One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  Rosalind stood, and they went outside into the sunny courtyard together. As they crossed to the stables, she said with a humorous glint in her eyes, “I hope you didn’t find a Fitzgerald breakfast too overwhelming.”

  He smiled, as much for the sight of sunshine on her tawny hair as for her question. “It was an experience. But not an unpleasant one.”

  They reached the stables, and he opened the door for her. Giving in to curiosity, he commented, “You certainly don’t resemble anyone else in your family. Were you a fairy changling, perhaps, found amidst the cowslips and strawberries?”

  “Nothing so poetic.” Her expression became opaque. “I was adopted. The Fitzgeralds found me scavenging near the London waterfront when I was three or four. Apparently I’d come ashore with my real mother, who died immediately. Heaven knows what would have happened if the Fitzgeralds hadn’t happened by.”

  He stared at her, chilled by the knowledge of all the horrific things that might befall a lost girl child. Especially a pretty one. “That’s an incredible story to relate so casually. Did the Fitzgeralds try to learn more about your origins?”

  “They didn’t have much time because they had to leave London for an engagement in Colchester. Mama says my clothing had been well made and I spoke with a good accent, so my family was probably not impoverished.” She shrugged. “That is the extent of my knowledge about my history.”

  Jupiter stuck his head out of a loose box and gave a peremptory snort. Stephen stroked the velvety nose. “Do you ever think about your original family?”

  Rosalind hesitated before saying, “Yes, though I wouldn’t let Mama and Papa know for the world. They’d be hurt by the implication that they hadn’t done enough, when no one could have raised me with more love or kindness.”

  “Yet still, it is natural to be curious,” he said quietly.

  “You understand, don’t you?” Her eyes devoid of their usual laughter, she began stroking Jupiter’s sleek neck. “Quite possibly I have relatives somewhere. I used to study the audiences for people who looked like me. I wonder sometimes what my real name is, and if someone was waiting for me and my mother in London. It’s been almost twenty-five years now. Does anyone anywhere remember that little girl who was lost?” She glanced at him, her gaze wistful.

  Her hand had stilled on Jupiter’s neck, so he touched it in a gesture of comfort. Their fingers met, and he felt a small shock, almost like static electricity in the winter. But this was…different. Dropping his hand, he asked, “You recollect nothing of the time before the Fitzgeralds?”

  “A few scattered images. Being hugged, though perhaps that was Maria. A stone house that seemed large, but probably wasn’t except in a child’s mind.”

  “You don’t even remember your own name?”

  There was a flash of something dark and terrible in her eyes before she looked away. “Not even that.”

  It was time to change the subject. “It must be strange to know nothing about one’s ancestors.” Stephen gave a wry smile. “In some ways, that’s a blessing. I think many children would like to believe that they were born to royalty, stolen by gypsies, then left by accident with the peculiar people who claim to be their parents.”

  Rosalind smiled, all trace of darkness gone. “That’s true, isn’t it? Human nature is the most foolish thing. We always long for what we can’t have.” Her casual words struck her ears with unexpected force. Like a horse yearning for the grass on the other side of the fence, she yearned for the outside world, the one that had nothing to do with the theater or the Fitzgerald troupe. That was probably why she was so intrigued by Stephen, who was from that outside world, as well as kind and attractive.

  Very attractive, actually. He’d combed his hair into a more informal style, and it suited him. But he was not for her. He was a gentleman. She was a strolling player, and not even a very good one. At least she could act well enough to say lightly, “The next time I regret my lost family, I shall remind myself that I am also free of dreadful aunts and drunken cousins.”

  “If you feel the lack, I have droves of appalling kinsmen I can lend you,” he said, his expression sober, but his eyes glimmering with amusement. “Little old ladies who put brandy in their tea, then curse like sailors. Distant connections who have lost everything gambling and come around looking for handouts. Pious hypocrites who preach virtue and secretly practice vice—I have them all.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of such delights,” she said generously. “I do hope you have some nicer relatives as well.”

  “A few. My older sister is rather rigid, but she has a good heart and her children are delightful.” Stephen pulled an irregular chunk of sugar from his pocket and offered it to Jupiter. The horse delicately lapped up the treat. “And I have a younger brother who was a soldier. We had our differences growing up, but we’ve become much closer since he left the army. I guess we both learned a little wisdom over the years.”

  Rosalind noted that he made no mention of a spouse, though that didn’t mean he wasn’t married. Perhaps he’d had a fight with his wife, which was why he was rambling around England alone. Reminding herself that his marital status was no concern of hers, she said, “Since Jupiter is content, perhaps we should see how the troupe is faring.”

  Stephen agreed and offered his arm. Together they strolled out of the stables and into the Redminster high street. Rosalind enjoyed the solid feel of his forearm under her palm, and the envious glances other women gave her after looking over her handsome escort. In fact, she was enjoying this walk entirely too much. Reminding herself they were together by chance alone, she resumed their earlier conversation. “Are you and your brother much alike?”

  “Only superficially—Michael is far more intense than I,” Stephen said reflectively. “Even now that he has married and settled down, he has what I’ve heard called a thousand-yard stare-a constant awareness of his surroundings that comes from having lived with danger. I suppose that’s how he survived so many years of war.”

  “A thousand-yard stare,” Rosalind repeated. “I’ll remember that. The concept could be useful to an actor who wanted to portray that kind of character.”

  “Is that what it is like to be an actress—constantly observing the world to learn how to best perform your roles?”

  She laughed. “I’m no actress. I fill in where needed—even breeches parts if necessary, because I’m tall for a woman. But Jess is the one with the talent. My real value is as stage manager and prompter. I keep track of costumes and scenery and scripts, and anything else that helps the company run smoothly.”

  “Does the troupe travel continuously?”

  She shook her head. “Not quite. In the coldest months of winter, we take lodgings in Birmingham and perform at various places in the area. Come spring, we’re off again.” She nodded at the inn ahead. “If we’re lucky, in a place like the Royal George. If not, in a courtyard or barn.”

  “It sounds beastly uncomfortable,” Stephen said frankly. “Do you wander through the countryside as the spirit moves you?”

  “No, we have a regular circuit through the West Midlands. People expect us, and we know what facilities are available in each town.” They had reached the inn, so she led him under the coaching arch into the courtyard. “Strolling players are at the bottom of the theatrical barrel. The London playhouses are the most important, of course. Then come the major provincial circuits like Bath and the one based in York. People like us go to the towns too small for anyone else to bother with.”

  “Yet your parents are extremely talented. Surely they could have succeeded in one of the more important theaters.”

  Rosalind gave him a quick, rueful smile. “Talent isn’t all. My father can play everything from Lear to Falstaff, and my mother can make grown men weep when she does a tragedy like Isabella. That was noticed, and when I was little, John Philip Kemble engaged them both for a trial period at Drury Lane. It only lasted a month. Family legend says that Kemble was jealous of Papa�
�s notices, and there may be some truth to that. But it’s also true that my father likes to do things his own way. Theater managers are an arrogant lot and won’t tolerate anyone who is equally obstinate.”

  “Particularly an actor who hadn’t been in London long enough to develop the sort of following that would have made Kemble willing to tolerate artistic temperament.”

  She nodded. “The only solution was for my father to be his own manager. The Fitzgerald Troupe may not be famous, but Papa can do exactly as he wishes.”

  She led Stephen toward the large hall that had been added to the inn for assemblies and other entertainments. As they climbed the steps, a handsome young man with a dandyish air came out the door in front of them. Stephen recognized him as Edmund Chesterfield, the actor who had played Ferdinand to Jessica’s Miranda.

  Chesterfield gave Rosalind a broad smile. “And how are you this morning my magnificent rose?”

  “Neither yours nor magnificent,” she said with the casualness of long habit. “Edmund, this is Mr. Ashe, who rescued Brian from the river.”

  Chesterfield’s gaze sharpened. Stephen guessed that the young actor constantly evaluated other men as possible rivals or potential sources of patronage. Apparently dismissing Stephen as neither, he said, “You’re a brave man to risk your neck for such a brat, Ashe. Now, if it had been the luscious Jessica, I’d have gone into the river myself.”

  “And ruin your coat? Somehow, I doubt it,” Rosalind said sweetly.

  “Alas, fair Rosalind, you know my weaknesses.” Chesterfield gave an elaborate bow. “Until tonight, cruel mistress.”

  Rosalind said with surprise, “Is the rehearsal over already?”

  “I’ve done as much as I need to.” The actor grimaced. “Other theater managers don’t demand constant rehearsals. I think the old boy enjoys tormenting us.”

  “He enjoys seeing the plays performed as well as possible,” Rosalind pointed out crisply. “Your own skills have improved markedly since you joined us.”

  “Perhaps,” Chesterfield admitted. “But that was a year ago. I hardly see the need to waste a lovely sunny day when I have my role down word perfect and there are pretty milkmaids to charm.” After a farewell nod, he proceeded down the stairs.

  Stephen said in an undertone, “Delightful fellow. Is one of his roles Duncan in the Scottish play? If so, the mock dagger could be replaced by a real one.”

  Rosalind smiled involuntarily. “Edmund may be vain and lazy, but he doesn’t really deserve to be stabbed to death by Macbeth.”

  “You’re right. Better he should play Antigonus and be eaten by a bear.”

  “You know your Shakespeare,” she said with approval.

  “I’ve always enjoyed the theater, Shakespeare most of all. I’ve even taken part in amateur productions of his plays.” He opened the door to the hall for her. “Long after a performance is over, the Bard’s words linger in the mind like the taste of fine brandy.” A few of those words suddenly danced through his head: “She’s beautiful, and therefore to be woo’d. She is a woman, therefore to be won.” Good lord, where had that come from? Henry I, Part I, if he recalled correctly, and from Rosalind’s enchanting smile.

  He took a deep breath, then followed her from the foyer into the main hall. At the far end was a raised area that could be used either as a stage or a musicians’ dais. A number of people bustled about the platform, several working on the set while others rehearsed under Thomas’s direction. Stephen asked, “How large is your company?”

  “Eighteen. About ten of us do real acting—the others, like Calvin Ames and Ben Brady over there, are musicians or stage crew and act only in minor parts.” Rosalind frowned. “It looks as if Ben is having trouble. I’d better go see.”

  Stephen followed her toward the stage, where the actors were hurling accusations of betrayal and jealousy at each other. “What play is being rehearsed?”

  “The Ghost Speaks. We’re performing it tomorrow.” She gave a mischievous smile. “The play isn’t much, but it does allow us to take advantage of the Royal George’s nice trapdoor. Whenever we perform here, we do at least one play with ghosts.”

  “It would be a pity to waste such a fine opportunity,” he agreed. “What is tonight’s show?”

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream. One of my favorites. I play first Hippolyta, then Titania’s chief attendant. It makes for a busy evening.”

  “Are the costume changes difficult?”

  “Not really. In this play, everyone wears flowing, medieval sorts of robes, so a change in mantles and perhaps a hair ornament is usually all that is required.” She had a shawl draped over her shoulders, so she stopped and turned toward Stephen, flipping the shawl over her head like a medieval cowl. “’Tis clothing that makes the woman, you know,” she said in a dark, conspiratorial voice.

  “You’re a better actress than you give yourself credit for,” he said, impressed.

  “Oh, I know the tricks of the trade.” She returned her shawl to its usual position. “Mama and Papa have seen to that. But I lack the inner fire.”

  Perhaps she didn’t have an actor’s fire, but he suspected that she was capable of more intimate fires. That lush, beautiful figure was made for passion.

  Knowing he’d better change the direction of his thoughts, he glanced at the materials stacked against one wall. “I suppose all the sets and costumes are used in many different ways.”

  She nodded, then climbed onto the stage and circled around the actors, who were too absorbed in their roles to notice distractions. “That painted tree Ben is holding has shaded Macbeth and his witches, concealed Bonnie Prince Charlie, and lashed in many a stormy gale.”

  The tree, however, had definitely seen better days. In fact, two of the flat spreading branches had broken off. Rosalind asked the wiry man examining the pieces, “What happened, Ben?”

  “That clumsy assistant of mine dropped it,” he said dourly. “First all the excitement yesterday put us behind schedule today, and now my tree is broken.”

  Rosalind frowned. “What needs to be done?”

  Ben rattled off a list of tasks, ending gloomily, “Most of which won’t get done if I take the time to repair this properly, so I suppose we’ll have to do without the tree.”

  “I can help with the scenery,” Stephen volunteered. “Though I don’t know anything about carpentry, I can fetch and carry.”

  Rosalind hesitated. “But you’re recovering from an injury.”

  “I promise I won’t carry anything on my head,” he said gravely.

  Before Rosalind could protest further, Ben said, “Take him up on the offer, Rosie. We need every pair of hands if we’ve going to put this play on properly.”

  “Very well—but if you feel tired, Stephen, please rest.”

  “I will.” Under Ben’s direction, Stephen went out the stage door to the wagons and brought in an armful of shimmering blue-green draperies that would be hung along the back wall. He recognized the fabric as having been used in Prospero’s cave. It made an equally effective backdrop for a magical forest.

  For the next several hours, he fetched, carried, stacked, and erected sets under Ben’s direction, all the while marveling that such simple materials could create such grand illusions. He also enjoyed the controlled chaos of the theater, with actors coming and going and dramatic scenes being declaimed over his head.

  Dusty and a little tired, he was admiring the finished set when Maria Fitzgerald exclaimed behind him, “Mr. Ashe is the duke, Thomas!”

  Dismayed, Stephen swung around, wondering how she knew. Perhaps he had been pointed out to her somewhere, and she only now had remembered his real identity.

  Maria’s exclamation had stopped everyone in their tasks, and all eyes were on Stephen. His period of blessed anonymity was over.

  The keenest gaze belonged to Thomas Fitzgerald, who said thoughtfully, “He certainly has the countenance of a duke, my love, and it would save me two costume changes, but perhaps Mr. Ashe has no desir
e to tread the boards with us.”

  Stephen blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  Maria gave him a brilliant smile. “You would make a most impressive Duke of Athens, Mr. Ashe. Since Rosalind says that you’ve had some amateur acting experience, would you like to take the role of Theseus in tonight’s play?”

  His relief that he had not been identified was quickly followed by shock. The Duke of Ashburton, appear in a play performed in a common tavern? He stared at Maria. Acting with a professional company, even in a minor role, was quite a different matter from performing in a country house with friends.

  “Not everyone fancies standing up in front of an audience, Mama,” Rosalind said. “Most people would consider it a penance, not a pleasure.”

  “And Mr. Ashe is convalescing,” Jessica added.

  Maria’s face fell. “Of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Her crushed expression gave Stephen a sudden insight into why she had made the suggestion. For Maria, acting was delight. Like a cat presenting a favored human with a dead mouse, she had impulsively offered the man who had saved her son the chance to act because it was the greatest treat she could imagine.

  The idea was absurd, of course. Yet after his surprise wore off, he found the prospect of behaving so outrageously rather appealing. “I will surely regret this, but I’d like to try it anyhow,” he said with a slow smile. “As long as you’re sure I wouldn’t ruin the performance.”

  Maria’s face brightened and Thomas said with a rumbling laugh, “Splendid! Don’t worry about hurting the play. It’s not a large part, and with a bit of coaching from me no one will realize you’re a novice.”

  Jessica clapped her hands together gleefully, and Rosalind gave him a warm smile. “Welcome to the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe, Stephen.”

  “It’s just for a night,” he pointed out. Yet as Thomas led him aside to begin work, Stephen found that he was very pleased with himself.