The poor little Lady Blakeney was a sorry, wretched sight only out done by their commander and cheif. Whilst they both had a glow of acute content and safety the moment the daydream seyt sail, even against the haggard and wearied appearances. They smiled. Armand instantly offered his service to Percy to captain the Day Dream and, reluctant with pride, he did indeed. And as the crew and what part of the league who were aboard gathered about Marguerite and Armand and worked to caught the wind in the sails for Dover, and Blakeney retreated without another word to his
His nerves tensed and grew near painfully taut. Again, he was urged to play the part that, for weeks and months and eternities, had been played within her company as well as of all the rest of the world, save those of the league and those moments were but rare. Again, he was urged to not allow any sight of how her presence both satiated and maddened him, how he must not allow one word to slip for she might turn it against him, how his trust must never again be put into the hands - so small, he half sighed - for she had crushed hopes to dust in them once ... once.
But, no.
An hour before, he would have, most imperatively. There would have been no question, no thought of if he would because he must. That was all.
There were stood equidistantly apart on either side of his cabin - his cabin, the one he'd spent night's she'd no thought or idea of, going thither or returning from France's blood stained soil - the monotonous roll of waves both swaying them a bit. He stood so tall, head just barely brushing the board's above them, the ceiling, and he half bent his head to avoid it. And, those fervid eyes, never leaving her and with a look so strange, almost like the looks she seen, at times, then vanish behind lazy lids. But, he did not look away, he did not revert to the foppish manners. He only stood, still, waiting. What could she say, what did she ought say to this man, who'd willingly, if, then she knew it then, stayed by her side, endured the horrid lashes, then, carried her a league at least - never complaining of fatigue he surely felt.
It felt like some absurd play, which they rehearsed many times. But there was no crowd of merrymaking audience, no music, no stage, save the wooden planked boards of the Day Dream's deck. And only two principle actors.
the contact numbed every sense but heightened the
What, tears? And for me? Whatever have I done to bring on the loveliest woman in England or France combined, to bring her to tears on my own brutish account? M'dear, I shan't have it..."
The idea, the reality that she had walked and ran and braved, on these little feet, for more then two days and nights, to warn him, with no thought of comfort and no hope of it. His heart failed him.
"Oh, Percy..."
"Eh, little woman, but if this is not perfection, then I am a fool."
"La, m' dear, but your face is as scarlet as that reckless scoundrel over there, rescuing the aristo from Mademoiselle Guillotine in France, eh? What does my wife contemplate so serious, hmm? Methinks you are no on earth anymore, sweetheart..." He made his voice light, easy with that banter but she understood the setting of his jaw.
"Ah, but there is no France, no longer..."
"God forgive it! no, no, do not think not that, m' dear ... you, a kinswomen of that country who's own people have butchered their kind. But, no, I will not speak of that... lud love me, but you as cold as the waves crashing beyond this cabin..."Raving mad.
Even a fool knew not to love the thing that would bring it's end. Or, did it? So, did he? And, may Heaven scratch his deemed unworthy name from the book of the Lamb, that there was a bit of madness within Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet. And every fool knew that it ran within the blood of the Blakeney line. The mother had, now the foppish spawn of the woman did, likewise. The perpetually unsettling laugh decried madness from the rooftops of grey London across the channel itself, far into the massacred body daring to call themselves Republic of the People.
T'would be insanity if the thought was not of madness, or, even, insanity. By truth, even now, in this wholly earthly place, he mused, loving as he did his wedded woman, mad.
The answer, all clear in his mind. Yes, the mere thought, madness. But, had it not been madness to love her.
Mayhap, yes, there would be method in his madness ... one day.
But she did. Soft, hot, womanly tears, which, when he would not watch fall over her burning face, he was catching with murmuring lips, whispering all the names and endearments she'd not heard since the happy time in Paris - la, but it seemed lives ago - all the comforts he could not have those long hours of tormented waiting.
When, with a sob that made her bosom heave then fall, she sensed, he'd rose to his knees, bent over her, half lying in her lap, half dead in exhaustion, and, oh, so in love.
It twas all too intimate, alurring and so strange. All the terrible bitter months she'd slept and wept in the lavish rooms Percy had attentively suited for her every whim, the times she so wished and ached for company, when irritated with his flippant, stupid ways sent her to even make stabing jests against him ... Oh, it became all too awful to remember.
The love she'd had for the man who adored her so completely had never quiet perished. Though, mayhap, it had been fickle, even fleeting, love born of mutual interest and because of the devotion he'd showered her lonely, busy life. Yet the past days, hours, nay, even minutes had made her see his true self.
Not Percy Blakeney who's every word either proclaimed habitual obsession to his tailor or the witty but never tasteful piece of prose. Not the Percy who in some moments, she'd thought she understood. Not even the one who had courted and wooed, fell at her feet in the love born passion that overcame his pride. How had he simply laughed and grined when she'd shaken him off like an annoying pest? And, how did he keep silent when he'd been the object of her fascinations, without saying or letting one word, without admitting to being the elusive hero no one had seen or known?
But, oh, how could he have done any of those things, when she betrayed him, his trust, and, yes, even his love.
What, tears? And for me? Whatever have I done to bring on the loveliest woman in England or France combined, to bring her to tears on my own brutish account? M'dear, I shan't have it..."
"Ah, but there is no France, no longer..."
"I have been a fool."
"No, no, my brave, good husband, no. Do not say it. It is I, it has never been anyone save myself, no. It has been I - from the beginning - only I who was so foolish - oh, God forgive me, and you, Percy, oh, and you must, forgive me, forgive me..."
A broken, chocked, soft cry shuddered the little women before him, and Marguerite dropped his hand, to hide her tears and her face, half turned from him in all the misery of terrible overwrought feelings she'd forgotten for the past days ... to save him.
The idea, the reality that she had walked and ran and braved, on these little feet, for more then two days and nights, to warn him, with no thought of comfort and no hope of it. His heart failed him, his strength too, suddenly seemed to melt in the light of her eyes, watching, wondering, shining with such curiosity. He'd prolonged, rather then forgotten how those sweet accented words filled his soul to the brim of happiness. In months past, he'd only tried to hear, never feel them, and by heaven, now he fairly would drown if he did not speak, if he did not allow her a glimps of the weakness ... But she knew already.
"But, Percy, they ... the beating Chauvelin commanded-"
Before all this.
He answered with infinite tenderness in his voice that had gone quite hoarse and low.
"La, but have I not said all that means nothing? Margot, you must learn to trust your husband, you know, or something quite terrible
Marguerite did not cringe only stared, wide eyed and very still.
Deep purple bruising blotted like ink spilt across the lower curve of his ribs, where Chauvelin's boot no doubt had made it's furrow, but that in comparison, a mere scratch, to the flecking of red, brutal, furious stripes littered and swollen across his broad,
powerful back and shoulders, stark against paled skin. He'd winced, his eyes full upon her, a ragged breath leaving his body and that languid, quaint smile formed about the strong mouth, tightly clenched jaw, as if half-amused, half-pleading apology at what must be seen by her eyes. He'd drawn himself up a little straighter when she said not a word ... how strange a thing it was, she remained quiet, not at all showing emotion for the beating so masterfully done.
Mayhap she already regretted the sorrow felt for him, the state of exhaustion she was in, justified it, yes... but a muffled cry from Marguerite's white lips made him realize that it had not been fickleness. As passionate anger caused a blush to heat her face, a soft haze had come into those eyes he felt could ease a thousand beatings until tears started down her flush cheeks and she brought her hands up, shaking, and whispered chokingly, "Mon Dieu, what have they done!..." in bitter, tear drown words.
"...lud, little woman! shush, shush!" He'd already leaned forward, catching her wringing, shaking white hands, stilling and stoping their frantic movements and that was enough, to calm her over-agitated nerves and troubled spirit. And a silent prayer that la bon Dieu give grace and strength. "...do not lament so! I be not so frail, m' dear, as you seem to think me-"
"I never meant that, Percy, never! No, after you carried me, so far ... and in this terrible, terrible state!..." she assured him instantly, half clinging to his hands he'd offered and covering them with her tears and kisses. "... only, how do they, cruel beasts, inflict such torments! They thought you a poor one of Israel, oh ... What would then, bon Dieu forbid, they've done if only ... if only! ... had they known ... you, their most bitter enemy!..."
"Lud, and t'would be no thing to have them tab every bit of flesh upon my bones if to know you were out of harm ... to leave out mention that Ffoukles would be deemed jealous, eh what, that I received all the beating for the adventure?"She listened to him with a growing horrorifed expression of pain and amusement, which he laughed at, his whole massive form shaking with it. "... dem me, though, but I haven't shaved in twenty hours, now, zounds! I must look quite a disreputable sight, eh, little woman?" changing the subject lightly as if it grew distasteful to him. "... now, Madam, m' dignity, if you shalt please?" his voice shaking in laughing tones as he reached an arm to retrieve white cloth of the jerkin. How could he laugh? How could he jest now? "S'faith, haven't the wish to catch my death of cold when I've already caught the devil's whip 'cross my back, eh, what ho?"
She almost mechanically did hand him back the cloth, but at the last moment she bade him be still. With her own hands she assisted in redressing him, though, the task was none too easy. His arms were stiff and sore.
It 'twas only human, but something in the humbled state of this man, this reckless, hapless adventurer, the same said dandy and dainty of London ball rooms, brought to breathlessness under inflicted pain though however strong his frame be, tore at the heart of the woman; perhaps even more then her heart could bare, her own words and actions had done all what physical pain couldn't to his pride and his love. She dared not to think of the past months, almost a year estranged whence she'd been mistress of Richmond and his wife, without the belief she deserved to have fallen at the hands of soulless monsters who called themselves men, protectors the people. And, oh, if Fate had thrown such a request - that her life be a trade, a treaty for a noble man, her own husband - she would have not thought twice!
Even the contemplation of the man who had deliberately hunted down the merciful spirit of adventure, he who's plotting so viciously constricted and used her own mind and position, her love for her brother then her husband ... Oh, she did hate him. But at the same moment, a deep, almost saintly empathy overcame that hatred. Truth, he had meant to harm her brother, and even did plot to destroy Percy's life, all for his patriotism that had eaten alive the heart she had came to admire, yet, he still was a man. They had been friends, she had invited him to her coterie because of his noble thoughts and clever brain ... it was not just herself that claimed brains enough to outwit a whole country, no, whoever it be said.
"...Percy, sit, do not stand! I bid it, you must not. Come," she'd already drawn him to her side, steadying a deal of his great weight upon her slight shoulders. He, though allowing it without a murmur, moved such that her arm was pulled in courtliest grace within the crook of his own. Even now he did not put aside the manners of a lifetime, the quaint gallantry he had been taught in early years. Or was it pride, that even in this venerable, weakened state he should remain ever unbending? "... and you will lie, Percy, rest, or I will command good friend Ffoukles to bind you, hand and foot, again..." went on his wife's soft, serious words.
"What? The lady's a prison ward, I mistake not, eh? And very much should I like to obey your commands- dem me, I'm as spent as fisherman's coin - yet to repose in my present ... state ... which I find myself ... No, you, m' dear, will take the bunk..."
He was quite breathless now, but never alluded to any pain in manner or countenance, only that made her to understand what his pride would not allow into words. Injuries that had been inflicted upon him wouldn't allow the man to simply lay down in repose and sleep though he hadn't, she was so sure, in days mayhap ... and all for a brother not his own, a cause not his, all for others.
"I shall not, not an instant, while you sit ..." She calmly said to him.
"...demmit, little woman, if you aren't the more stubborn of the two of us! ... I'd wager my head to Tony's shot that you quite are the boldest! the most confoundedly disobedient wife that God gave man!...to run about over soaked French countryside after a cart of soldiers and a dirty old Jew!..."
This outburst of speech after those quiet aristocrat lips had said very little, made her draw her slender little womanly form to it's tallest before his altitude of six feet, two inches hovering from above, as if to champion the challenge of her Reason.
"You did never bid me stay home, Percy..." She told him calmly. "You knew I followed the cart then?..." A deep curiosity coming across those features dimly illumined by the swinging lanthorn light. That face, compelling him as years before to think of love and life, to seek help and comfort in her smiles, turned up to his in gentleness, tenderness he'd not dreamed or thought ever would be embodied again in it for him.
"...Aye! I knew it well enough!..." He chuckled aloud. "...an' thought to m' self, well, if'n, Blakeney, you ain't the stupidest husband to leave a hot-blooded Frenchwoman alone at home whilst you have all the adventure, you deserve to be called a demmed idiot!", oh, what a thing!...
Sir Percy Blakeney, bart, his wife scampering about on little feet for more for dancin' and strollin' then muddy cliffs and crags!... but also the bravest woman that ever did dupe an evil doer's plans." And with that he laughed, long and loudly, truly, the sound rolling pleasantly in the air like the waves outside the little cabin.
In all just scarce of agony of joy and concern, the turmoil of mind and soul, all for husband and a brother - those two she love better then her own soul -Marguerite had quit forgotten the pain she felt herself. How good it was to hear that laugh! that very real sound, not the stupid one meant for the benefit of card tables and ballrooms.
And she tottered on those poor little feet she had manage to conceal from the watchful eyes of that brother beneath tatters of skirt and her husband caught her before Marguerite sank to the planked boards of the lower deck in either fatigue or overwhelming happiness of relief.
At last, he was safe! her husband! the hero of England! the despised spy of France! safe! saved from the fate so terribly set to him! And this was all that mattered to her...
"Margot, your feet!..." He chided.
The reproach, how gentle and how sweet, a pet name he'd used like some magic chant to draw her away and to foggy England - his England, his country, his home. He'd not called her that name since the morning in Paris, now four years ago. How it thrilled, how it tormented her, that he still loved after all she'd done, all that she, in stupid pride, had caused him suffer. But he'd already moved her off her feet again and set her down easily upon a chair.
"...Margot, dear heart, I must try and assertion how hurt thy little feet are ... might I have permission to remove these poor rags?" Calmly asked as it were, there 'twas something of those forgotten shy and bashful manners in it, as he avoided looking into her eyes. A blush alight her own cheeks when she realized the request.
"...yes, Percy, go on ... I put their state into your very capable hands. La! but was I not the stupidest woman alive not to wear proper footgear?..." She chuckled, babbling on in her own passionate and dramatic way as he, with gentleness, near reverence, pulled from the toes those tiny stockings stained and torn with hours of walking. It unsheathed the calves of her shapely little legs, scratches from brambles and stones scattered across fair white skin.
Percy said nothing, did not chide her again, did not voice a word but a frown appeared between straight brows, after efficient, careful pursuant of every inch of her legs and feet.
"Stay here--
(Paste)
Dipped them in brandy, washed them again in sea water, for the fresh water aboard couldn't be spared and "'twas all the better for healin' the poor torn feet of mademoiselle", and then soundly wrapped with clean stripes of bandage procured from the stock abroad the mercy vessel. She'd not complained, not once, not when she's seen such whelps across his own shoulders.
How weak would it have seemed to shed petty tears over a few bruises and scraps when he'd born a world more of pain; though, he'd seemed altogether to have forget he himself was injured at all whilst engrossed wholly in gently and seriously tending her. Marguerite's grip upon the chairarm tightened a moment, enough the knuckles go white, her lip went deep red when biting it to control herself ... it did never go unnoticed by her attentive physician. And when at last he'd done, he
himself came to knees in front of those tiny little feet, so poorly torn.
"Do they cause you pain, mon petite fleur?" was the endearment passed over Percy Blakeney's lips and she lay in the chair, tired bright eyes watching him so closely. It had been accustomed language of their courtship - days neither had forgotten but neither would let a thought dwell on for the grief of memory - and she looked at him, fully, as if the very sound of his voice pained and pleased in one consonant emotion.
"...Non, (for I am too happy)..." She whispered, at long last, in her native tongue, so sweet and deep and low.
He stilled, was silent, still holding those tiny feet and ankles in front of him. It was like some spell had lifted, or a certain drawn open, the light of her love shone on him so fully. He'd not allowed himself to truly believe it, even in those tender moments carrying her to safety and the Day Dream awaiting in the little known harbor.
All the months, endless nights, alone, either in infected, blood seething Paris or at quiet Richmond - his own house - played out a momentous scene before his mind. It mattered not if the man were at one place or the other, if she be parted from him by the breadth of the sea or the breadth of a whole house, that love still called him back.
Aye, he adored, with the last drop of life's blood, without thought to the horrors she'd committed, no remembrance of the cruelties waged, the supercilious jests that made him recipient to all the hatred she so distinguishably felt. All, well deserved, for it had been he who cowardly, carefully ignored that matter of the St Cyr's death.
Peradventure it had been all in that stubborn pride he'd not allowed end of. Never had the man betrayed all the horror he felt, all the bitter grief soul decried; all, when, if had but asked, she would have -oh, he was so sure now!- related the whole truth, placed in him that confidence which blinded pride had made silent upon the very tip of her tongue, the trust denied him. But all those foolish, petulant arguments, were laid to rest. There would never be reason to dwell in that past now estranged from this glorious present. And she was gazing at him, lustrous eyes studying him, a little smile turning up those sweet, rich lips. And it made something within him yearn with such wistfulness for rest. To simply sigh and allow himself wholly to succumb in that essence of her - his wife.
Her cheek was a trifle bruised, where that man had dared lift her hand to it. He felt every fiber of his being tense painfully with thought of that as he let his finger tips brush across the skin there.
"Percy..." She breathed.
Hesitant, yes. He was hesitant to allow the woman full rein of his heart and love when she'd brutally plunged it into wanton sorrows before.
Woman, if'n you ain't the most interrogating thing to ever come 'board this vessel
"...Margot, my little woman ... How can so brutish a man have such? ... Ah, I search for words each time and each time all I can think is you're name ... you're sweet name ... Say mine again, dear heart, or I shan't believe these eyes ... I've dreamed so long a time, that you were here-"
"...Percy!... Oh, how I am ashamed!..." And the tears no longer would be contained from her glowing eyes, and she took his hand in an agony of grief to her lips, showering wet kisses across his knuckles and fingers and palm.
"I have been a fool."
"No, no, my brave, good husband, no. Do not say it. It is I, it has never been anyone save myself, no. It has been I - from the beginning - only I who was so foolish - oh, God forgive me, and you, Percy, oh, and you must, forgive me, forgive me..."
A broken, chocked, soft cry shuddered the little women before him, and she dropped his hand, to hide her tears and her face, half turned from him in all the misery of terrible overwrought feelings she'd forgotten for the past days ... to save him.
"I have told you, my Margot, there is naught to forgive," a stern but never harshness creeping in his surpressed, quiet words, "Had I not said so to you, on those demmed cliffs?... no, no, do not speak of it again, ever ...it has already became past to my mind. Or does the lady need more then word to assure her?..."
"No! oh, no! Percy, I will believe every word! ... It is only- ... I am ashamed for it, so terribly ..."
"And should I not feel such shame?" He nearly spat the words with passionate bitterness but in an instant that rage had relaxed again. "...it was I, my own sweet one, who left you to the evils in Paris. I returned only because you begged it of me, like a cruel monster ignoring... Oh, how I repented when I realized the danger you were in. I had no right, none! to leave you, and so soon! I grieved, mon heart, grieved every day and night, could not rest, nor sleep, nor eat - my life was tormented with thought of you- my love... Margot, my love has been true. You understand this?"
His eagerness nearly had brought him to his feet, he half rose leaning into her lap forcing her eyes to his, clutching her hands, wanting her to understand what so desperately shone with fiery, heated passion in those lazy blue eyes.
"Percy..." she sniffed, the tears now abated to faint traces and shining glimmer in her eyes. "Mon Percy..." Very sweetly. And she kissed his lips and forehead and the top of the blonde hair.
A relief seemed to overcome him with her simple caresses. Very slowly, he sank half upon the floor of the cabin as if all strength had left him, and his head pillowed against upon her skirts.
This man, who lay at her feet so close and dearly, was not the same whom had compelled her to matrimony. No, this man had flung his life into resolve and unpliant movement for honor and dignity: the bored, menial, jovial young English mi'lor who'd wooed her in Paris, somehow drawing the young actress away from a life she'd felt would be her own till she perished, no longer did exist. Here, half asleep in her arms, lay the audacious man who a revolutionary nation clambered for, vowed to devour and destroy. That that precious head, lying upon the skirts of her soiled, torn gown, the fashionable apparel of "the most beautiful woman in Europe", should be wanted, lusted after, the neck severed from that mind, plotter of such skillful, daring escapades ... but how could that ever be? Fate adored the crazed adventurer as sport against her, too much to banish him to death's grip or guillotine's bloody kiss, and ... He adored her.
Thus came with these thoughts a gush of all that new-found passionate admiration - admiration that had ever been - and the affection for this brave man flowed suddenly upon Marguerite's innermost aching soul. Trembling finger tips laid atop the faint gold threaded hair and he gave a start, tensed, rigidly, at the contact.
"... Forgive me, la, CI vuie play!-"
"Marguerite-..." and Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, in a fit of what could be very easily called utter madness met his wife's soft, trembling lips with a kiss.
It was not of passion, nor of fire, as the day whence they'd wed, dancing into Paris as if none could still their feet. No, it was safety, precious safety, and peace, and a warmth, a steadiness. To assure her of all that would not be spoken for his heart could not utter it without it being more sacrilege then truth.
There were a string, a tie that bound them together far more then both admitted. If one plucked at it, the other's heart would hear and answer. Their perennial vows bade sweet domestic felicity that had been so cruelly not their own, for months upon months, years, so much more worth regaining. She, was his wife, and he, her husband, and both minds wandered, with a vague hesitation that, mayhap, the other did not wish to bend in this rule they had set as a wall betwixt them. They did not even occupy the same wing of the house at Richmond, shared little of each other's lives. And how could they have? How could he have trusted the woman who outwardly berated and despised him? Percy had not kissed her in so long ... oh, she had never forgotten the fleeting, cold greeting he gave her when they arrived upon the steps of Blakeney manor... And those before it, warmth and life and such love, in the reassurance of tenderest devotion, had not been forgotten.
A thought came crowding into Marguerite's mind that this man might never again be the Percy Blakeney she knew before in Paris, for those brief days of heavenly joy on earth. Would she ever be allowed to share the struggles, the deepest cherished thoughts and feelings of this man? Ever be allowed to know his needs, to fulfill them if aught she might, to undo what terrible deeds had be fraught from the very day of their marriage? The commutation of their matrimony had been of one night and one only, since that day the Marquis perished upon the guillotine, and that enough to remind Marguerite of all she thought she knew of a her husband. He'd been so hesitant whilst through his winning and wooing if her he'd lead and guided. And she had been so naive and knew not what love was until he'd sweetly taken her into quiet silence and showed her more tenderly what even Armand's irrevocable love could not, what she did mean, that he had no need other then she might return that love his heart had been heavenly granted.
Ever be allowed to know his needs, to fulfill them if aught she might, to undo what terrible deeds had be fraught from the very day of their marriage? The commutation of their matrimony had been of one night and one only, since that day the Marquis perished upon the guillotine, and that enough to remind Marguerite of all she thought she knew of a her husband. He'd been so hesitant whilst through his winning and wooing if her he'd lead and guided. And she had been so naive and knew not what love was until he'd sweetly taken her into quiet silence and showed her more tenderly what even Armand's irrevocable love could not, what she did mean, that he had no need other then she might return that love his heart had been heavenly granted.
"... m' dear, I think," when simply sighing and sinking his head back to her lap, "That, little woman ... if it's selfish, aye, or foolish ... that I be the most lucky, pleasant-fated man 'pon God's earth, if I should live out my days here at your feet..."
With this he laughed again, one of his mirthful laughs which when uttered roused Marguerite's heart to stutter within her softly heaving bosom, and her husbands lips heaved a heavy, long sigh and leaned more deeply into her shirts that surrounded his form. Those slender hands and fingers caught the edge of her gown and, in succumbed passions, he raised it to his lips whilst wearied head settled against her knee. In that moment, Marguerite's heaven was brighter, more luminous, more paradise then earth. She cared not that either of them had slept for hours upon hours, that she was quite famished in hunger and rather dirty, but when he let his tired hand fell from the worship of that tattered gown's hem, when he would not release it, when the head fell into her lap ... ah, but the little woman's heart fairly would break with content.
A monotonous rolling, rushing then settling of the waves, the song of the sea, became as sweet lullaby to the weary aching hearts whose life's early tempest had finally subsided to a calm, though, t'would be fleeting. Fate, ah, she laughed them to scorn already, but in those moments, heavenly in themselves, will had defeated her cruel purposes.
A monotonous rolling, rushing then settling of the waves, the song of the sea, became as sweet lullaby to the weary aching hearts whose life's early tempest had finally subsided to a calm, though, t'would be fleeting. Fate, ah, she laughed them to scorn already, but in those moments, heavenly in themselves, will had defeated her cruel purposes.
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