One Perfect Rose Read Online Free PDF Page A

Caliban strode out onto the stage and swept off the shaggy headdress to reveal the tawny hair and pleasant features of an attractive young female. Though she was not so beautiful as Jessica Fitzgerald, there was something about the young woman’s laughing expression that appealed to Stephen. She seemed like someone he would enjoy knowing.
    She glanced in his direction, and he saw that her eyes were dark brown, a striking contrast to her light hair. She was older than Jessica, perhaps in her mid-to-late twenties. A woman, not a girl.
    He looked down at the playbill and saw that Caliban was played by Mrs. Rosalind Jordan. No Mr. Jordan was listed in the cast. He raised his eyes as the players departed from the stage. For a moment he indulged himself in the fantasy that this was London and he was a well man so that he could go to the greenroom and meet that laughing, tawny lady. Discover if she was as winsome as she seemed, and what sort of figure was concealed beneath that enveloping costume.
    But this was not London, and he was not a well man. It was hard to be interested in amorous play when concerned about survival. Good-bye, Lady Caliban.
    The performance was to conclude with a one-act afterpiece, but Stephen decided he’d had enough of the smoke and smell of the improvised theater. He edged his way to the door and went outside. The storm had passed, leaving a light misting rain and refreshing coolness. The days were long in August, and the lingering, cloudy twilight turned Fletchfield into a hazy fairyland.
    Stephen walked along the empty high street, enjoying the scents of wet earth and growing things, of wild-flowers and the faint, delectable aroma of baking bread. He liked the feel of moisture on his face and the otherworldly beauty the misty droplets lent to the landscape. Rain was one of many things he appreciated as never before. The only positive effect of Blackmer’s pronouncement was that, in an odd way, Stephen felt more alive than he ever had.
    His reaction to Rosalind Jordan had reminded him that although he was dying, he wasn’t dead yet. What was the right course of action for a man in his circumstances? He’d intended to look for a new wife until he heard Blackmer’s death sentence. Of course, there were some who would say it was his duty to remarry swiftly in the hopes of fathering an heir. His brother Michael would be delighted if that happened.
    But years of dutiful marriage had produced no children before, and Stephen was not convinced that the fault had lain with Louisa. It was as likely that he was the one incapable of creating new life. Or perhaps the emptiness of their marriage had made it impossible to produce something as full of vitality as a baby.
    The thought of marrying in cold blood for dynastic reasons made his mouth tighten to a thin line. He’d made one dutiful marriage, and he’d be damned if he would do it again. So he would not seek a wife.
    What about an affair? In London there were beautiful women who would give a convincing illusion of passion to a man who could pay the price.
    But would he want even that? The loneliest times of his life had been in Louisa’s bed, where their bodies joined but nothing he did could call forth a single spark of response from his wife. A purchased pretense of love might be equally bleak, especially now, when passion was not in the forefront of his mind.
    No, if he was dying, he would do it as he had lived—alone. Many men, and women, too, had done that with dignity. Surely he could do the same.
    The rain was becoming heavier. He raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes, letting the cool liquid trickle over his face as he thought of some lines from the play he had just seen: “Full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made.” Or perhaps he should be pondering the words from the funeral service: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
    In this case it would be Ashburton to