Once Upon a Rose

by Judith O'Brien

flat. "She's Lady Carolyn Deighton

  now, and a bit long in the tooth to be called

  Sis. She's well into her eighties."

  Nathan Burns knocked his head on the

  closet as he glanced up.

  Deanie still could not speak.

  Kit cleared his throat, as if deciding whether

  or not to continue. "It's my birthday today," he

  said at last.

  "Oh, Kit." Her voice was soft.

  "I'm four hundred and seventy-nine."

  "Happy birthday," and he heard the warm

  smile in her voice.

  "Of course, depending on how you look at it,

  I could be seventy-nine." He then turned around.

  "Or thirty-five."

  Their eyes met as if for the first time. There was a

  clarity there, an understanding that reached across the room,

  palpable as a caress.

  "Okay, buddy," said Nathan, his face set

  in an annoyed scowl. "Let's get out

  of here now. I know enough about drugs and booze to see

  an abuser."

  Deanie reached for the bottle of champagne for

  something to hold on to, anything at all. "Stop,

  Nathan," she ordered.

  Nathan ignored her and placed his hand on

  Kit's broad back. He paused, startled by the

  strength he felt under the tweed.

  Kit did not move.

  His eyes had wandered to Deanie's hand, now

  gripping the neck of the bottle, her knuckles

  white as her face. That was not what he was focused

  on; it was a black-and-white image in a silver

  picture frame. Of a young World War II

  pilot clutching a mug of tea, his eyes weary

  and wary.

  "Deanie," he said huskily. "My love."

  The heavy bottle of Dom clattered to the

  floor, and Deanie threw herself into his arms,

  waiting and warm.

  Her hands clutched at his back as she inhaled

  his scent, more potent than any substance on earth,

  clean and male. His hands raked through her hair and

  he gently pulled her head back, hungry for a

  look at her face.

  His expression as his eyes took her in was

  shattering in its focused intensity. All pride

  and common sense had been replaced by ragged

  desire. Shakily, her thumb traced his lower

  lip, tenuous, frightened he would again vanish, that she

  would again suffer the barren longing of his absence.

  But he was real and solid, his heart pounding against

  her breasts as if proclaiming his existence.

  She tried to speak but was silenced by her

  emotions, the rampaging surge of passion and

  unmatched joy and, above all, love, pure and

  intoxicating.

  Tears fell hot and heavy onto his shirt, and

  she pressed herself to him, his powerful arms embracing

  her as if their lives depended upon it.

  Her mind was reeling. Could this be happening? Had

  she finally gone completely insane?

  He spoke: "If this is madness, may it

  never cease." His mouth descended upon hers,

  savagely, with a thirst born of anguish and longing

  and love.

  In a distant corner of the room, Nathan

  Burns was on his hands and knees, gingerly tasting

  a splash of long-forgotten champagne.

 

  The breakfast tray was shoved next to the door,

  untouched save for the empty coffee cups. Only

  the single red rose had been moved, and it rested

  on top of a folded linen napkin.

  The sheets on the bed were twisted and gnarled.

  Two oversized pillows, complete with the

  embroidered Dorchester Hotel emblem on the

  soft linen, lay mysteriously on the floor in the

  center of the room.

  Deanie sighed and leaned against Kit's chest,

  her eyes closed in contentment. She wore a

  plush hotel robe, he wore a single sheet.

  "I still feel as if I'm in a dream," she

  mumbled, planting a kiss on his chest.

  "This is better." She felt him swallow.

  "In my dreams I never imagined running water

  and an indoor toilet."

  "How romantic."

  He laughed, then grew silent. She felt his

  arm become tense about her shoulder and, curious,

  she glanced up.

  There were comb marks in his hair from the shower, and he

  was staring down, long dark lashes shuttering his

  eyes.

  "Do you know what happened back there?"

  He didn't have to explain his meaning. She

  fully understood his soft words.

  "I've read dozens of books, Kit. I was

  searching for you, looking for you in those dry history

  books." She was unable to keep herself from shivering,

  and he smiled tenderly, rubbing his thumb slowly

  on her shoulder.

  "You saved her life, you know. Anne of

  Cleves would have been beheaded, but you saved her."

  His voice was full of wonderment.

  "Do you really think so?"

  "I am sure of it, love. Cromwell would

  have been forced into having her executed, and Henry

  would have agreed. And Anne lived in splendor at

  Richmond as the king's honorary sister. Of all

  Henry's wives, she was the most fortunate. And

  she had you to thank, Deanie."

  "But poor Katherine Howard." Deanie

  sighed. "She may have been annoying, but she

  didn't deserve to be beheaded. She was a giggling

  teenager who should have been grounded, not a queen.

  She was used by her uncle."

  "Everyone was used, Deanie. It still occurs, but

  on a less-than-grand scale." There was an

  astringent edge to his voice. He took

  a deep breath. "Poor Surrey,

  Norfolk's son. He was eventually executed

  as well, another victim of the most esteemed

  duke of Norfolk. The only thing that kept

  Norfolk's scrawny neck from the block was

  Henry's death."

  They were both silent for a moment, trying to make

  sense of the waste of lives and talent so many

  centuries earlier.

  "At least Suffolk did well," Deanie

  said thoughtfully. "I mean, when he died it seems

  Henry really grieved."

  "He did, I think. By that time Henry was such

  an old man--Katherine's betrayal did it

  to him, Deanie. He wanted to love and be loved

  so badly that it killed him, killed the great

  Henry of England."

  "I read about Suffolk's granddaughter,

  Lady Jane Grey. At least he never knew

  about it, that his granddaughter was beheaded because of a plot

  to put her on the throne. Another innocent, I

  suppose. Like Katherine and Surrey, she was

  used. Used to death."

  Deanie suddenly remembered the feel of

  Suffolk's rough hands on hers, his scratchy

  beard when he would kiss her on the cheek like a

  favorite uncle. "I liked him," she said at

  last.

  "And he liked you, Deanie. Enough to risk hiding

  me, incurring both my wrath and that of the king. He

  did that for you as much
as for me."

  "He was an overgrown romantic." She

  smiled. Then she grew serious. "What do you

  think of Cromwell's end? I mean, he was

  nasty enough, but I still can't believe he was

  beheaded. I really didn't think the king would do that

  to Cromwell. I thought he'd just rot in the

  Tower."

  Kit shook his head. "And he was executed on

  the same day Henry married Katherine. That should have

  been an omen. Someone should have noticed the gross

  crassness of the timing. Have you read some of the letters

  Cromwell wrote to Henry, begging for his life?

  My shoulder still bothers me, and I would have liked

  to see him punished. But those letters, Deanie. They

  must be the most pathetic words ever written."

  "Do you think Henry ever saw them?"

  "No. I don't think Norfolk allowed it,

  all in the name of dispatching his own duties."

  "Oh, Kit."

  Then he planted a kiss on her head. "Little

  Elizabeth turned out rather nicely, though."

  "She did, didn't she?" Deanie found it

  hard to believe that the same small girl who

  drew a wet-nosed bunny became arguably the

  greatest monarch England ever knew.

  Together they rested in comfortable silence. She was about

  to suggest they order lunch, or at least poke at

  the long-cold breakfast tray, when the expression

  on his face suddenly altered. It was as if a

  tide had shifted, inevitable, unstoppable.

  "Kit, what's wrong?"

  His gaze was straight ahead, as if he was

  unable to see the room. Then he looked at her,

  a sadness darkening his eyes.

  "I have to leave," he said.

  "What?" Raw panic made her tense up,

  and her hands clenched convulsively. "Are you

  joking? All of a sudden you have to leave?"

  "No, Deanie. Please, you must listen

  to me."

  She straightened, her back rigid, as he

  sat up and pulled on his khaki slacks. For

  long moments they said nothing, but were aware of each

  other's every movement.

  "This thing that happened to us, this journey," he

  began, then halted. "Deanie, I need to find

  my own way."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I refuse to become an albatross about your

  neck, weighing you down. No, listen." He

  placed a finger over her lips. "Please

  listen."

  She nodded, unable to keep the sudden tears from

  her eyes.

  Then he spoke. "Deanie, everything I know,

  everything I have ever known, is gone. Yes, my

  sister still lives, and thank God you are well, but

  everything else has vanished. I grew up in a

  vastly different world. I'm not sure if I can

  explain it properly, but it is as if every single

  value I believed in has now been proven

  false."

  "Do you mean from Henry's time, or from 1940?"

  "Both." He looked up at the ceiling, as

  if the answers would be there. "I managed to adjust

  once to a new time. It was more than difficult,

  at times it was hellish, as you well know. But to be

  forced to adjust again, to rethink my entire existence

  beyond this room, where I fit in and how I

  came to be here, it has exhausted my

  resources. Deanie, I am not yet whole."

  "But can't I help you?" She reached for his hand,

  and he took it. "You helped me, Kit. I

  wouldn't be alive if it hadn't been for you. Let

  me help you."

  "No, Deanie." Without looking at her, he

  brushed his lips over her knuckles. "You have no

  idea how you have helped me, just by being alive. Your

  existence is what has kept me sane, given

  me a reason to even try to do this thing."

  "I'm still confused," she admitted.

  "You have a life, Deanie. A rare, unique

  talent. You are magnificent--no, listen. I

  do not want to touch that part of your life."

  "But it means nothing without you!" Her voice was

  a cry.

  "But it must! Don't you see? We need to be

  strong alone before we can be together. You have done that;

  last night you proved it. Now it's my turn."

  "How can you say you are not strong? After all of the

  accomplishments ..." Her voice trailed off.

  Kit laughed then and pulled her close. "I

  think you are beginning to understand, my love. I need

  to find a purpose in this time, a meaningful life.

  Think of my resum`e, Deanie. I'm

  university-educated; that's good enough. I can fly

  a vintage airplane and drop bombs on

  Berlin, which was useful in its day but hardly a

  worthwhile career at this point. And I am perhaps

  the finest tournament jouster in the land. Nay,

  excuse me, no--in the world. Unfortunately,

  there have not been jousts, real jousts, in about four

  centuries.

  "What else can I do? At the risk of

  boasting, I am fully able to put down border

  uprisings in Scotland and have foiled several

  pretenders in their efforts to take the crown from

  Henry. I am courteous, courtly,

  proficient in both the long bow and short--"

  Deanie reached up and silenced him with a kiss.

  "I understand," she murmured.

  "In short," he concluded, "I have not yet

  found a useful purpose. I am nothing more than

  a walking anachronism, a breathing sideshow

  curiosity." He fell back against the pillows.

  "I would make a perfect addition to the House of

  Windsor, but alas, there are no vacancies."

  "Kit, I'm not sure if I can live without

  you," she said, pulling the robe tightly

  around her.

  A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips.

  "Oh, but you won't have to. Not for long,

  anyway. Deanie, I just need time--a few

  weeks, a few months. Before last night, before

  we were together, I didn't know if I could find the

  strength to continue. But now, my God, Deanie.

  Now that I know you will be here, I feel I can do

  anything."

  "Kit," she breathed. "Anything?"

  "Anything," he repeated. But the word was muffled

  when his lips touched hers with a glorious promise

  of the future, of the yet-untasted joys that would

  soon be theirs.

  Epilogue

  Deanie Bailey tightened the belt of her

  trenchcoat against the early spring chill. There were

  few tourists this time of year at Hampton

  Court Palace. It was still too early for the rows

  of plush buses to be parked in the lot, for the

  dozens of travelers to wander the grounds plugged

  into electronic tour tapes.

  The wind whipped her hair, and she closed her

  eyes to meet the misty spray of rain. This was a

  lonely place, a place to revel in

  melancholy thoughts and dark dreams.

  After watching the horizon for a few moments, she

  eased herself onto a damp stone bench, her rear

  end
feeling the cold even through her coat and jeans.

  It was strange to be back after so long, after all

  that had happened.

  The scene was tranquil, deceptively so.

  With such a pastoral landscape, it was almost

  impossible to imagine anything but gentle

  movements, quiet encounters with oil-painting

  figures.

  Dr. Howler told her she had imagined it

  all. Deanie had no proof to convince her

  otherwise. Even the very real appearance of

  Kit was easily explained.

  "You see, there is a perfectly logical

  reason for your new romance," the doctor had

  intoned, tapping her pencil on a stack of

  notes concerning Deanie's case. "You were in

  London right before your episode."

  "Episode" was the psychological term for her

  nervous breakdown.

  "You caught a glimpse of Christopher

  Neville from the window of your bus, or perhaps as you

  checked into the Dorchester. Subconsciously, your

  desire for a relationship caused your mind to file

  away the details of Mr. Neville. Then you

  saw the photograph of the pilot, who does

  indeed bear an uncanny resemblance to Mr.

  Neville, and your mind developed the

  elaborate fantasy."

  "But what about his name, and that he was searching for

  me? Dr. Howler, you can't tell me that was pure

  coincidence."

  "Ah, but it was. You see, without the very

  successful treatment you have completed with me and my

  staff, the two of you would never have found each other."

  A smile of professional triumph had

  crossed the doctor's face. "The only mystery

  here is mutual attraction. When he saw you in

  London, something clicked within his head as well.

  We can analyze many things, Miss Bailey.

  For hundreds of years science has tried to understand

  what causes sexual attraction in the human

  species, but there are no definitive answers,

  just tantalizing hints."

  Then a softness had passed over Dr.

  Howler's very professional face, and all

  elements of science and logic seemed to vanish.

  "Perhaps some things are best left a divine

  mystery, Miss Bailey. And perhaps grand

  passions and romance--the greatest mysteries of all

  --should remain just that."

  Dr. Howler had then straightened, as if

  embarrassed by showing a more human side, and

  slipped her pencil into the pocket of her white

  jacket. That had been her last session with Dr.

  Howler.

  Deanie rubbed her eyes, bringing her thoughts

  back to the present. The chill in the air seemed

  to grow by the minute, a dampness unique to England.

  A hand grasped her arm.

  She jumped, startled for the briefest of moments.

  "Did you see this?" He blinked against

  the light rain, holding the latest London

  tabloid for her perusal.

  She glanced down and began to giggle. "They

  say I've married Aaron Neville." She

  turned her gaze up to meet his face.

  "Aaron Neville, Christopher Neville

  --what's the difference?"

  He settled beside her on the bench, his forearms

  resting on his thighs as he read the paper. His

  thick green Irish sweater and knee-high

  Wellingtons seemed more natural than doublet and

  hose, and he shook his head at the content of the

  paper.

  "It says here that I dated Julia Roberts

  before I married you. Funny, I can't seem

  to recall that." With his hair cropped shorter, his

  eyes were far more startling, the planes of his face more

  apparent. There was a faint hint of whiskers about his

  jaw as his eyes narrowed while reading the paper.

  "Sure, Kit. You dated Julia right before

  I had that fling with Elvis."

  "Oh, that one." He grinned.

  "Yeah, that one."

  For a few moments they sat in silence, watching

  a bird plunder the soil for a worm.

  "It seems so long ago," she breathed,

  watching her words puff in the cold air.

  "It was."

  The rain began to pelt down in earnest. He

  placed the newspaper on his lap and shook out the

  raincoat that had been tossed over his shoulder.

  Sighing, she leaned into the circle of his arms as he

  held the coat tentlike over her head. They

  huddled in silence, her face resting against the

  scratchy wool of his sweater, his cheek on her

  damp hair.

  "I sometimes wish we could have done more," she said

  softly.

  "Perhaps we could have," he murmured. "But we

  probably would not have made it back. We would be

  footnotes to Henry's long reign, very dead and

  very forgotten."

  "We're still footnotes, and we're still

  forgotten." She smiled.

  "True. But at least we're alive forgotten

  footnotes." He chuckled, brushing his lips

  against her hair.

  "Do you miss anything from back then?"

  "A few things," he admitted. "There are

  mornings I wake up and think to myself,

  What a perfect day for a joust. Or, What will the

  king require of me today? It's very strange,

  Deanie, not to be dictated by some all-powerful

  being."

  A burst of thunder clapped in the distance, and he