Based on my love for the novel by the Baroness Orczy and the 1982 film. English is not my native language. Written and uploaded with mixed emotions.
Le Purgatoire - A Wife's Duty
The lavish silk drapes, a particularly lovely shade of green during day-time, appeared dull and grey at night. The grounds of Blakeney Manor were cocooned beneath layers upon layers of snow, the thereon reflected moonlight illuminating the surrounding air with a purple shimmer.
She hated that play of snow and thick clouds. It was too light for such a late hour. Lady Blakeney could distinguish the shapes of her room and count the number of sheep strolling beside their shepherdess on the canopy bed's embroidery. Five there were, five sheep altogether. Five sheep, two flower beds, three hills and ten blue stripes on the shepherdess' skirt. She counted them every night. There was the vain hope that somehow she could find a way to sink into the silk threads and ignore the cold pillow next to hers, the lazily tossed bed sheets.
Of course she never could ignore them. If only London society or indeed, her old Parisian circle could see her now. How they would laugh at her ridiculous behaviour. Husband and wife actually sleeping in the same bed, now whoever had heard of such a thing! Sharing beds was for the poorer members of society, those less fortunate souls crammed into single-room accommodation with the whole family sharing sleeping quarters. But Lady Blakeney certainly did not belong to that class of people, so why should she wish to give up the luxury of private space? A wife could naturally not refuse her husband his God-given rights, but beyond that...
Now, that had never been truer than in the Blakeney's extraordinary case. She, the most ravishing and witty woman in Europe, the greatest jewel of her sex, who had brought queens and goddesses to life on the stages of Paris and made her salon the melting-pot of poetry and philosophy. He, a dim-witted fop with the sense and intellect of a dandelion, whose only redeeming qualities were his understanding in matters of fashion and a penchant for entertaining the Prince of Wales. No one could fault Marguerite Blakeney therefore if she wished to embrace more stimulating company than her husband's, as long as she performed her wifely duties.
She could see them in the dark, familiar faces turned into grimaces. Imaginary fingers pointed at the empty space in her bed. Was this not the fate of every woman she knew? Was this not how she had spent the first year of her marriage?
Only too well did she remember those cold and lonely nights of that first year, when longing and confusion had mixed with hate, causing her to silently curse at the man who had abandoned her so the moment they'd stepped away from the altar. It had been a nightly ritual, adding to the jeers and taunts she'd bombarded him with by day.
Those first months after their reconciliation now seem like mirages. Scarcely can she believe that the memories were once reality.
The idiotic ramblings she had all too often cruelly dismissed had been but a disguise, the most diligent in all of Europe. The king of her heart was made mortal flesh. Her Percy was a hero, a swashbuckling adventurer and saviour of damned souls, spiriting men, women and children away from the glistening and ever-hungry teeth of Madame la Guillotine, in tales that made their listeners back in London swoon. The greatest man in England, and he loved her!
Outwardly they had kept up the game of lazy indifference, anything else would have triggered unwanted attention. Plays of words and heated glances, and all that sneaking around in a manner more befitting lovers than spouses. The eyes of her beloved never allowed for any doubt that he was hers as she was his, despite everything they'd been through and despite all the good reasons she'd given him to loathe her.
She was his and he was hers...but he was still the Scarlet Pimpernel, and the Reign of Terror had not ceased in France just because the Blakeneys had made up. His desire for adventure and his sense of duty to the innocent souls condemned to face the guillotine outshone even his bond to her. Marguerite never expected anything less of him. How could she?
People continued to notice his long absences – fishing trips to Scotland and the North Country or tours with the Day Dream along the southern coasts. Feigning indifference was not quite as easy or entertaining when she was the only one playing. With every new mission her wit struggled to maintain the game. It became increasingly harder to pretend she did not mind the separations, especially on those few occasions she happened to chance upon a new society rumour. Where before people had talked of his dump devotion to her, now it was the other way around. Marguerite Blakeney's love for her husband was not only scandalous but unrequited, or why else would he take each opportunity to get away from her?
Actually, she did not mind people noticing her affection for her husband. Yes, she loved him, Percy Blakeney, her husband, her lover, her equal! Her brother was her home, but Percy was her second half. She loved him for all he was! Everyone was welcome to know!
She didn't even mind the stupid comments that he had quite fallen out of love with her. Marguerite knew better. How could she doubt his feelings for her, when every time she looked into his eyes they were plainly written out in those magnificent cobalt blue depths?
What hurt was the reasoning some sought behind Sir Percy's supposed change of heart.
Barren.
Dry.
What a shame!
Marguerite never lost her composure in front of people, taking on Percy's example despite the strength it took to remain in control. What was there to say, anyway? She couldn't very well admit to them that every new moon brought disappointment with it. She couldn't tell them that it wasn't her fault or that it wasn't due to a lack of trying. She could never admit to the stab it brought to her heart every time she had to let Percy know that they hadn't been lucky that month, but that there would be plenty of opportunities once he was back home again.
The time in between their reunions seemed ever more unwilling to flow rapidly. Occasionally Anthony or Andrew's updates were enough to allow her a moment of respite. All she wanted was for him to return safely to their home. They had never discussed it. It could wait. Her own disappointment was enough for the time being.
So, not unlike before, Lady Blakeney's right bed-side remained unused during Sir Percy's absences, a cruel reminder that she was ultimately helpless in the greater schemes of things.
The empty space beside her was a weight upon her heart. Sharpened against the dimmed outlines, her eyes wandered off to the window seat on the far end of the room. The grey shape glued against the crevice of the window sat unmoving, no more that a shadow in the background. Without hesitation her attention focussed on him, as it was wont to do every night. It was her body's reaction to seek for that presence, victory after victory over the logical part of her mind. To seek out the faint outlines of fair hair, the shadows underneath one chiselled cheekbone, was as vital to her as breathing. To know that he was still there was all she needed.
It was January now.
Would she- could she ever get over the sight of Tony's lips pressed together in a white line, the sound of Andrew's forced calmness as he'd carried on with his account? So much time had passed and yet it still felt like she had never left the manor's great entrance hall.
A child – one of the League's objectives - had died that day; Marguerite forgot its name as soon as Andrew uttered it. Her mind instead caught on the words "powder barrels" and "explosion", tearing at the syllables in a vain attempt to grasp their meaning.
Was it a sign of strength that Marguerite had not lost consciousness right there in the hall? No one could have criticised her if she had. All she could see in that moment was Percy's still body, the fabric of his latest disguise encrusted with so much blood she could not distinguish its true colours. She would not have recognised him, were it not for her husband's two closest companions standing there with tear-stained faces. He did not resemble her Percy in any kind of way, for the man she had last kissed good-bye had been blessed with the brightest shade of peach on his cheeks and the most magnificent smile. The figure in front of her was an image of hell, crumbled and torn like a piece of paper. In fact, part of her still refused to believe. It was that small part of her that bore enough sense to dismiss the servants, save Frank and the housekeeper. It made her call for Doctor Dee, order a bucket of hot water and freshly cleaned cotton strips, ask the two young men if they could carry her husband to his rooms whilst she led on.
The moment Percy was placed on the bed her hands sprung up in search of his heart-beat. Heavens! The most beautiful sensation she had ever felt, weakened and faint as it was. The two friends remained by her side until the surgeon was announced. She implored them to make themselves at home in two of the guest rooms for their faces displayed only to sharply the torturous events of the past few days. Both had issued forth a stream of protests, but Marguerite wouldn't take no for an answer. Although uninjured themselves, they'd been as defeated as their leader and in dire need of rest.
Marguerite remained by her husband's side, ignoring the scandalous nature of her decision to help the surgeon in any way she could. In short time her arms were drenched in fresh blood coming forth as the short and balding man at her side cut open waistcoat, shirt and infested flesh to remove the parts of tissue that could no longer be saved. It was sickening to watch, let alone participate in. The explosion had thrown Percy several feet into the air. God knows what he'd been through, but the gnarled line of broken skin and charred muscle stretching from his right thigh to the side of his ribcage burned itself into her memory for all eternity. Beneath the crimson and black layers, shards of shattered femur twisted her stomach and turned her knees to jelly. It was the worst of his wounds, the others mere scratches in comparison. Bruises had covered his whole body, one spreading across his left cheekbone, another covering one entire arm.
The grandfather clock's constant ticking offered the rhythm for Marguerites breathing, yet she could not tell afterwards how long they'd been labouring over her beloved. The sun had already set by the time the physician took his leave, assuring the half-mad woman at his feet that he would come by every day to check on Sir Percy's progress.
Progress! As if the Scarlet Pimpernel needed anyone to supervise his progress, he who had time and time again returned to her covered in the latest proof of his heroic deeds. She had come to know every scar on his body, every new sign that he'd been lucky yet again. But this was different. Percy wasn't awake to laugh away his aching muscles. He wasn't conscious to reassure her with a breath-taking kiss and a smile to rival the stars in brilliance. A few scratches here and there were part of the profession and he was after all only human.
"We have to give the Frenchies their moments of triumph, otherwise people might take me for a cheat," he'd told her time and time again with a boyish turn of his lips.
His hands in hers were as cold as ice. The rest of him however had begun to fight a fever, his sweat soon sticking the bed covers to his lean form.
Marguerite was by all standards a very expressive person, a trait had had come handy on the stage. Subtlety had always been Percy's forte. How often had she envied him for the ability to hide his true thoughts from the world?
As she lay there beside him on the bed, something in Marguerite snapped that could not be expressed by loud wails and shrill screams. She wanted-needed to catch every little sign that he was fighting this. No other noise could disturb her Percy's laboured breaths or the faint drumming of his beaten heart.
Dying.
Percy was dying.
That's what Doctor Dee's final words to her had been, to prepare for the possibility of... Damn him! To hell with the man! He did not know Percy as she did.
No, she refused to consider it a possibility. People depended on the Scarlet Pimpernel. He would never break his promise to them. He would never break his promise to her!
She needed him. Needed him more than Armand or the thrill of the stage. He was her sunlight, her air, her water. The blood rushing through her veins. He was everything. Experience had taught her she could survive without his love, as long as he was there, as long as he was unharmed.
Five days passed, five days of uncertainty with no sign of improvement. Then, as the fever ran its course to a peak, the twisting and turning started. It took inhuman strength to keep him steady as the physical pain tortured his still unconscious mind, but Marguerite did not allow anyone to enter the room on those occasions. She knew he wouldn't wish to be seen like this – weak, with no control over his own body. Not even by his closest friends. And so she alone was there to assist him in those cruel moments, his convulsions draining her of all mental and physical strength. Her stomach refused even the image of solid food, but she had to stay strong. For him. Soaked bread and broth were the only sustenance she allowed herself, the only reminder that time was moving forward. Anything else her body was unable to keep down for longer than an hour.
When the uncertainty finally came to an end, Marguerite was a shadow of her former self, thin and ghostly pale. But who cared for outward appearances when all she could concentrate on was the gradual relaxation of his form, the faint flicker of an eye-lid.
"My Margot."
How hoarse his voice sounded, yet it was more precious than all the gold in the world. He'd come back to her. His words were not a dream conjured up by her exhausted senses, but real and sweet and utterly beautiful. He was alive!
Fate is truly the plaything of the devil.
Without having to stir, Marguerite was absolutely sure that the cane she'd given him as a present lay discarded on the floor. It was a delicately carved thing, the plates of ebony and ivory embraced by strands of silver and mother-of-pearl.
The fashionable design was a vain attempt at distracting from its real purpose. Doctor Dee insisted that the bone appeared to have healed well enough, given the circumstances, yet the leg was rendered all but useless. Stiff and aching, it was the source of Percy's endless frustration at day and blinding pain at night.
A fall from an ill-tempered horse, that was the official explanation they issued forth to everyone bold enough to inquire. Marguerite would pat her husband's arm as he laughed his own clumsiness away. Society as a whole seemed convinced. Sir Percy, though known as an excellent sportsman, was after all a silly individual, easily distracted and therefore likely to fall from a horse sooner or later. Condolences and well-wishes were mixed with jokes of his absurd lack of focus that had now hopefully taught him a lesson.
That was worse than the actual injury. No mask should have been able to resist those remarks for as long as he endured. He had almost lost his life, but of course no one could know. Fooled by the tale, the polite society of London patronised and belittled him, as it had always done. At times Marguerite felt close to breaking. Could they not see her husband's pain? Could they not see how his lazy eyes had turned a tad colder or how the lines around his mouth had grown sharper? Yet Percy's strength continued to amaze her. Not once did he let his disguise slip.
What neither of them could have foreseen was the sudden change of course history decided to take. On the 28 July of that year, Maximilien Robespierre, that damned sea-green Incorruptible, found his own end under the kiss of the guillotine. The Revolution carried on, though it now sought the blood of its own children. The Reign of Terror was over.
What now? Was the Scarlet Pimpernel of any use, now that the aristocracy was no longer the prime target of the revolutionaries?
His gaze, unfazed by the lateness of the hour, was fixed to the direction of the English Channel. There was no use in lying to herself – if his leg would allow him he'd leave her for France before the change of the tides. As his mind wandered night after night to those past days of adventure, his own body chained him to Richmond.
The Scarlet Pimpernel was a prisoner in his own body.
He was alive and back home, but Marguerite could swear a part of Percy had died that day on the streets of Paris. The fop was the only reminder that the man in front of her was truly Sir Percy Blakeney and not some ghost. The fop was the only constant, the only familiar aspect of him she could cling on to for comfort. How ironic that she was now reduced to praying for that inane laugh!
Far from society's sharp gazes the Percy she knew was gone. At home it wasn't the fop she had to deal with, but in his stead a wall of silence took the space where her Percy should have stood. That wall never talked, save for when it was utterly unavoidable. It scarcely ate. When they weren't invited to some event it would disappear in its study or the vast depths of the woods surrounding Blakeney Manor.
Marguerite was no longer the young girl she had been back in France. Few people knew what she'd gone through and all the obstacles in her way had only served to make her more determined than ever. She tried coaxing him with words of love. It didn't work. She tried shouting at him. It didn't work. She tried begging, hitting, confronting, and understanding.
It didn't work.
As time wore on she became afraid. What if he remained like that forever? A lifeless shell of the man she loved, could she accept that? Could she?
Frank had told her the story of Percy's mother, of how her mind's demons had pulled her into places no one, not even the late Blakeney himself, could follow her.
Was this how it would be from now on?
Yet...somewhere deeply hidden, beaten and lost, was the man she loved. She knew every time he came to her. His visits were short and always without warning, mostly at night yet sometimes during the day too, as he came to claim his due. The man who took her again and again with the ferocity of a beast resembled in no way her gentle Percy, though his face and body followed the same lines, lines which she could draw with eyes shut. Their couplings were not driven by love, but by a naked and mad need, both physical and mental. It was their life line, their connection to reality. Marguerite clung to the heat his body emitted as if Richmond was the desert and he the only water bottle in sight, and she met his violence with her own desperation.
In those moments she was his Margot again.
The memory of him burnt and lifeless against white sheets only caused her to press herself stronger against him. She should know better by now, but her hand still crept downward to the twisted mass of scar tissue. Each time his hand in her hair would pull harder and a pained sound would escape his lips, one she knew had nothing to do with physical sensation.
Perhaps she was losing her mind as well? Perhaps they would both go mad and be thrown into Bedlam? But it was in those moments of sheer abandon, when their bodies melted against each other's touch that the ice in his gaze revealed the Percy she yearned for. In those moments she could swear his love for her was still there, and therefore he was still there. Then his breath would regain its steadiness and he'd rise to leave her once again.
As she averted her gaze, her hands settled on her lower belly - a motion she was following more and more often these days whenever she felt close to breaking-point. The little bump was barely noticeable, but it was there. Doctor Dee had assured her.