Marguerite, below in his cabin, still sat on the bunk, her mind turning. She wondered how long he would be – and could not help feeling a vague sense of unease: that his sudden departure had been on some pretext. She was confused now, and a little sad. She considered the highs and lows of the past few days: the conversation with him on the terrace at Richmond and the realisation that he still loved her after all; the discovery of his true identity, and the horror and shame at what she had done; the desperate urgency to reach him, to warn him if she could; the euphoria of finding him safe – and apparently willing to forgive her – and of their escape; all these things taken together, she thought, it was not surprising if she now felt as if she had been through some kind of mangle. But there was more than that. It was clear that he still wanted her – she had felt his desire rising – so why had he left her so hurriedly? Did he regret their earlier intimacy? She did not understand...

She became aware of some activity overhead: they must be nearing the harbour at Dover now, and making ready. She turned and knelt up on the bunk to look out of the little round window – l'hublot in her mother tongue, she thought: another of the many words she had yet to learn in English. The moon had not yet set and she could see, glimmering in its light, the chalk cliffs stretching away westwards into the distance. How often, she wondered, returning home from France, had he seen this view...

'Home': with a pang she realised that whereas he had braved innumerable risks to bring to safety many of her countrymen, and should have been welcomed home with joy, and gratitude, and love, he must have come to expect only a cool greeting, and careless cynicism about how he had spent the time away; and yet he had never reproached her but seemed instead to accept that that was the way of things. She should not be surprised, she concluded, if he might not now believe her apparent change of heart...

She turned away from the little window and swung her feet down to the floor, but she cried out in pain: they were so sore, and one so swollen, that she could hardly bear to stand. Sitting back on the bunk, she took off her tattered stockings and examined first one foot, then the other. Both were badly cut and bruised, and she had a gash under one heel around which the flesh was swelling, as if there were a stone or somesuch embedded there. She knew she needed help, and her tears began to well up again. She was suddenly overcome with self-pity: although she had needed to be carried to the boat, he had not once mentioned her feet since then; but they were so painful: did he not know, she could not walk!

She wept quietly for a few moments; but amidst her misery the thought suddenly entered her mind: if her feet were sore, how much more painful must his back be? He had said the soldiers had hit hard – he must be badly bruised, at the very least... She remembered how Armand's back had looked after he had been flogged by St. Cyr's men. Her self-pity left her abruptly. That awful sight had stayed with her all this time: it had been terrible, truly terrible; Percy's back might be every bit as bad – and she had not asked him about it! Oh – he must think she had not changed, but was still concerned only with her own woes! Perhaps that was why he had suddenly left her: perhaps he was doubting her sincerity; perhaps he thought she did not care about him after all... It was all so confusing – she could only guess what was going through his mind now!

And then, she thought, that was perhaps not surprising: their estrangement had followed so fast upon the heels of their wedding – and had lasted so many months – that to all intents and purposes they might as well still be newly-married; they had still to learn one another ...

She sat unmoving for another few moments, considering how things might be between them from now on; then, having no alternative, she put her stockings back on, filthy, torn and bloodied though they were, and had just finished retying her garters when her musings were suddenly interrupted by a light tap at the cabin door. She let fall her skirts and without thinking, she replied in French: "Entrez!"

There was a pause, then: "Nous sommes presqu'à Dover, Madame; il faut parler en anglais maintenant, je vous prie!" came the reply.

The voice was unmistakably Percy's, but she had heard him speak French and she had often mocked him for having a British accent you could cut with a knife. Then it struck her, in another of the many revelations of the past few days: in order to maintain a credible disguise, of course he must be able to speak French convincingly!

"Perr-si!" she exclaimed delightedly – innocently unaware of the pleasantly-unsettling effect it had on him to hear his name pronounced in this pretty French way, and so surprised that, without thinking, she "tutoyé"d him for the first time in months ―"Perr-si, tu parles comme un français la langue de mon pays!"

He entered the cabin now, and, sweeping her the most extravagant courtly bow which the small space and his large frame allowed, he said, mock-serious and very ceremoniously, "Vous êtes trop gentille, Madame." As he straightened up again he could not refrain from wincing: the pain in his back was acute now – possibly the worst, he thought, that he had ever suffered; she saw it in his face and cried out, "Percy, your back! Your poor back – it must be so very painful!"

He did not reply immediately; despite what lay behind her words he was surprised and relieved at the real concern and sympathy he heard in her tone; but then he said quietly,

"I must confess, m'dear, that it is rather sore. However, I am sure that Mrs Phillips will have one of her remarkable salves to hand –"

"Mrs Phillips?"

"My housekeeper, my dear, at the little cottage I keep here in Dover, for the times when there is not leisure to return to Richmond. I beg forgiveness for not having mentioned it before, but... " Here his words hung in the air a few moments, but then he spoke again, less formally:

"Your feet, my dear – I must beg forgiveness also for having been so remiss, as not to have enquired about them; Andrew reminded me that they must be every bit as painful as my back; I am so sorry for not having asked... "

He looked at her steadily for a moment and then, still speaking quietly, he said,

"We have much to learn, you and I, my dear, I think, have we not?"

She nodded; and he suddenly knelt in front of her and said,

"Are they very sore?"

She nodded again, trying not to let the tears come. As if he knew this, he said, almost murmuring now, "Well then. I think Andrew will have pre-empted me, as he often does, and will have made some arrangements; but in any event we shall not walk to the cottage – though it is not far – but we shall ride there, together, and once we are there we can rest, both of us, and allow our wounds to heal for a few days. How does that sound?"

She nodded, again, taking gentle comfort from his quiet reassurance; and then she managed to summon up some lightheartedness and said in a teasing tone,

"I daresay your Mrs Phillips will have some salve for my feet too..."

He responded to her mischievous hint with exaggerated seriousness:

"She is your Mrs Phillips as well, my dear." Then, because he had one or two real concerns about whether the arrival of Lady Blakeney, and her needs, might slightly upset the smooth running of Mrs Phillips' domestic arrangements, he decided to change the subject and he said,

"I am sorry, dearest, that for the pain in my back I fear I cannot carry you much farther, but we need to leave the boat when it comes alongside; I have given some thought to how we may help you, if you cannot walk much – "

Here she interrupted; "I can walk a little way, Percy; I am sure I can walk a little way."

Despite his doubts, she stood, and although it was very painful she was determined that she would match him, if she could, for resilience; but she was inexpressibly grateful when it became clear that Andrew had indeed pre-empted Percy's wishes, and had commandeered a closed coach to take the chief and his lady the few hundred yards from the harbour up the lane to the secluded little cottage. Andrew himself was rather torn as to what he should do: he wanted, greatly, to see his old friend comfortably settled, with his wife, in the care of the housekeeper; but equally he knew that he would feel superfluous to requirements, and he was relieved when Percy assured him that all would be well, and that he need not stay.

And so it was that not long after, Percy and his wife entered the cottage; he with a mixture of relief and slight trepidation, she with not a little curiosity, despite her exhaustion and pain, about this little secret refuge.

They were met by a small, energetic-looking woman, who despite the early hour was already attired in a neat apron and housekeeper's cap. Having heard a coach at the door and fearing – since Sir Percy almost invariably arrived at the cottage on foot – that something had forced him out of his usual habits, Mrs Phillips was not altogether surprised when she saw that he was accompanied by a lady. Judging by his almost exaggerated care of her, and the words she overheard spoken softly between them, it was without doubt his wife. The first thought which went through her mind was that Sally at the Fisherman's had been right to say that Lady Blakeney was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen; the second, that Lady Blakeney nevertheless looked pale and drawn.

She dropped a curtsey and spoke simply: "I believe I have the honour of meeting my Lady Blakeney? I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Milady, and proud to know the wife of Sir Percy ."

She could not have spoken in a way more fitting to Marguerite's present mood, and when she rose she found Milady smiling at her and with one hand actually extended. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Phillips; my husband clearly places much faith in you", she said. Sir Percy watched the two women, so very unalike one from the other but both important to his well-being in their different ways, and he hoped that this promising beginning would set the tone for the future: he almost breathed a sigh of relief.

"Mrs Phillips, I am pleased to see you," he said, "and trust that we are not unwelcome, arriving at the crack of dawn as we are! We need to rest, Mrs Phillips, but first I think we must trouble you for breakfast – I cannot speak for Lady Blakeney but I am ravenous! Lady Blakeney, my dear, I pray you will sit down" – here he pulled one of the fireside armchairs nearer to where she stood – "until Mrs Phillips brings us something to eat."

Marguerite did not understand, given the pain in his back and how exhausted he must be, how he contrived to sound so carefree; but she tried to emulate his good cheer and said with a smile, "I am very hungry too, Percy, and I would like something to eat if Mrs Phillips can arrange it."

The housekeeper now spoke: "...There are fresh eggs," she said, looking doubtfully at Lady Blakeney, "and good ham, and bread just out of the oven..."

"All of those please, Mrs Phillips!" was the immediate reply.

She bustled away thinking Milady might be so slender as you'd think she never ate, but she clearly had a good appetite.

Now that they were alone again for the moment, he pulled the other chair near to hers and sat. "How are you, my dear?" he asked quietly; "you must be very tired, and very footsore. God willing, we shall be able to have a few days' rest here, out of sight of the world, until we are both well, and healed..." He paused and looked away; the strangeness of their situation had suddenly struck him. He had never brought his wife here until now; there was only one bedchamber – only one bed – which they would have to share... Would they share? Would she allow him to sleep beside her – or...

He could not be sure!

He looked at her again and wondered if the same thought was crossing her mind.

She gazed back at him.

He studied her face and saw how exhausted she was: there were dark shadows under her eyes, but the expression in them was different from what he had become used to; she was returning his look lovingly, almost tenderly, he thought; perhaps all would be well after all...

This thought – the possibilities of it – unsettled him a little but he knew he must not rush headlong, although he was convinced that this would be the only chance they would ever have to set things between them back on the right track: that if he did not take the opportunity offered to him now, and they were to return to Richmond too soon, it would be almost impossible for them both to begin afresh.

Besides, he wanted her so much...

Since not long after their wedding he had tried not to dwell ― because it was such torment to do so ― on the memories of their wedding night, of the joy of it; on how smooth her skin was; how soft her flesh, and yielding to him; the feeling of her hands on his body; how her perfume had clung to his own skin: he had not wanted to wash it away. During the weeks afterwards when she had deserted him and was at her brother's house, when he had not understood her absence but could not humble his pride enough to call her back, he had been haunted by those memories and had been unable to put them aside, becoming obsessed and almost feverish with suppressed, thwarted desire: when she eventually returned to him, altered, distant, he had vowed he would not fall helpless prey again to that desire. Having won his prize, and had it snatched from him, had been like a form of torture which had left such deep wounds that he believed he had rather bare his chest and allow her to cut out his living heart than willingly to expose it ever again to such unseen pain. He had retreated, fortified his defences, and withdrawn into ceremonious politeness, choosing not to spend time alone with her if it could be avoided, and feigning indifference or inanity if it could not. Since that time he had exercised such restraint, such rigid self-control, that – until that night on the terrace at Richmond ― he had almost forgotten the effect she could have on him.

There had been only one occasion, in all those months of their estrangement, when he had allowed himself to weaken for an instant: they had been in his box at the opera, and – sitting slightly behind her, as always ― he had watched her as, entranced by the music, her lips slightly parted, one small hand silently beating time with her fan, she leant forward on the edge of the box, and her stole slipped from her shoulders and on to the floor. He had risen immediately to gather it up and, realising that she was quite unaware of his nearness, before he could stop himself he had put the fine silk to his lips, breathing in the dizzying warmth and fragrance – her scent – which rose from it; and when he rearranged it around her shoulders he could not prevent himself from allowing his fingers momentarily, as if by accident, to touch the back of her neck; she had turned her head suddenly upwards to look at him and although he could not read the expression in her eyes he had murmured to her,

"A thousand apologies, Madame: your stole..."

She did not speak; and, shaken by the desire which the brief touch of her flesh had awoken in him, he had left the box to recover his composure in the passageway outside.

Since then – and that had been some months ago – the only occasions when he touched her had been to offer her his arm, or to hand her up to the coach: almost always public occasions when there had been no risk of his feelings being guessed at ― or hers either, for that matter... What was she thinking now? he wondered.

He looked at her again: she was still gazing back at him, but this time with a slight query in her expression – how long had his mind been travelling back to past times, he wondered.

He almost shook himself back to the here and now.

"I'm so sorry, my dear; I must confess I am a little tired. Forgive me", he said, with as lighthearted a smile as he could muster.

The hour was still early and the room was chill; trying not to wince as he did so, he stooped to the hearth and lit the kindling – Mrs Phillips always had a fire laid and ready – and within a few moments the flames had caught and there was the promise of a cheerful blaze. With the question in the back of his mind as to how he might approach the dilemma of the bedchamber, he felt awkward, unsure of himself or what to do, what to say; and for her part, Marguerite was very quiet, looking around the little parlour but without making any comment.

"Ah, Mrs Phillips!" ― he was glad of the interruption. There were a few moments of bustle whilst the housekeeper arranged the table before leaving again to fetch their breakfast; he drew his chair to the table and then waited for Marguerite to rise so that he could move her chair also. He saw the pain in her face as she stood but she was clearly intent on making as light of it as she could, so although his heart smote him in sympathy, he made no comment but let it pass.

He held the chair for her and she sat; and then as he sat too, opposite her, it suddenly occurred to them both, privately but simultaneously, that this was the first modest, companionable meal they would have shared since the morning after their wedding.

"What a travesty of a marriage it has been!" thought Marguerite, quite unaware that the same thought was going through his mind. At that instant, and to their mutual relief, Mrs Phillips returned with the plates, and – both very hungry now – they fell to.

As the room warmed, and filled with the comforting aromas of woodsmoke, freshly-baked bread, and good coffee, and as they became less hungry, they both began also to relax. Although it was an unfamiliar situation Marguerite felt that it was a fitting start to what she hoped would be their new life together: if not yet intimate, it was private and homely.

For his part, he deliberately put his anxieties about the immediate future to the back of his mind – what would be, would be, he concluded – and enjoyed sitting so close to her, pouring more coffee for her, cutting bread: for all the world, just like a long-married old couple, he thought.

She finished eating and suddenly spoke: "Percy, where shall I sleep?"

To be continued...