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“Tell me something that only I will ever know, was perhaps what she wanted to ask him, or, What will you remember me by? - or even, Nothing of the least importance has ever belonged to me; can you help?”
— Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House.
There was not much to say as the coach rattled along the road, jolting harshly as it rolled over larger rocks in its path. Marguerite glanced out her window, her hand pressed against her cheek. The Dover coastline was miles away by now, having been swallowed by the horizon hours ago. All she could see now were rows of trees, and a faint sliver of sunlight filtering through the cracks.No one in the coach dared to speak; Sir Percy had taken to examining his nails, before he suddenly dozed off. Chauvelin slouched slightly in his seat, tapping his foot quietly on the carriage floor. Marguerite was, by all means, painfully bored. The trip to the Fisherman’s Rest had been a disaster, and had it not been for the sudden appearance of her old friend, she thought she would have died from loneliness. The revolution in France was only growing more volatile, and with Armand sailing across the channel that very moment, Marguerite’s heart couldn’t help but ache for her brother’s uncertain fate, having become lost in the sea of her thoughts and anxieties.It was only when Chauvelin spoke that Marguerite was pulled back to reality, having finally broken the miasma of silence over the coach.“So, Citoyenne St. Just of France, now Lady Blakeney of England,” he began. “Tell me, how have you fared since we last spoke?”She blinked, straightening herself before turning to him. There was a softness to his hard, feline-like face, though he didn’t quite smile. Marguerite drew in a breath, a sudden feeling of ease overcoming her. “Well,” a lie, but she said nothing of that. “Though, London can hardly compare with the beauty of Paris… or what it once was.”“Of course,” mused Chauvelin, keeping his gaze fixed on her. “I can only presume it must be terribly dull. Though, it was your choice, after all, to leave your home behind, wasn’t it?”Marguerite’s lips twisted into a line, and she looked away, picking at her nails. “Things have gotten out of hand, I couldn’t stay. I thought you would understand that.”“Revolutions are never bloodless, citoyenne. You know that, better than anyone else,” his voice was cold, a tinge of bitterness seeping into his tone. “Besides, I never expected you to make such a hasty departure.”“The plans for the wedding were already set by then. I didn’t— I never thought that—”Something curdled in her stomach, more akin to guilt than hunger. Marguerite shut her eyes, trying to recenter. Perhaps a bit of animosity was only natural, given the sour note they left on in Paris. Chauvelin had always despised Sir Percy, ever since they had met outside the Comédie-Française that fateful spring night. He was a no good aristo-scum, Chauvelin always said, who would use her before he discarded her. It was only natural that he would object to their marriage, though she never thought that it would anger him so deeply. She could still remember that day, even now; the dark clouds over Paris, the two of them on the hill, the coldness in his eyes, and the pouring rain that hid the tears streaming down her face.After a moment, Marguerite sighed, shaking her head. “Nevermind that. We should arrive soon, I’m sure of it. You must be terribly fatigued. The journey was not too… trying, was it?”“Quite the contrary, citoyenne,” assured Chauvelin, “though, if it does not trouble you, perhaps her ladyship would give me a tour of the estate?”“Yes, of course, it would be an honor,” she replied, her gaze flickering to the window once more. A beat or two of silence passed before either of them spoke again, the manor coming into view as the coach passed the threshold of the woods.“... I missed you, my little Chauvelin.”For the first time since his arrival in England, Marguerite could see Chauvelin’s lips curving into a small, genuine smile. Blakeney Manor stood silently in the countryside of Richmond, the grounds surrounded by thick woods and other foliage. It had been the home of the Blakeney family for centuries prior, and would remain as such for centuries to come. By now, nature had already come to begin its reclamation, ivy and wisteria scaling up the old brick walls, seeping into the cracks.They had made their way to the garden now, having finished wandering through the halls of the manor. Tranquility blanketed the outside air, and Marguerite let out a heavy sigh, as if something heavy had been lifted off her shoulders. There had always been a certain tautness to the manor, as if the air grew thinner within its walls. She never liked staying inside for long, lest she hear the sound of her husband’s inane, foppish laugh reverberating from afar, instead preferring the company of perfectly-trimmed hedges and rose bushes. The garden was large and vast enough that she could easily slip away, hiding away in a secluded corner, allowing herself to dream freely once more.She allowed her shoulders to slouch as Chauvelin walked beside her, the tall hedges of the labyrinth closing in around them. They winded through different paths, passing sculptures and busts worn away by age. Neither of them could tell how much time had passed since they arrived in Richmond, and the memories from Paris arose in Marguerite once more; before the revolution, when he was her brother, and she, his sister, and everything felt right.Somehow, she must have let her composure falter completely, for Chauvelin cleared his throat, his footsteps coming to a sudden halt.“Something ails you, citoyenne,” he noted, lacing his hands behind his back. “Is something the matter?”Marguerite halted, digging her heels into the ground. She hesitated a moment, swallowing hard before turning to him, smiling a weak smile.“Je m’ennui, mon ami,” she replied simply. “That is all.”“You surprise me, citoyenne,” Chauvelin mirrored her tone, narrowing his eyes. He was privy enough to her nature to catch what was left unsaid, though he said nothing of it. “To believe that the cleverest woman in Europe is plagued by ennui.”Marguerite’s smile threatened to falter, a wistful glint in her eyes. She averted her gaze, clasping her hands in front of her and picking at her nails.“It cannot be helped, I suppose,” she said with a sigh. “Perhaps you were right, after all, that the land of fog and virtue did not suit Marguerite St. Just.”“Pardieu! Is it truly as bad as that?”Marguerite was silent, pondering the query. She hadn’t thought much of it, in truth, despite the copious amount of time she spent on her lonesome. Resignation was the cause, rather than acceptance, as if it was the will of fate that had whisked her away rather than a golden-haired Englishman.In the end, she shrugged. “In a way. I find that I have little friends nowadays. Perhaps it is no wonder, then, that I was so pleased to see you.”“Surely, that cannot be true,” he protested. “You are adored by all of London, so I’m told.” “Is that so? Well, they certainly don’t show it,” a tinge of bitterness crept into her voice. “They admire who they believe Lady Blakeney to be. In all other circumstances, I am practically treated like a pariah.”“Ah, but what of Sir Percy?” asked Chauvelin with mock consternation. “He was over the moon for you in Paris. So full of love, I thought he would die of it! Surely, you are not as lonely as you say.”In an instant, her smile slipped entirely. Her throat tightened, and she began to pick at her nails with more ferocity, almost absentmindedly. Marguerite turned away, releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “It doesn’t matter,” her voice quavered, a jarring chord in the sweet melody of her voice, “he’s away so often, and he hardly even looks at me. I can barely recognize him now.”“So, this marital bliss of yours… it hardly survived the lapse of a few weeks?”“Hardly even that. No more than a day, I think. It’s quite tragic, isn’t it?”Chauvelin did not reply, as if he had been stunned to silence. Neither of them knew how to ease the other, the both of them tense beyond belief. Only a year ago, it came to them almost instinctively, as they sat atop the roof of the tiny flat in the Rue de Richelieu, the stars twinkling above as they watched the streets below.Things had changed, that they both knew for certain; the revolution had been born from the promise of a new, brighter tomorrow. It had been just an idea once, conceived from the minds of philosophers, poets, and the romantics and idealists who dared to dream. No one could have fathomed that terror and carnage would soon become the order of the day, sweeping through the very people it once swore to protect. Paris had become a bloodbath, not a day going by without someone standing before the revolutionary tribunal.Marguerite couldn’t stay. She couldn’t bear to withstand the stench of blood and death any longer, nor to compose herself as bile crawled up her throat and her face paled. She had been fortunate, in that case, that Sir Percy had fallen in love with her rather than some noble lady or countess. It was as if their romance had been plucked right from a fairytale, where the prince had come and rescued the poor maiden from her tower, carrying her away to his kingdom.Of course, it had pained her to leave, despite its necessity. Perhaps that was something that Chauvelin could never understand; he, who still burned with revolutionary fervor, who had leagued with the likes of Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. Marguerite could not fathom how the dark-haired, stone faced agent who stood before her now was the same hopeful man from Paris. She wanted nothing but to will away the distance between them, but something—propriety? Indecision?—had stopped her. Perhaps it was due to the dreadful English weather, rather than the partition between them, which neither of them dared to cross.After a moment, he stepped closer. “... Do you know what caused this sudden shift, citoyenne? I find it quite… odd, to say the least, that his attitude could have changed so suddenly in such a short amount of time.”She pursed her lips, not turning to him still. “I told him what became of the Marquis de St. Cyr.”“St. Cyr,” repeated Chauvelin, pondering for a moment. “... what did you say of the matter?”“I seemingly only confirmed what he had already thought,” replied Marguerite, a tinge of bitterness creeping into her voice. “It seems that he had already heard of what I had done from other sources.”“You performed your duty, citoyenne. There is no crime in that,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “Perhaps he has no heart to speak of, if he is willing to blame you so easily.”“I did not want the Marquis to die,” she said suddenly, shutting her eyes as though she were overcome with shame. “You know I never wished that for the man or his family. Perhaps, I do not blame him then, for hating me. Their blood will stain my hands for as long as I live.”“Did you forget what the man had done to your brother?” he retorted coldly. “How badly Armand had been thrashed, all for the petty crime of falling in love with a Marquis’ daughter? What could have happened, had he been successful in corresponding with Austrian officials? You did the right thing, citoyenne. It was the tribunal’s verdict that he was sent to the guillotine.” Marguerite shook her head. “What does it matter now, if I had done the right thing or not? My husband despises me, I can never go back, and now I feel so—”“You can,” interrupted Chauvelin, the coldness in his voice having vanished. “You can still come home. I could book a passage for you, if you asked. I could make all of the arrangements for you. You could go back to the flat with Armand, or settle in the countryside if that is what you preferred. Somewhere in Normandy. You do not have to return to Paris if you do not wish to.”She glanced down at that, almost hesitant in manner as her gaze found his. The coldness in his face had dissipated entirely, and there was an imploring glint in his eyes, as if he could bridge over the sudden rift between them with that one look, splitting them on opposite sides of the chasm.Tears threatened to well in her eyes, and without thinking, Marguerite stepped back. “I can’t.”“You can.”“I can’t, Chauvelin. Please, don’t ask that of me.”“Why must you stay here, where you are unhappy?” there was an unfamiliar note in his voice, one that almost seemed desperate. “You can live a better life back home. You can be with Armand and I again. It will be as if nothing has changed.”“You know that is not what will happen,” said Marguerite plaintively. “Not after everything. You know why I cannot go.”It was a quiet, pained admission, one that meant both everything and nothing. Guilt curdled in her stomach once again, her lip trembling as she let out quick, hurried breaths. For a moment, Chauvelin looked stunned, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, before he nodded, his face hardening once more.“If that is your verdict, citoyenne,” he said. “Then I shall not object.”Marguerite’s throat felt dry and her palms felt clammy as she stood, frozen to the spot. She wanted to set things right, to mend the bond that was now torn by conflict and bloodshed, and yet, here they stood once more, the same scowl on his face as the one on the day she told him of her marriage and departure.A beat of silence passed before she dared to speak again, digging her nails into her palms and beating down the urge to apologize. “... How long did you say you were staying in England, again?”“No more than a week, by Committee orders,” he replied. “The situation is quite urgent, I’m afraid.”She nodded at that, not daring to say another word as they continued navigating through the labyrinth. The sitting rooms on the ground floor of the manor were always favorites of Sir Percy’s, always well-kempt and decorated to the brim. It was only natural that he’d choose one of them to entertain their newfound guest while the servants prepared dinner, despite Chauvelin’s perceived disdain for the ostentatiously carved furniture and golden accents.Marguerite sat back in her chair, letting the cushion dig into her back. There was a small cup in her hands, filled to the brim with her favorite tea. Her armchair was tilted towards the fireplace, squished between the sofa and the chaise. It entertained her a great deal, in truth, to listen to Sir Percy’s jabbering, if only to reply with some sly, clever remark in return. He was resting his arm on the mantel, leaning as he twirled his quizzing glass between his fingers.“Why, m’dear fellow, you simply perplex me!” said Sir Percy with that typical, lazy drawl. “What do you mean you have never played a game of Hazard? I daresay you have not truly experienced the joys of life, eh, wot?”Chauvelin, who sat rigidly on the sofa, kept his stare fixed on him, scowling coldly. He tapped his foot against the rug, tilting his head. “I’m afraid I simply have not had the opportunity to familiarize myself with ‘Hazard,’” he said pointedly, trying to hold back his bite. “There are many other joys in life after all, Sir Percy, than a mere party game.”“Ah, but how can you be certain of that when you have not even tried to play?” Sir Percy tapped the quizzing glass against his chin, narrowing his eyes. “Why, just this week, I played a game against the Prince of Wales. Demmed good fellow he is, played a very solid game, but there was a critical flaw in his strategy. The poor fellow relied too much on chance, you see? Once I had deduced that, it was quite easy to nick him a few times and secure my victory. We all had a good laugh about it after, of course. ‘Twas the most exciting game I’ve played in years! I’d give up fox hunting in the winter if every game of Hazard was like that night’s.”“How wonderful,” said Chauvelin through gritted teeth, a hint of sardonicism seeping into his tone. Marguerite’s eyes darted to him then, giving him a firm look, as if to say: ‘Don’t.’ If Sir Percy noticed the derisive scowl on Chauvelin’s face, then he certainly didn’t make it known, for he soon straightened, beaming with a wide, lazy grin.“So,” he began. “You are coming from France?”“That is correct,” replied Chauvelin. “By order of the Committee.”“By order of the Committee!” Sir Percy sounded astonished, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. “Egad, that does sound quite serious.”Chauvelin raised an eyebrow. “Serious, Sir Percy?”“Well, because of the dastardly state of your new republic,” he replied simply. “Forgive me, m’dear fellow, I do not mean to offend, but surely you can recognize the harm in this wanton bloodshed.”“Sometimes we must go to certain lengths in order to secure a successful future, Sir Percy,” Chauvelin crossed his legs, paying no mind to his posture as he began to slouch. “That is not something you would understand well, I presume.”“On the contrary,” Sir Percy lifted the quizzing glass, twirling it to make a point of emphasis. “You do not know how much time is spent trying to perfect this cravat around my neck! It likes to stick out, the demmed thing, always have to end up tucking it back in. Certainly wouldn’t want to mistake it for a jabot. Why, just last week, I told my tailor that my suit looked quite tragic with the flimsy cravat. Sink me, it looked absolutely dreadful. ‘Twould make me the laughing stock of London, eh, wot?”Marguerite grimaced at the exchange, though she said nothing of it. Instead, she took a small sip from her cup, straightening herself in full attention. It was better, after all, to stay silent and not cause a scene—though she was always far too volatile and never had a good grip on her composure. Chauvelin’s patience, on the other hand, was beginning to wear thin, and his scowl deepened as Sir Percy’s grin became smug.“The situations are hardly comparable, given the circumstances,” he remarked. “There is a dire problem in the dreadful republic you speak of with such disdain as of recent.”“Ah, yes! That one fellow who is becoming the buzz of Europe,” replied Sir Percy. “What’s his name? The Scarlet, er… Pumpernickel? ”“Pimpernel.”“Yes, yes! The Scarlet Pimpernel. A demmed catchy name if I do say so myself,” he laughed then—that loud, inane titter that grated both Marguerite and Chauvelin’s nerves. “You must think it a shame that the fellow hasn’t been caught yet. I have heard that all of Paris would like to send him to Madame la Guillotine and present his head on a silver platter.”“His meddling in the revolution is causing more harm than good,” Chauvelin’s stare was ice-cold. “He does not seem to realize it, though most of his kind often don’t. They’re often far too concerned with their own vanity.”Sir Percy blinked. To the unassuming eye, his shock wasn’t much of note, but Marguerite—who had become privy to her husband’s outward manner—was quick to notice the subtleties that gave away his now gravely wounded pride. “Vanity, you say?” he began, tittering awkwardly. “Yes, of course you would think that. Well, m’dear fellow, I can say for certain that you certainly do not know the first thing about—”“Percy,” she interjected then, making a point to raise her voice slightly. When his eyes met hers, her stare was not cold, though it wasn’t quite warm either. Sir Percy’s gaze flickered between the two of them, before he settled back on her, clearing his throat as he twirled the quizzing glass between his fingers.“Terribly sorry, m’dear,” was all he said in reply, as nonchalant of a response that one could get out of Sir Percy Blakeney, bart. Silence fell upon them, none of them daring to remedy the now awkward environment. After a moment, Sir Percy cleared his throat. “So,” he drawled. “I presume you and Monsieur Chauvelin are already well acquainted?”“He is an old friend of mine,” she said with forced gaiety. “I am almost certain that the two of you have met before. Oh, don’t tell me you have forgotten, Sir Percy! I do not wish to seem like a liar.”“Have we, indeed?” Sir Percy turned to him, bringing his quizzing glass to his eyes as he narrowed them, before a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, so we have! Yes, I remember now. You were the tiny dark-haired fellow, weren’t you? Always thought you were a little austere, I must say.”“So you haven’t forgotten, then,” it was Chauvelin’s turn to be astonished, his lips twitching with amusement. “I suppose you are not as witless as I thought you to be, Sir Percy.”“Well, you were not an easily forgettable figure during my time in Paris, m’dear fellow. You made quite the habit of loitering by Mademoiselle St. Just’s dressing room.”“As did you, Sir Percy. You certainly didn’t seem to mind if anyone noticed, either.”Apprehension gripped her then, like a cold chill that crawled up her spine and settled into the marrow of her bones. It was a disaster in the making, with all the right components: Chauvelin’s waning temper, the bite in his tone, Sir Percy’s flippantness and willful ignorance to his guest’s growing anger. Marguerite gripped her cup tightly, her fingers pressed hard against the delicate porcelain as indecision rooted her to the spot.They had never been on the best of terms, but Sir Percy and Chauvelin had been cordial in Paris, if not begrudging acquaintances for her sake. Now, with Chauvelin knowing Sir Percy’s part in their sudden estrangement, there was an undercurrent of belligerence that hadn’t been present before, the two of them baring their fangs like savage wolves.Sir Percy’s composure nearly slipped, his voice growing more agitated. “It was none of their concern, and it certainly is not the business of a failed suitor.”There it was: her worst fears, having come to fruition. It was one thing for gawkers in Paris to say, for it was easy for Marguerite to dismiss it as just preposterous rumors and jeers, but for her husband to believe such a thing? It stunned her. Her eyes were wide, torn between feeling insulted or amused.Chauvelin, on the other hand, was calm—unsettlingly so. A storm of anger bubbled beneath his stony exterior, causing goosebumps to show on his skin. “I beg your pardon?”“You heard me right,” Sir Percy dropped his typical drawling tone, his face grave. “You seemed remarkably interested in her, perhaps a little too interested. It seemed to upset you greatly, when you discovered we were to be wed.”Marguerite knit her brows, her lips pursing into a line. Now they were teetering a line that shouldn’t be crossed. “Percy, stop—”“No, no, m’dear. I believe we should let Monsieur Chauvelin speak for himself,” he held up a hand to her, opening his palm as he kept his gaze fixed on Chauvelin. “Perhaps we should ask him why he felt entitled to keep you to himself.”Chauvelin’s lip curled at that. “Why you— Do you truly believe that I wanted her?”“Can I believe otherwise? I would not have blamed you if you did,” replied Sir Percy frankly. “But must this continue to drag on? She is a married woman, after all. Terribly improper to pursue a gentleman’s wife.”“You delude yourself by believing such gossip, Sir Percy,” Chauvelin’s face flushed red.“Do I!” A tinge of exasperation crept into Sir Percy’s face. “You certainly are quick to come to conclusions, monsieur. That kind of a facet never does one well when they are trying to earn someone’s good graces.”“I believe I sit better in Lady Blakeney’s estimations at present than you do, Sir Percy.”“And on what authority do you make that assumption, monsieur?”“By her own word,” Chauvelin’s reply was terse and blunt, and the anxiety in Marguerite’s veins only heightened at that. She sank in her chair, like a child who feared being reprimanded for speaking out of line.Sir Percy stared, incredulous and bemused. “... Her own word?” he repeated slowly. “What did she say to you, precisely?”“That, I cannot say myself,” said Chauvelin firmly. “Perhaps you ought to ask Lady Blakeney herself.”“Ah! So now you won’t even tell me,” Sir Percy couldn’t help but laugh. “How typical of you French! Tell me, m’dear sir, how could you expect me to believe you when you refuse to give any credibility to your claims?”Tentatively, Marguerite set her cup aside on a nearby end table, her hand shaking as she lifted it slightly. “Don’t—”Without paying any mind to her, Sir Percy continued. “Come now, do not look at me like that, m’dear fellow. I only mean well,” there was a pompousness in his voice that stirred something within her—something that she had tried to bottle up and bury away. “You are being unreasonable, that’s all.”“Unreasonable?” by now, Chauvelin was shaking with rage, his teeth bared and brows knit. “I am the unreasonable one, Sir Percy? I, and not you, who has refused to listen to a single word I have said! Perhaps if you actually put that brain of yours to use for once, then you would realize that—” “Stop!” she finally cut in, suddenly rising to her feet. The outburst was louder than she intended, though her tone did not care to soften as she continued. “Stop, both of you! Tell me, is there any reason for why the two of you should be acting like utter brainless fools?”The two of them blinked as they jerked their heads toward her, nonplussed, almost frightened. She should have stopped. Had she been more lucid, she would have taken a moment to calm herself, to consider her thoughts with more care and patience. Prudence, however, had never been Marguerite’s best virtue. She was far too angry, and her body ached from exhaustion from trying to beat it all down. To her ire, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill and fall down her cheeks.Sir Percy’s mouth opened to speak, and all of her anger towards Chauvelin suddenly dissipated. Her gaze hardened, darting to his place by the hearth.“How could you be so rude?” asked Marguerite furiously. “Do you truly have no care for your own guests, Sir Percy, that you suddenly feel the need to throw around these preposterous accusations so brazenly?”“I believe that this is a matter we should discuss in private, m’de—”“No. No, I believe you should listen to me now. How could you have such little regard for our guest, Sir Percy? Or is it only because it was I who wished to host Monsieur Chauvelin? I have never seen you act in such a way with Sir Andrew and Lord Tony. No, when it is just the three of you, it seems as though you have the time of your life. Nothing goes wrong, not when it’s for you. ”“Marguerite, please, can we—”“Tell me, Sir Percy, why do you hate me so? What have I done that would have earned your complete and utter disdain?”The room fell silent and the walls leaned in, listening with bated breath. Marguerite’s hands were balled into fists at her side, her breathing heavy, yet quick. She certainly would have continued her tirade, had it not been for the voice that called out:“Sir Percy? Dinner is ready.”Louise, one of the maids, stood in the doorway, her hands clasped in front as she peered into the room. Marguerite felt sheepish as she turned to her, a wave of shame washing over her. They stood, frozen in place for what felt like an eternity. She dropped her gaze to the floor, shutting her eyes as she dug her nails hard into her palm, causing her to wince.After a moment, Sir Percy cleared his throat.“Right,” he drawled, his lips twitching weakly into a smile. “On our way, then.”He was the first to file out, with Chauvelin following close behind, his shoulders hunched like a frightened cat. When it was only Marguerite who remained in the room, Louise stepped in, leaning towards her, fretting.“Lady Blakeney?”“I am alright, Louise,” she managed weakly. “Tell Sir Percy that I will join him in a few minutes. Please.”There was a part of her that felt guilty for being so dismissive, for not being able to come up with a better, more proper response. But Louise was never the type to pry, even if it was more warranted than not. So, the maid nodded, bowing reverently despite her worry.“Of course, my lady. As you wish.”Marguerite watched as Louise took her leave, disappearing from sight as she passed the threshold into the foyer. For a while, she remained grounded to the spot, until her legs began to ache from trying to keep her upright. She felt sick, her head reeling as if she had suddenly been thrown off-balance. Her palms felt clammy, her breathing was arrhythmic, her whole body trembled, and all Marguerite wanted was to flee and hide away where no one would ever find her.Eventually, the feeling of nausea dissipated, though the aching in her bones still remained. She drew in a deep breath, allowing herself to recenter before she smoothed out her skirts and made her way to the dining room. Dinner came and went, setting a typical monotonous routine into motion once again. Sir Percy, in an attempt to ease any lingering tension from the sitting room, took charge of the entertainment, engaging in absurd banter, telling long and drawn-out stories that didn’t seem to please the two others at the table—though this evening’s dinner hadn’t been anything she hadn’t endured before. Once night had truly settled in, they were quick to retreat to their rooms, not saying a word to each other as they shut their doors behind them. It was nights like these where Marguerite found herself particularly restless, having fixed her gaze on the dark ceiling of her bedchamber to try and calm the incessant tossing and turning.After seemingly hours—which, in actuality, was likely only a few minutes—she sat up, glancing mindlessly around the room. Even in the darkness, she could still see every detail clearly: the intricately carved wood of her bed frame, the tiny clock and all of her other trinkets that sat atop the fireplace, the ornate brush that sat on her vanity table, and the mirror leaning against the wall, the greens of her eyes and her dark curls distorted in the reflection.Marguerite’s eyes darted between each notable detail, her knees curling to her chest beneath the blanket. She should be happy here, with such a comfortable life and never having to worry if she would go hungry again, tucked away in the countryside, beautiful and untouched by the rot and death of Paris. Still, she couldn’t shake the tensity within her, as if her skin had been peeled away and she was exposed to the bone. This was a room that could not truly be hers, a life that could not truly belong to her. It was better suited for a lady or countess, not a child of the revolution, bereft of her golden dreams.She should go back to bed. She should sleep and allow the restlessness to dissipate, but instead, Marguerite swung her legs over the edge of the bed, drawing in a breath before she rose. Hastily tucking away any errant curls behind her ear, she draped a shawl around her shoulders, before pushing the door open and taking her leave.It had become a nightly ritual by now to wander the halls, passing through the endless winding corridors until she forgot which wing of the manor she was in. Her footfall echoed off the walls, despite how lightly she tried to tread, and the absence of the countless servants who tended to each room only made the manor’s vastness all the more evident. In some halls, Marguerite could see the wallpaper beginning to peel if she squinted, corner curling, dangling slightly.She could see the ivy clinging to the window, how rigidly the walls still stood despite the paint and wallpaper wearing away with age. Blakeney Manor was built to house generations, meant for the kind of lord who would sire five or more children, and whose sons would do the same. It was a home built of love, hardly fit for a small family unit, let alone just Sir Percy and his wife. Marguerite noticed how the manor held the darkness of night within it, as though it were so starved that it would devour anything in its grasp. Its heart was beating as she turned down another corridor, sitting, waiting, listening.She shut her eyes to recenter for a moment, before turning sharply on her heels, her footsteps urgent as she retreated back in the direction of her room. Sir Percy found her in the library a few hours later, browsing aimlessly through the shelves. Marguerite had made it a habit to retreat to the library at night, for her room felt too cold and remote to ever be comforting. At the presence of his footfall, she froze, as if something was pulling on her weight, grounding her to the spot. She did not turn to him—refused to—as he spoke.“Lady Blakeney.”
“Don’t.”
Her voice wavered, betraying her composure, much to her frustration. Marguerite straightened herself, drawing in a breath as the floor creaked. Sir Percy contemplated stepping closer, but soon refrained.“Your guest was being quite impertinent, m’dear,” he said.“And who was it that stirred said impertinence?” her voice was ice cold. “Frankly, you both acted like imbeciles.”“Marguerite, be reasonable,” he let the fop voice drop entirely, throwing his hands up exasperatedly. The use of her name in such an intimate setting was enough to startle her, though she still refused to look at him. “You cannot expect me to endure such unpleasant company on such short notice. Why, you never even told me we had a guest until we were leaving Dover! I had to make all of the arrangements at the last minute, and he doesn’t appear to take a liking to anything that I do!”“Have you ever bothered to listen, Sir Percy?” she retorted. “I told you that he would not enjoy anything grand. I told you not to make a fuss out of it, and you went ahead with your own plans anyway! Then, you throw around accusations so wantonly—”“It is not an unreasonable assumption,” he cut in. “Why, almost everyone thought that—”“So, you would rather take the gossip of strangers as the truth rather than asking the parties involved?”It was a jab that, had she intended it to be, was not well-masked. She swallowed hard and picked at her nails, only half-listening as she felt his stare burning into her.“You could ask yourself, Madame, instead of just assuming,” he sounded uncharacteristically sheepish. “Besides, your outburst was hardly appropriate. Terribly unsightly, y’know, especially in front of your guest.”Marguerite scoffed. “Then perhaps I ought to be whipped for my insolence.”“Oh, do not be so dramatic,” said Sir Percy exasperatedly, throwing his hands up again. There was a hint of unspoken desperation in his voice, though Marguerite did not pay much mind to it. “Must every disagreement we have go this way? Every time, you presume how noisome the conversation will be, before you allow your ire to get the best of you without bothering to let me say my piece. Everything must be a fight with you, which heaven knows I hardly understand.”“Well. I apologize then, if I am not the perfect bride you had wanted when you married me.”“You’re putting words in my mouth, little woman,” he said with a sudden vehemence. Marguerite wanted to turn to him then, to beg him to tell her everything he had been beating down for the past year. But she refrained—whether it was due to pride or guilt, she couldn’t say—bowing her head and squeezing her eyes shut.She gripped her shawl tightly, taking in the silence. In truth, Marguerite knew she had been needlessly cruel to him. They hardly had an amiable conversation since the beginning of their estrangement, and with Sir Percy’s constant absences, there had hardly been any time to remedy the growing distance between them. Perhaps she should have taken the initiative, to bridge the gap between them as if it were as simple as that.But Marguerite had never been fond of uncertainty. She had always preferred feeling safe and warm, like eggs nestled in a bird’s nest. The prospect of jeopardizing their marriage even further was too distressing to consider, and she dared not risk it. Heaven knew she had already ruined things enough as they were.In the end, it was Sir Percy who broke the silence, as it always was during nights like these. “... You and Monsieur Chauvelin, then,” he said, having the decency to sound sorry.“What of it?”“I suppose I never realized how fond you were of each other, that’s all.”She sighed at that. “We never loved each other that way,” she said simply. Marguerite allowed herself to be honest with him, in a way she hasn’t been since before their marriage. “It was never anything like that. I suppose I’ve never been able to find the right words to describe it. I loved him the way a sister would her brother. There were times when I trusted him more than even Armand, and now, with him in England, it’s the first time I don’t feel so—”“I wanted it to be perfect,” he cut in suddenly, now sounding guilty. It was only then that she turned to him, catching him hunched in on himself, trying to appear smaller. “I thought he would like it. I thought you would like it, Marguerite. But I was wrong about that, wasn’t I? Aren’t I always?”Marguerite stared blankly for a moment, incredulous. There was a part of her that felt slightly frustrated at the sudden interruption, but moreover, hope began to blossom in her chest. So rarely did Sir Percy allow the walls he had built up to fall, to allow her inside of his sanctum once more, but here he was now—standing before her, his heart on his sleeve. She wanted to run to him then, to take him in her arms and kiss him and forget about the heartache of the past year.She almost smiled, and perhaps she would have on another occasion, but the walls came back up as quickly as they had fallen, and Sir Percy was as cold and distant as the very house they stood in once more.“Well, there’s no use dwelling on it, is there?” he drawled, though it sounded much sadder. “Tis a miracle that the night was not a total disaster. Odd’s fish, I thought neither of you would even wish to stay in the house for the rest of the night.”All of the hope in her heart vanished then, and Marguerite turned away, digging her nails into her palm through the fabric of her shawl. In the silence, her gaze wandered, and it soon shifted upwards towards a portrait, depicting Sir Algernon Blakeney, his infant son, and his late ladywife. A plaintive glint stole into her eyes as she studied it, noting the glob of paint that obscured the top half of the late Lady Blakeney’s face.Sir Percy never liked to talk about his family, that was made painfully clear whenever the topic arose. It seemed like almost everyone in the country knew of his mother’s insanity, or of Sir Algernon’s constant voyages throughout mainland Europe, searching for a cure. Here, they seemed so happy, despite the paint that obscured the old Lady Blakeney’s face. She was almost shocked to see Sir Algernon adorning such a bright smile, having grown accustomed to the image of the stiff, uptight gentleman.Marguerite wondered if she was beautiful, if she was as upright and refined as she was expected to be. It seemed so easy for her—for any Lady Blakeney whose portraits hung throughout the manor—to mold themselves into the role, that Marguerite almost envied her. The old Lady Blakeney’s smile was so soft and guileless, bright like the sun, that Marguerite could picture her dazzling presence in ballrooms and saloons vividly, being graciously accepted with warm smiles in return. Would London society’s verdict have been different, had she not fallen to insanity? What legacy would the old Lady Blakeney have left behind? What mark would the new Lady Blakeney leave on the family name? When Marguerite’s own portrait hung on one of these walls, would the next Lady Blakeney think the same?Her thoughts were chased away, however, at the sound of sudden footfall. She was trembling like a leaf as Sir Percy wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close as he buried his face in the dark river of her hair.“Come back to bed with me, Marguerite,” he whispered it like a prayer. “Please.” Something curdled in her stomach, her breathing heavy as she tried to steady herself, feeling as if she were falling. Everything felt wrong— had to be wrong. Sir Percy could not be so willing to hold her in his arms, for he still despised her. She could not be his wife—could not be Lady Blakeney—for she stood for everything he abhorred. This could not be her life, for it was never truly hers, and they could not be standing here together, in this house built upon love and pride and bone that hated her so.Eventually, she nodded, against her better judgement. Though as soon as he planted a kiss on her knuckles and took his leave, Marguerite hurried out and down the hall, heading towards the grand staircase. When morning came, it was Chauvelin who found her, gingerly approaching where she sat on the stoop leading out to the garden. He sat beside her, sitting closer to the edge, as if his feet would dangle if he sat further back. The top of the sun was just beginning to emerge over the horizon, and Marguerite shot him a furtive glance, her hands laced in her lap.“It’s early,” she noted, her voice barely a whisper. Chauvelin did not reply, and at that, she turned away, the silence weighing heavy.“I couldn’t sleep,” he finally replied. “I was surprised to find that you were still awake.”“Well, I was never an easy sleeper,” said Marguerite with a small smile. “Though, I find that Richmond is far quieter than Paris. The city never slept, did it?”Chauvelin chuckled, not quite smiling. “No, it didn’t. Even in the dead of night, when the streets were supposed to be empty, there was always something ongoing. I suppose that only added to our restlessness, no?”“It couldn’t be helped, could it?” her tone was light, threatening to erupt into a burst of laughter as her smile grew. “It made our lives all the more exciting, only having to glance out our windows to catch a glimpse of some excitement.”“Indeed! Why, I thought I would see the king himself on some nightly stroll if I looked out for long enough.”A small giggle escaped her then, despite her poor attempt at stifling it. He glanced at her, an unfamiliar brightness in his eyes, one she had not seen since their days together in Paris. She let her shoulders slouch, hugging her knees and letting her hair fall into her face. Everything felt right again, like the way they once were. In a matter of minutes, however, they fell silent once again. Marguerite glanced down at her feet, trying to summon the unspoken words lodged in her throat. A year had gone by since they had last spoken, and she couldn’t grasp how much they had truly changed. Perhaps she longed to return to Paris in that sense; she missed the stability, the feeling of comfort and warmth. There was always a coldness to England, no matter how lovely it was; the strict rigidity of its customs, the droll wit of its people, the dull weather and climate. She could never call it home, not truly. Here, it felt like she was made of glass, her skin goosebumped with the feeling of constant, beating eyes looking right through her.“I did miss you,” she said after a moment, the silence weighing uncomfortably on her. “Truly, I did. I’m sorry that I never wrote to you, and I—”“Stop that, Marguerite,” he replied coldly, the use of her name causing her to blink in surprise. “You need not delude yourself with half-hearted apologies.”“But I do mean it,” Marguerite’s voice was firm and full of conviction. “I don’t blame you if you think me a liar. I know I have not been the most attentive of friends as of late, but do you truly believe that it was easy for me to part with you? That, once I arrived in England, I could just forget you?”“You left me,” Chauvelin snarled. “You left me behind. You left your home behind as if it never meant anything to you. How could you have done that, Marguerite? How could you have given up what we once had?”“I’m sorry,” she said weakly. To her, a small ‘sorry’ felt inadequate, but what else could she say? “I never meant to hurt you that way. You don’t know how difficult it was for me to—”“Why?” he repeated, his voice more plaintive now. “Why did you leave, Marguerite?”She drew in a breath, shutting her eyes. “I don’t know,” was her reply as she swallowed hard. She wanted to say so much more, but she wasn’t sure how. Silence reigned once more, and it was as if the dam that had kept everything in suddenly burst as she continued. “I thought it would be better for me. That I would feel better after everything. I wanted something more than Paris, more than the tiny flat in the Rue de Richelieu. You know how scarce food was—how scarce it still is—and I was frightened that neither you or Armand would be able to earn enough to allow us to keep the flat. You were always so good to Armand and I, and I felt so helpless for not knowing how to repay you. Maybe I was a fool to hope, but soon he came along and everything felt… easy.”He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Easy?”“Easy,” she said with a nod, a little ashamed. “I had never felt that way with anyone but him. I thought it was love then, and perhaps it was, but everything seemed to fit into place, as if Fate had always intended it that way. I thought I had the key to my escape. Sir Percy was my lifeline, and I clung to him so tightly that I blinded myself to his nature. All I wanted was another life, a chance to begin anew, and he… he would have given all of that to me and more.”Chauvelin’s silence urged her on, trying to coax her into saying more. In the end, all of the words failed her, and she remained silent, her mouth agape despite it. Everything felt lighter, as though whatever had been pressing down on her chest was suddenly lifted. It wasn’t the half-hearted, spiteful confession she had told Armand in Dover, when her heart ached too terribly about his sudden departure to think of anything else. This time, it felt real, devoid of her typical cynicism, like it had been poured out from the depths of her heart.She learned long ago that the world was not kind. It would never be sweet for a girl of her station, born amongst the dregs of the people, but life in the convent had made it easy to foster a habit of daydreaming, tucked away and sheltered from the rest of the world. Even now, she could still hear the Mother Superior’s voice ringing in her ears, scolding her for drifting off during communion. Now, she couldn’t help but feel trapped. Life could never be that simple again, despite how desperately she wished it could be. She had chalked her whole life up to luck, from her girlhood in the convent to her success at the theatre. Now, however, Marguerite thought she was cursed, trapped in an unhappy marriage, in a foreign land without friends or family.The sun was higher over the horizon now, the sky tinted a mélange of orange and violet, and Marguerite had become so absorbed in thought that she didn’t notice Chauvelin shift in his seat.“You are so unhappy here, Marguerite,” he finally said. “Why would you stay, after everything you have told me?”“You know why,” she said, pained. “Paris is a bloodbath. Everyone is in danger of meeting Madame la Guillotine. The streets reek of blood, Chauvelin.”She expected him to retort as he had yesterday afternoon; revolutions were never bloodless, and the end justified the means. Instead, he sighed, pondering a moment as he wrung his hands.“I was hopeful that you would be happy in England,” he said, much to her surprise. “I always knew how restless you were, even as a girl. I thought it would do you some good, but I feared I would find you this way as well.”“Perhaps I would be happy here, if I had led another life,” she replied without thinking, with a slight shrug of her shoulders for emphasis.At that, Chauvelin offered her a sympathetic smile. “What kind of life would you lead, had you been given the choice?”Marguerite blinked, before she turned away to ponder. She hadn’t considered it before—not since her girlhood, at the very least. Words were never a strong suit of hers, not without having prepared them beforehand, and her dreams always proved to be difficult to articulate, never knowing where to find the balance between the fantastical and pragmatic. A beat or two passed before she drew in a breath.“One that’s quiet. One that’s bright, fulfilling, and… simple,” she said softly, wistful in tone. With his assurance and familiar presence, it had become so easy for her to become lost in her reverie. “Perhaps I’d like to settle down in a cottage covered in ivy, just like your old one in Rennes. I’d want it tucked away somewhere, so that no one could ever find me. I would want to plant roses in the front, I think, just like the ones in the garden. Or perhaps I’d prefer lilies or oleanders. If I could stay there for the rest of my life, not having to worry about anything else, perhaps I would finally be content.”It was a pretty picture in her mind’s eye, one that was far too lovely to ever come true. She felt slightly foolish, but she was quick to beat it down, allowing herself to become absorbed in her reverie. Marguerite reached over to take one of Chauvelin’s hands, squeezing it tightly as she smiled softly. Even if she had not expected his sudden arrival, it became difficult to picture the Dover coastline and the manor without his familiar presence. It felt as if the world had come to life again, a rush of color flooding her vision. Home, she thought fondly. At last, I have come home. After a moment, Chauvelin pulled away. “Will you do me a favor, Marguerite?” he asked, allowing his tone to soften. When she nodded, he continued. “Will you come and speak with me sometime today? There is something I must ask you.”Marguerite tilted her head, nonplussed. “What for?”“It’s urgent business, I’m afraid,” he said with a nonchalance that perplexed her. “It would be far too complicated to explain now, but I shall be in the garden near the roses. I’m sure it won’t trouble you much to find me.”She hesitated, her face falling as he rose, brushing the dirt off his trousers. It felt jarring, so soon after such warm conversation. Her heart pounded in her throat, her mind plagued by doubt and uncertainty. Surely, they had patched up all of their grievances from Paris. She had told him everything she could have thought of, so what remained? In the back of her mind, something urged her to refuse; that something was wrong and that she needed to flee. After a moment of consideration, however, she nodded, pushing the doubt away.“I will,” she declared, a weak smile tugging at her lips. “I will find you, if that is what you wish.”Chauvelin’s face brightened, and he gently took her hand and planted a kiss on her knuckles. “You ought to get some rest, as well. I worry for you when you get like this.”Marguerite couldn’t help but laugh and nod, the sun casting a ray of light in their path as he let go of her hand, glancing back one last time before he slipped back into the manor. She found him in the garden near the rose bushes, just as he said. His hands were laced behind his back as he paced, clad in his typical sable garb. Marguerite approached with open curiosity, though she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that gripped her like a vice.Chauvelin turned to her then, the corners of his mouth tugging into something akin to a smile, but not quite. “You were able to fall back asleep, I hope?” he asked. There was a hint of relief in his voice, as if he’d thought she would not have come.She nodded, a smile of her own soon appearing. “I did,” she replied, sincere about it for the first time. “I thought I would never wake up, in fact.”“For once,” he jested, though there was an undercurrent of tensity laced in his tone. At first, she thought it to be reminiscent of their days in Paris, but the small voice in the back of her mind soon rang in her ears, followed by dread. Something is wrong. This isn’t right. Turn back now. She was quick to beat it down, coming closer with a slight tilt of her head. “... You said there was something you wished to ask me?”“Indeed,” he began with careful consideration. “Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?” a pause. “... Not from the mouth of your husband?”Marguerite nodded. “He is all the talk of London, revered by even the Prince of Wales himself. Why?”“It’s just as I said before. The situation with the Pimpernel has only grown more volatile,” mused Chauvelin, reaching out to sniff the roses. “It is as if he has declared war on the entire republic. There are more aristos and traitors crossing the channel than we can keep count, and Paris has been thrown into complete mayhem. They believe that anyone could be the Pimpernel, and they are steadfast in wanting to parade the man’s head on a pike. Things have gotten out of hand.”Dread gripped her once more, her mind suddenly racing with every worst possible outcome imaginable. After a moment, Marguerite cleared her throat.“I don’t understand,” she said, trying desperately to hide the quaver in her voice. “Why would you tell me all of this?”Chauvelin fell silent, until he turned on his heels, fixing his gaze on her with a sudden intensity.“Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?”Her heart sank, suddenly reeling with faintness as her face paled. It felt as if the ground had been pulled out from beneath her, leaving her free-falling. It was St. Cyr who came to her mind then, as aghast as she had been when she discovered he had been sent to the guillotine. For once, however, her rational mind took charge. Surely, it was not what she had thought—it could not be. She had never renounced France—she didn’t have the heart to—but by all other means, her ties to the Republic had been severed the moment she stepped foot on English soil. What use would she be to the likes of Robespierre across the channel?“What?” was all she could manage in reply, her eyes wide.“I would not ask if it was not urgent,” he continued. “But the issue of the Scarlet Pimpernel has become dire in Paris. He is an Englishman, that much we have deduced, and the odds of ensnaring him would certainly be greater in his homeland; with his guard down and no disguise to hide behind.”Hastily, Marguerite shook her head. “I don’t understand,” her voice faltered. “I don’t— How could I— I can do nothing for France, here in England.”“You can, citoyenne. Here, in England, you alone can help,” he implored. “Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, after all. You go everywhere, and you see everything, even if you do not intend to. I know your nature well. If he truly is one of these fashionable Englishmen, then it will be no trouble for you. Once the Pimpernel is ensnared, it will be easy to deduce the identities of the rest of his men.”“I cannot,” her reply was hasty, now unable to hide the quaver in her voice. “I will not. You cannot ask that of me, Chauvelin.”“Ah, but you are a daughter of France, citoyenne! Surely, you would not turn your back on your patria when she is in desperate peril.”“You know that I will not. What you propose is deplorable,” Marguerite turned away, bowing her head and picking at the scabs on her nails. “Whoever the man is, he is brave and noble, and he has far more of a spine than the tribunal and the Committee ever did. I will not lend a hand in a good man’s death. I refuse to, do you hear me?”Hurriedly, Chauvelin came closer. “Think of it, citoyenne. For the sake of France. You shall be a hero in your homeland.”“And a monster to the rest of the world,” she replied miserably.“Come, now. None of the dramatics. All I am asking is that you find this Scarlet Pimpernel, not sign his death warrant.”“What is the difference to you? You promised the same to me about St. Cyr. Look what became of him.”“Do you truly wish to turn your back on France now, citoyenne? After everything we have fought for in the name of the republic?”
“I would spit on her grave before I ever did your dirty work for you.”
The outburst was louder than she had intended it to be, and it sent Chauvelin stumbling back, before he dug his heels in the dirt to ground himself. Marguerite turned to him then, hot, angry tears pricking in her eyes. Her mind raced, her breathing heavy as her gazed hardened. Was this why he had come here after all of this time? After everything they had shared, trying to mend the bonds that had been torn, was it all for the sake of a diplomatic mission? She could not fathom it. It was as if a knife had been plunged deep into her chest, penetrating her heart as it sunk deeper and deeper.“You have your names, citoyen,” her voice was ice cold. “You have other means at your disposal. I will never be one to aid in such villainy again.”He snarled, stepping back as his own gaze hardened. “So be it, then,” he sounded calm—too calm. “This is not your last word, citoyenne. We will meet again in London, I am sure of it.”And without another look, he turned away, making his way out of the garden. She watched as he grew smaller in the distance, the anger slowly dissipating into something intangible. Had it always been his plan to use her as a pawn? When they reunited in Dover, would he have sprung the query to her there on the spot? Marguerite’s heart ached too much to know. The world felt grey and ugly, and perhaps she was right all along about being cursed.She stood in silence, wiping the tears that rolled down her cheeks, an aching wound where he once laid in her heart.