindness?”

Her delicate face became luminous.
Yes, there was kindness, especially on your part. Thank you, Stephen
.

Deep within him he felt a sense of release as the guilt and remorse over his first marriage dissolved. They had both done their best. One could do no more.

Louisa bent her head over her needlework again, and they sat in friendly silence. He had never felt more at ease with her. The garden was so tranquil that one of the exquisitely colored butterflies floated down to perch on his hand for a moment.

But he wasn't ready for ultimate peace. Remembering her earlier remark, he said, “You told me that you accepted my proposal because you wanted so much to return to Ashburton Abbey. Why? You'd never even seen the place before we married.”

She set one last stitch and knotted the shimmering thread. Then she raised the embroidered panel to reveal an exquisitely wrought tapestry of the cloister garden. But not as it was in the present. The stone arches were not worn, the plantings were different, and the square shape of a chapel bell tower rose in the background. He recognized the scene from an old etching from before the dissolution of the monasteries. This was how Ashburton Abbey had looked in its days as a religious foundation.

Louisa gave the tapestry a little shake, and suddenly it came alive and surrounded them, as if they had stepped back in time. They were both standing on velvety grass, and Louisa now wore a dark nun's habit.

She raised her calm gaze to his.
Long ago, in another life, I lived at the abbey and was at peace. In this life I was drawn to the abbey again because I instinctively sought what my heart desired. But when I married you and came here to live, I learned that it wasn't the stones that called to me. What my heart truly yearned for was the community of faith I had lost
.

The bell began to ring in the tower above, a deep, solemn call to prayer. She inclined her head for a moment.
Good-bye, Stephen. May grace be with you
.

She turned and walked away, her long robes gliding silently over the grass. He saw that a line of similarly dressed women were walking in the west cloister. Louisa joined the procession at the end, her head bowed, the veil obscuring her face as she moved in stately time to the tolling bell.

The first nun turned into the door that led to the chapel. One by one the women disappeared from sight. After Louisa, the door silently closed, and Stephen was alone.

In the same wordless way as Louisa had communicated with him, he realized that once she had been part of the spiritual sisterhood that had lived and prayed here for centuries. Celibate and devout, she had been whole. Because she had not found that wholeness in her life with him, there had been a deep sadness in her that separated them more thoroughly than stone walls would have.

Now she was whole again. He closed his eyes and gave a prayer of thanks on her behalf. The first true prayer of his life.

If he really was alive. Life was Rosalind, not an empty courtyard that had again become the garden he knew and loved.

He glanced around restlessly. His heart leaped when he saw Rosalind coming toward him along one of the diagonal paths, her hand tucked under the elbow of the man beside her. His wife and her companion were dressed in the sumptuous, elaborate clothing of a quarter century before.

And yet—the woman was not Rosalind. Her eyes were blue, not brown, her height a little less, the shape of her spirit different. With eerily calm acceptance, he realized that he was seeing Sophia Westley and her husband, Philippe St. Cyr. The Count and Countess du Lac.

Sophia gave him a smile as if she'd known him all his life, and offered her hand. It was warm and firm and very real. He bowed over it. When he straightened, he realized with a small shock that she was younger than Rosalind was now, and her husband only a few years older. Younger than Stephen.

She continued to hold Stephen's hand, and vivid images began to run swiftly through his mind. He saw an elderly woman stumbling through the woods holding a terrified child. Hiding from soldiers, using her small stock of coins to buy coarse peasant food and rides in farm wagons. Finally, on reaching a seaport—France? Belgium?—buying passage to London. Stephen had the uncanny sense that Sophia and Philippe had traveled with the nurse and her charge, guiding and protecting as best they could.

But they could not save the old woman when her badly strained heart finally failed on the London quay. Stephen saw the uniformed guard reach for Rosalind, saw her run in terror, her small legs taking her into the stinking maze of streets behind the quay.

Sophia and Philippe stayed with the child, using what small power they had to protect her. Sophia also searched for someone who might take her daughter and keep her safe, but without success. She had been only a ghost, and a new, confused one at that.

Then came the day when Sophia found Thomas and Maria leaving the Tower of London, laughing and talking about their visit to the crown jewels. There had been a kinship of spirit in Maria that Sophia had been able to reach. Silently she urged Maria to walk through the mean streets of St. Katherine's.

Sophia brought the Fitzgeralds to the right place. It was Philippe who gave his small daughter the invisible nudge that had sent her into Maria's arms. Then, finally, the Count and Countess du Lac had been free to seek their own Garden of Light.

“I understand.” Stephen bent and kissed the smooth cheek of his mother-in-law. Then Philippe clasped his hand, shaking it firmly. He was a dark, handsome man with warm brown eyes. Rosalind's eyes. Stephen continued, “You both did your work well.”

Not us alone
. Philippe made a gesture, and Stephen was looking into a walled garden. An elderly woman with a serene face was watching over several children who danced around in the sun.
Madame Standish, Marguerite's brave nurse
.

The old woman raised her head and smiled at Stephen, then turned her attention to her charges again. He realized that in this place that was not earth and not quite heaven, she was caring for children who had died young.

Stephen glanced back to Sophia and Philippe. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I know that you didn't save your daughter for my sake, but I have benefited from your actions. She has been the greatest joy of my life.”

In his head Stephen heard the joint words,
Tell Marguerite how much we love her. And that we look forward to the day when we shall see her again
. Then they turned and walked away, toward the sun, until they disappeared into the light.

Throat tight with raw, newly discovered feelings, Stephen watched them go, feeling the light burning through him, searing every fiber of his being.

And the light was love. He sank down onto the bench that Louisa had used, shaking from the force of the emotions surging through him as internal barriers burned away.

He could see quite clearly how he had built a wall to protect himself from the pain of caring. Construction had begun when he was an infant. His earliest memories were of being punished for being too free with his emotions. Bricks had been laid when his father scolded him for weeping over the death of a pet, or beat him for playing with lowborn estate children. Whole courses had been laid when he first discovered his mother's promiscuity. Fear, anger, shame, and betrayal, brick by brick the wall had risen until it separated him from the pain of living.

And also, of course, from the joy. By the time the wall was completed, he was the very model of an English gentleman. Cool, detached, fair-minded, never too passionate for decorum. Never risking the heights and depths of love.

The shock and painful flashes of emotion made him feel as if he were made of ice cracking in a spring thaw. But the light surrounding him was warm, healing his wounded spirit with love. There had always been love in his life, he realized, though he had not dared call it by that name. He'd loved his mother, for all her failings, and his sister, who was better able to give than receive. He'd always loved Michael, even though the emotion was twisted together with complicated strands of competitiveness and the scorn he had felt in an unrecognized desire to win approval from his father.

Most of all, he loved Rosalind. Her warmth and understanding had illuminated the dark places of his spirit from the beginning, and the passion they shared was the closest thing to paradise he'd ever known. The fact that he'd found her, against all the odds, was clear evidence that there must be some kind of a divine plan underlying life.

He closed his eyes, letting the blessed light flow through him. Rosalind. His wife, his beloved. He felt a deep sense of awe, and of gratitude, that in the shadow of death he had discovered the nature of love.

And he would never fear death again.

Long after she had run out of tears, Rosalind lay sprawled on the bed, chilled from the autumn cold but too drained to move. Stephen's illness was progressing with terrifying speed, far swifter than her ability to deal with it emotionally.

But she had no choice. He was her husband, and she must do her best to be a perfect wife, whether that meant coaxing him to eat or keeping the doctors away. What she could not be was weak and crippled by her own grief.

The light was fading. She'd been here for hours. Soon she must get up and relieve Hubble in Stephen's room.

Portia, who lay beside her in a small black-and-orange ball, stirred and opened her great green eyes. The kitten had a genius for darting through doors, and she'd followed Rosalind into Lord Michael's suite. Then she'd flopped down on the bed and tucked her miniature nose under her tail, keeping her mistress silent company all afternoon.

Rosalind smiled faintly and scratched the kitten's neck with one finger. Stephen's wedding gift, chosen to give pleasure at even the darkest hour. A successful choice, too. It was impossible to see the kitten's antics, or feel the rasp of her tiny abrasive tongue, and not feel a little better.

Vaguely Rosaline heard sounds downstairs. Visitors, perhaps. She really must rise and wash her face and become presentable. She was an actress. She could master her emotions and play the role of strong, dignified mistress of the house. And she would, in a few more minutes, when she had gathered her strength.

The door to the sitting room opened, and crisp footsteps sounded. A moment later the door to the bedroom swung open.

Feeling horribly vulnerable, Rosalind pushed herself to a sitting position and found that she was facing the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. The newcomer had dark hair, a perfect heart-shaped face, and looked supremely elegant even in a plain traveling costume.

Rosalind groaned inside. Painfully conscious of the tear stains on her face, she slid from the bed and stood with a hand on one of the tall bedposts. “Good day. You must be Lady Michael. I…I'm sorry to be in your room.”

“No need to apologize. I wasn't expected. And you must be…” Lady Michael cocked her head to one side. “Stephen's new wife?”

Rosalind nodded. “My name is Rosalind.”

Lady Michael glanced over her shoulder and said to her lady's maid, who had been following, “You may go, Molly.” Then she crossed the room with a smile. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Rosalind. Call me Catherine.”

As Rosalind accepted the proffered hand, she found herself blurting out, “I wore one of your gowns my second night in London. Stephen swore it would be all right, but I'm not sure I believe him.”

Catherine laughed. “By all means, believe him. Stephen is invariably right.” She turned and removed her hat, then her cloak. “Is he at home now?”

She must be ignorant of her brother-in-law's condition. Rosalind took a deep breath as she mastered her emotions. “He's here, but very ill. He had a bad episode earlier this afternoon and is probably still sleeping.”

Catherine spun around, expression dismayed. “So it's true? His doctor, Blackmer, wrote my husband some weeks ago, saying that Stephen was unwell and had run off without so much as a single servant. Michael immediately went after him. He's been looking ever since.” She bit her lip. “Since Stephen was getting married and leading Michael on such a merry chase, I convinced myself that Blackmer must be wrong. I…I didn't want to believe he was really seriously ill.”

“Lord Michael has been searching for his brother?” Rosalind said, surprised. “Stephen didn't think anyone would be so concerned about his absence. He merely wanted to get away from his usual life for a while.”

“Which he did very effectively.” Catherine rolled her eyes. “My husband, never noted for his patience, has become quite exasperated. He finally wrote from Scotland to say that he was giving up, and to meet him here in London.”

“Scotland?” Rosalind said incredulously.

“Apparently he and Dr. Blackmer, who is with him, followed a carriage carrying a couple who fit your description almost all the way to Edinburgh.”

Rosalind blinked. “Oh dear. I'm not sure whether to commiserate or laugh.”

“You might as well laugh,” Catherine said pragmatically. “It feels better.”

She was right, but there was little laughter in Rosalind at the moment. “When should your husband reach London?”

“Tomorrow or the next day, I think.” Catherine sighed as she lit a lamp against the gathering dusk. “It seems as if he's been gone forever.”

“The sooner Lord Michael comes, the better,” Rosalind said. “Even two days might be too long.”

Catherine looked up from the lamp with shock. “Stephen's condition is that bad?”

Rosalind sank down on the foot of the bed. “Critical. He almost died earlier today, I think. I…I'm afraid that he could go at any time.”

Catherine sucked in her breath. “What does the doctor say?”

“Stephen won't let me call one. Apparently his father suffered terribly from the treatments of various physicians when he was dying, and Stephen doesn't want the same to happen to him.”

“That's hard to argue with,” Catherine agreed. “May I see him? I would want to anyhow, but I also have considerable nursing experience. That might be useful now.”

“Of course.” Rosalind led the way from Lord Michael's suite into the hall, then to the duke's rooms at the other end of the hall. The bedroom was cozy, warmed by a fire and lit by a branch of candles. A somber Hubble sat by the bed.

Stephen was so still that Rosalind had a swift, terrible jolt of fear before she saw that he was breathing. Catherine also flinched at the sight of her brother-in-law. His gauntness and sunken features were clearly those of a man on the verge of death.

Rosalind went to his side and said softly, “Are you awake, my dear?”

Stephen's eyes flickered open. “Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,” he murmured. “One short sleep past, and we wake eternally.”

For an instant Rosalind's heart sank, for she thought he must be delirious. But his eyes were warm and lucid. She smiled with relief. “You must be feeling better if you can quote John Donne.”

“I am. Sorry to upset you earlier.” He smiled with great sweetness. “I must talk to you, but…I haven't much energy at the moment.”

“Why not rest a little longer?” she suggested. “You look far better now than you did before. More sleep should bring even more improvement.” And not only was he stronger but also different in a way she could not define.

He nodded faintly. “Later, then.”

She realized that what she saw in his gray-green eyes was peace. Even a kind of happiness. The hidden fear and anger at his fate that had been part of him since they met were gone. For that she was deeply thankful. Yet she realized sadly that his acceptance of dying was another step away from her.

Burying the thought, she said with a smile, “You have a visitor.”

His sister-in-law came up on the other side of the bed. “Hello, Stephen.”

“Catherine.” His face brightened. “Is Michael here, too?”

“No, but he will be soon.” She bent and kissed Stephen's cheek. “It was very bad of you to become so ill. I don't approve.”

“I don't either. Damned careless of me,” he said wryly. “I gather that you and my wife have introduced yourselves.”

Catherine laughed. “Oh, yes. I intend to split a bottle of wine with Rosalind and compare notes on the subject of living with a Kenyon man.”

He gave an exaggerated wince. “A good thing I won't hear that.”

“It would just increase your lordly arrogance,” Rosalind said, a catch in her voice from the fact that he could still joke.

He glanced at the dark window. “You two should take yourselves off for some food. Catherine must be hungry if she's been traveling.”

“Very well.” Rosalind lifted the jar of pills from the table. “More medicine?”

He nodded. “Two, please.”

She shook the pills into her palm, then used a glass of the omnipresent milk to help him wash them down. After he swallowed she kissed him, pressing her cheek against his for a moment. His skin was cool, but without the clamminess of earlier.

Rosalind told Hubble that she would have dinner sent up and relieve him later. Then she and Catherine left. When they reached the ground floor, her sister-in-law said, “Michael's letters gave all sorts of tantalizing tidbits about his search, and left me perishing of curiosity. I gather that you're an actress, and Stephen joined your family troupe for a time? I'd love to hear the full story, if you don't mind telling me.”

Rosalind sighed, wondering if Catherine was going to be like Stephen's sister. “I didn't marry him for his money.”

Catherine's elegant brows rose. “That's obvious from seeing you together.”

Rosalind relaxed. “I'm glad you see that. Claudia certainly doesn't.”

“Ah, Claudia,” Catherine said dryly. “She's never given me the cut direct. Quite. But that's mostly because she can barely tolerate being in the same room with Michael, and assumes that he deserves a coarse, vulgar creature like me.”

“She disapproves of
you
?”

“Claudia can disapprove of anyone, and I gave her an abundance of material.” Catherine's eyes danced. “A widow encumbered with a daughter, a woman who'd nursed naked men who were not her husband, and who had followed the drum through the Peninsula—dreadful! No really well-bred lady would have survived such a life.”

Rosalind actually laughed. “I think we have a great deal in common, Catherine.”

“We certainly do.” Catherine linked arms with her new sister-in-law. “Now let's go raid the kitchen, and you can tell me all.”

Rosalind did exactly that. In the breakfast room, over the simple meal of soup, bread, and cheese that was all either of them wanted, she spoke of how Stephen had rescued Brian from drowning. How “Mr. Ashe” had become part of the troupe, and the meadow marriage. Then she described her own background. Being able to say that she was a French countess added a certain cachet to the recital.

In return, she learned about Catherine's adored children and home in Wales. It was clear that she also adored her husband, which Rosalind found a relief. Any man loved by a woman like Catherine couldn't be too terrifying.

After they finished a pot of coffee between them, Rosalind said, “I'm going to go up now and relieve Hubble for the night. I would try to be a good hostess, but I imagine that you know more about the household than I do.”

“Probably. Don't worry; I'll be fine.” Catherine covered a yawn. “I'm ready to go to bed. It was a swift and tiring trip. But one last question.” She hesitated, then asked, “Are you by any chance with child?”

Rosalind gaped at her. “You must have been a wonderful nurse.”

“There is a look some women get.” Catherine explained. “So it's true?”

Rosalind nodded. “I'm almost certain.”

“Hallelujah!” Catherine beamed. “I'm so glad. Stephen must be delighted.”

“I haven't told him yet. I intend to tonight, if he's awake.”

“Now let's pray that it's a boy.”

“Stephen said that Michael didn't want to be duke, but as a mother, don't you want that for your son?” Rosalind asked curiously.

“Not really. I have no doubt that my little Nicholas will grow up to be equal to anything, but Michael would hate being duke, and I don't want to see him miserable.” She smiled. “Or too busy to have time for me.”

Rosalind suspected that no man would ever be too busy for Catherine Kenyon. Still curious, she asked, “Why does Lord Michael so dislike the idea of inheriting?”

Catherine hesitated, weighing her words. “I never met the old duke, but I know that he treated Michael abominably. Except for some boyhood occasions with Stephen, my husband has no good memories of Ashburton Abbey. He doesn't mind visiting there, but he wants no part of the title or estates.”

Rosalind nodded, able to understand that. Getting to her feet, she laid a gentle hand on her abdomen, “I'll do my best for you both.”

Catherine stood and gave her a swift hug. “I'm so glad that Stephen found you.”

Rosalind relaxed for a moment in the other woman's embrace, realizing that part of what she liked in Catherine was a maternal quality reminiscent of Maria. “So am I,” she replied softly. “Despite everything, so am I.”

 

Stephen awakened from his dreamy haze to find Rosalind sitting quietly by the bed, circles under her eyes. “Why on earth are you in a chair,” he murmured, “when there is a perfectly good bed available?”

She blinked sleepily. “Do you really want me in it? I don't want to hurt you.”

“I don't think this kind of pain will get any worse if I sleep with my wife. In fact, I imagine I'll feel better.” He hesitated. “Unless you don't want to be that close to someone in my condition.”

Her eyes widened. “Idiot. How can you imagine that I would not want to be with you?” Yawning, she left the room. “I'll join you as soon as I change into a nightgown.”

He sighed, not liking the idea of the nightgown. They would both be overdressed. But some earnest, well-meaning soul might come in to check his condition. He'd already learned that reduced privacy was one of the many small costs of dying.

A few minutes later, Rosalind reentered the bedroom wearing a delicately embroidered chemise and with her long hair in a braid down her back. After reducing the light to a single candle on the dresser, she came to the bed. “More medication?”

“No. Just you.” He didn't want to waste precious time in drugged sleep.

She slid in beside him. He drew her soft body into his arms, feeling a pleasure so great that it was almost pain. Paradoxically, holding her reduced the internal pain, or at least made him notice it less. “You feel marvelous,” he murmured.