Once Upon a Rose
Page 4
she thought.
Alone once more, she returned her attention
to the guidebook, increasingly aware of her vast
ignorance. She had felt strangely compelled
to write her name in the booklet, a gesture of
ownership she rarely bothered with. This was her book.
The thought of someone else walking away with it
bothered her somehow.
Scanning the pages, she bit her lip as she
came across unfamiliar phrases such as "barber
surgeon" and "liturgical reformation" and terms
she could only guess were Latin. It was the same
feeling she'd had when she first read the show business
trade papers so many years earlier. There was a
realm of knowledge she never imagined existed. A whole
universe had prevailed happily without her.
Something in the guidebook caught her eye,
tearing her away from her musings. It was a stark
black-and-white photograph of a massive
hedge. Leaning closer into the book, hastily
reaching up to push her tilting headdress back
into place, Deanie read about a miraculous
maze on the grounds, one so ornate that people were lost
in it for hours. It warned tourists to avoid the
maze if they had theater tickets that evening.
Deanie grinned. The warning may have been
tongue-in-cheek, but the effect on her was
instantaneous. She didn't just have theater
tickets for that evening; she was to appear at
Wembley Stadium to sing the duet with
Bucky Lee Denton during his concert. Her
manager would have a fit, while Nathan Burns,
who was filming the concert for an upcoming video,
would pull out what little hair was remaining on his
head. To enter the maze at this hour would be more than
irresponsible. It would be sheer folly, a career
risk few stars would even contemplate.
It was absolutely irresistible.
According to the map, Deanie was within yards of the
maze, and as she walked in what she hoped was the
right direction, she continued to scan the booklet.
The maze was almost as old as the palace itself, the
guidebook cooed. It had been created for
Henry VIII'S second wife, Anne
Boleyn, to remind her of the maze at her
childhood home of Hever Castle. It had
taken decades for the hedges to become truly
inaccessible, and by that time both Anne and Henry had
returned to dust.
Deanie peered over the guidebook, and at
once she spotted the maze. Its rusty
turnstile was chained, with a hand-lettered sign propped
on top of the lock with a single word: "Closed."
How could it be closed?
With a swift glance over one shoulder to assure
herself she was alone, she squeezed between the edge of the
metal turnstile and the rough hedge. Luckily,
she had spent her childhood gaining free access
to amusement parks and fairs, and her slender
build could still wiggle through small spaces.
The inside of the maze was something of a
disappointment, although Deanie wasn't sure what
she had been expecting. There were corridors of
shrubbery, green and twisting, jutting off in
unexpected directions. She wandered the maze,
pausing to touch the knotty, gnarled branches.
They were thick and coarse, roughened by centuries of
rain and sunshine and snow.
Suddenly Deanie stopped, unable to walk any
farther. The sun was about to set, and she glanced about
at the incandescent last light, the final golden
explosion before the day became dusk.
Something was wrong.
She held out her hand to steady herself, grasping a
hoary shrub, ignoring the slivers of wood and
bark that cut into her skin. The booklet fell
to her feet, and she gasped for breath, momentarily
blinded by the sun reflecting off the soda
bottle. It hit the bottle at odd, sharp
angles, glinting blue, so vibrant she
was forced to close her eyes.
One thought penetrated her consciousness:
earthquake. Who else but Wilma Dean
Bailey would get caught in a British
earthquake?
The vibration became more intense now, a deep
baritone rumbling that seemed to ripple the very
ground, defying the solid feel of the earth. Her
whole arm began to shake violently, just her arm,
unable to release the soda bottle. In the midst
of the quake she opened her eyes and heard a
hissing noise, like droplets of water on a
hot frying pan. The rest of her cola
evaporated, and the peanuts hopped at the bottom
of the bottle like Mexican jumping beans.
There was one final roar, a terrible, almost
human scream. White-blue lines bounced off
the cola bottle, enveloping her in a pulsating
prism. Then all was silent.
Her breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and the
soda bottle, suddenly hot to the touch, came
crashing to the ground. A small puff of dirt
rose as it landed without shattering. Her hands were
trembling, and she instinctively clutched her
throat, feeling the frantic pounding of her heart,
every beat ringing in her ears.
She took a few deep breaths, trying to get
her terror under control. And when she found her
voice, it wasn't to scream but to laugh at herself.
She slumped against a bush, its tender branches
giving way under the weight of her back. Her
eyes darted to the bottle, and she reached over
gingerly to pick it up.
The peanuts were blackened and smoking.
Deanie inhaled the scent of the burned peanuts,
as if proving to herself they were really scorched. She
hadn't imagined it, whatever had just happened.
"I must have been hit by lightning," she marveled
aloud, her voice tense and high pitched.
She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned
back against the comforting embrace of the shrub. There was
something wrong, something that didn't seem right. What
could it be ...
The bush.
Her eyes flew open and she spun around,
ignoring the headdress as it drooped forward.
Instead of a mammoth, ancient shrub, there was a
young hedge, only just reaching over her head. Its
branches were slender and smooth, its buds full
and pale green.
All of the bushes were new. Everywhere she
looked, she saw fresh young plants and could
smell the unmistakable scent of soil mingled with
manure.
"How now, art thou foe or friend of the king's?"
Deanie gasped, startled by the sudden intrusion.
She hadn't heard anyone approach. Her first
thought was of the kindly Mr. Williamson. Perhaps
he had returned to take her to tea. Perhaps he
had come to see if she was badly shaken in the
earthquake. She turned in the direction of the
rich, masculine voice.
It was not Mr. Williamson.
/> She was stunned by what she saw. It wasn't that
he was inordinately tall, or bulging with
muscles. The man before her had a magnetic
presence, an aura that jolted her every bit as much
as his unexpected voice.
He was an actor, of course. An extra in
the video, judging from the costume he wore.
Unlike Stanley and the other Shakespearean
actors, this guy's outfit was less
flamboyant: just a black velvet doublet and
hose with a full white shirt underneath. At his
left side was an elegant scabbard, black as
the doublet, with the ornately carved hilt of a fake
sword just visible under the folds of his costume.
There were no gaudy paste-jewels, no fancy
gold thread. But his stockings seemed a little
baggy.
Deanie breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.
"Hey," she said, her voice still betraying
uncertainty. "That was some earthquake. Did
Nathan send you to fetch me? You're one of the
actors, right? I think you can collect your
paycheck."
The man, his gaze steady, drew the sword.
"How now? Be thou a friend of the king's?" His
manner was terse, and his teeth, very white, remained
clenched as he spoke.
"Me? Heck no. I'm a little young to have known
the King personally, although I've seen some of his
later stuff. You know, the Vegas recordings,
when he wore those white jumpsuits and aviator
sunglasses."
Now that her initial fear had vanished, she was
able to properly appraise the actor, and she
decided he had most certainly picked the right
profession.
He stood about six feet tall, perhaps
a little less, but his bearing seemed to voraciously
consume the surrounding space. His hair was close
to Deanie's in color and thickness, a rich
mahogany. There was a decided curl to it, and the
ends rested lightly against his expansive
shoulders.
Yet it was his face, more specifically his
eyes, that gripped her attention. They were a
strange shade of hazel, dark brown circling the
irises, and they seemed to see through her, with a sharp
intelligence that made Deanie feel
uncomfortable.
His face was lean, almost gaunt, with hollows in
the cheeks and a very slight cleft in his chin. His
forehead, high and smooth, was free of the creases that
were at the corners of his eyes and bracketed his
mouth.
His mouth. Even as he spoke, she pulled her
gaze from his eyes to his mouth, a mesmerizing
study in contrasts. The upper lip was rather thin, but the
lower lip was full and generous, hinting at a hidden
sensuality that his brusque manner so
effectively masked.
He had spoken, and she realized she hadn't
heard a word he said. She cleared her throat.
"Excuse me?"
A look of irritation passed over his
features. "Canst thou not hear? I quoth, how
now--"
"Brown cow?" she replied.
His eyebrows, unexpectedly lush on a
face so free of any other excess, rose
slightly, briefly marring the smooth forehead with
lines. His sword was still pointed at her, but he
seemed to have forgotten it.
Deanie reached out and pushed the sword away.
The moment she touched the blade, the flesh on her
palm exploded in pain.
"Hey, what are you doing!" she cried,
withdrawing her hand as tears flooded her eyes.
"Y'all aren't supposed to use real swords."
Her voice broke as she examined the gash,
several inches long and bleeding freely.
From the corner of her eye Deanie saw him
make a sweeping motion with his arm and heard the
metallic sound of the sword slipping into its sheath,
an exasperated sigh escaping his mouth. He
stepped toward her and tenderly cupped her wounded
hand in his.
The last thing on her mind was her hand as
she felt his warm breath on her cheek. "Doth
thou know not of weaponry?" Now his voice was soft,
as if soothing a frightened child.
Deanie stared at his hand, surprised at how
such rough, callused fingers could bring such comfort. His
scent tingled her senses, musky and spicy,
unlike any bottled fragrance.
"Your aftershave," she whispered. "It sure
isn't Brut."
He turned his eyes to hers. Even in the
encroaching darkness, they were even more extraordinary
than from a distance. She could see the distinct
flecks of sea green and sable brown.
"I apologize, my lady, if thou doth
think me a brute."
With that he ripped the left cuff of his shirt,
several inches of snowy-white fabric that extended
from the close black velvet sleeve, and
fashioned a makeshift bandage.
"Awe," Deanie said, smiling, "you didn't
have to go and wreck your costume." He made no
notice of her comment, intent on tying the bandage
over her palm. "You know," Deanie added,
uncomfortable with the silence and his nearness, "that's a
dandy outfit."
His eyes flashed to hers, and she sniffed once,
the tears evaporated. "I mean, it's sort of
like one Wynonna has." She caught herself. "I
mean, not that you look like a girl, nothing like that.
It's just the black velvet and the white, well, you
know ..." Her voice trailed off and he stepped
back, as if seeing her for the first time.
Deanie licked her lips, her mouth suddenly
gone dry. "Why do you speak all backwards like?
I mean, stuff like "from where art thou" and all
that?"
There was a small pause before he spoke again.
"From where art thou?" he repeated.
She closed her eyes, trying to form a reply.
At last she took a deep breath and opened them.
"Nashville from am I," she answered
triumphantly.
For the first time he smiled at her, an
expression that transformed his entire face. The
hollows of his cheeks became elongated
dimples, and the lines around his eyes crinkled.
Instead of looking menacing, although admittedly
attractive, he was accessible and easy.
Deanie felt a strange, roller-coaster tumble
in her stomach.
He reached for her soda bottle and examined
it, the grin still on his handsome face.
"Nashville," he repeated, although from his lips the
word sounded exotic and foreign. He was so close
that she could see the separate strands of his hair,
some very dark and coarse, others burnished golden
by the sun, and a very few gray. Only up close
were the gray hairs visible.
His eyes met hers. "Tell me again of your
king." This time his voice was expressionless, and his
thumb traced over some writing on the glass. It
was the copyright
label and the date the product had
been bottled.
"Well, he's dead, of course."
That caused a reaction. The man stiffened, as
if not believing her.
"Hey, are you all right?" The smile faded from
Deanie's face as she realized he seemed to be
ill. A sheen of perspiration formed on his forehead,
reflecting the fading light, and Deanie touched his
arm.
He jumped, as if surprised she was still there.
With admirable aplomb he recovered and pushed his
palm over his forehead, absentmindedly wiping the
perspiration on the shoulder of his doublet.
"Please, tell me again of your king's ...
glasses." He seemed to struggle for the words.
"Those ugly aviator things?"
"Aviator," he breathed. "Aviator."
She was about to suggest they go to the medical van,
the emergency vehicle insurance companies demand
be present at all location shoots. But before she
could speak, she heard the sound of men's voices
shouting into the night, footsteps crunching on the
gravel.
The actor seemed to snap out of his daze. He
turned to face her, his expression once again
clear and direct.
"I am Christopher Neville, duke of
Hamilton," he rasped. The intensity in his
eyes, his searing gaze, prompted Deanie to step
back, but he gripped her upper arm painfully,
pulling her closer. "You are my cousin.
Remember that. You are my cousin, and you are from--"
"Hey, let me go!"
"You are my cousin," he repeated more
emphatically. For a moment he seemed to be thinking
out loud. "I must somehow explain your speech."
A flicker of amusement laced his words as he
pronounced, "You have just arrived from
Wales."
"You're crazy," she gasped, genuinely
alarmed.
Instead of becoming enraged, or at least
insulted, she saw his teeth flash white, a
smile in the darkness.
"No." She could hear the delighted
satisfaction in his voice. He grabbed the cola
bottle and lobbed it into the bushes, where it would be out
of sight. "You, my dear, are addled. Your
family has just sent you here in hopes of finding you
a husband, and you will remain with me at Court
until--"
"You just littered," she snapped accusingly.
"Do you know what the fine for littering a landmark
is?"
"Hamilton! Art thou within?" The call came
from just beyond the shrubs.
"What is it with you people?" Deanie asked. "This
backwards talk is driving me nuts."
Christopher Neville, duke of
Hamilton, stared at her face for a moment, not
answering. With a thumb, he gently tilted her
face toward him. "Art thou painted?"
"Huh?"
"Thy face. Be that paint?" He lifted the
remaining cuff on his other sleeve and, without
waiting for a reply, scrubbed her face.
"Hamilton!" This time the cry was more insistent.
"Aye, within." he responded, removing the
last traces of mascara and lipstick from her
face.
Deanie, who had been too stunned
to respond, was suddenly infuriated.
"Hey, you!" she shouted to the unseen voices.
"There's a nut job in here--one of those damned
actors Nathan hired. Get me out of here!"
There were muffled sounds of men conferring, and then, in
the final light of dusk, Wilma Dean
Bailey came face-to-face with the rest of the
mad acting troupe. The man in front was older
than the rest, perhaps in his fifties or sixties,
and he carried what looked like an overgrown
baseball bat. Again, there was some sort of
shuffling as a new person entered the maze with a
similar bat, but this one was on fire.
"Someone, quick!" Deanie cried. "Get the
extinguisher!"
But all they did was light the old guy's
bat. At that point she realized these were
torches, like at a pep rally. Even in the
flickering darkness, the men saw her blush
furiously.
"Gentlemen," said Christopher Neville in
a voice smooth enough to announce a game show.
"May it please you, this is my dear cousin."
Deanie waved a weak greeting, still mortified
by her gaffe. How was she to know they actually meant
to carry flaming sticks?
"Hey," she said. "I'm Deanie
Bailey."
The older man with the torch held it to her face,
and she flinched, but she had the good grace not to back
away. The poor guy was probably a fan.
"Dean of the Bailey?" His voice was
incredulous. She could see him more clearly now, and
he sure was an ugly old coot. His teeth were
yellowed or missing altogether, and his eyes were beady and
black, peering suspiciously over a large, thin
nose. Even though he was lacking in the looks
department, he wore a lavish, fur-lined robe
and a strange dark velvet hat. All of the men were
dressed in garish costumes, and someone--Deanie
wasn't sure who--needed a bath. Badly.
"My cousin," Christopher repeated, smiling,
"hath but just arrived from Wales." He then turned
to the old man with the torch. "Cousin, may I