To Have Loved

Warning: this story is centred upon the death of a character; not a central character, fear not, but one of the Baroness' creations nonetheless. It is merely a study of unexpected loss and how it affects those who are left behind, so any readers put out by the notion may feel free to return to the 'canon' universe as soon as they finish! With thanks to Kate, Venerated Objective Reader and like-minded devotee of the books.

On the Stairs

To her wide, aching eyes the house looked unchanged, and it should have been easy to think, to breathe, to act as normal. But her mind would not let her forget, and everywhere she looked there now lurked a sinister meaning – the great vases of hothouse flowers placed throughout the rooms were masking another, bitter scent in the air, the candles in the shimmering chandeliers and sconces were guttering and would soon be extinguished, and the clusters of drinking glasses abandoned by idle or distracted hands appeared as relics of departed life.

It was all too much. Without knowing that she intended to move, or where she would go to, Marguerite suddenly turned on the stair, where she had been about to ascend to her private chambers, and fled across the great hall towards the door. When the long train of her gown seemed to hold her back, she reached behind her to gather up the yards of silver brocaded silk, her step faltering but never pausing. The entrance was empty of servants, but she managed to unbolt the ponderous door with her free hand and, hurling it open, raced out into the chill darkness. The thin leather soles of her slippers offered no protection against the rutted gravel of the path, but she barely felt the ground as she ran blindly towards the river at the rear of the house. She hurried on, moving in and out of the columns of welcoming, yellow light cast by the windows upon the floor; reverse shadows which vaguely recalled to her the brilliantly decorated reception rooms within – and what had happened there.

Reaching the first corner, Marguerite slipped on the loose stones and fell, dropping her skirts in time to save her knees but grazing her hands and losing a shoe. Struggling to her feet, she glanced at her tingling palms, and was surprised to see her spread fingers appear only as dim shapes against the darkness. Blinking, and then pressing the backs of her wrists beneath her eyes, Marguerite released the tears that had been blinding her vision, but she would not let go of her heart just yet. Stumbling on, she followed the east wing of the manor house to the terrace.

A Closed Door

As Percy stood on the landing, still facing the door to the main guest suite, he noted the same silence that had shaken Marguerite barely moments earlier. It was not the restful, familiar quiet of a house settling in the night, or even the peaceful contrast of low voices and softly ticking clocks after the animation of a party, but merely the negative of what had been before; a hollow absence.

A terrible sound suddenly shattered the stillness, and Percy found himself praying for a return to that aching void – he could not bear the stifled cries that came instead, the pain of his best friend's grief. It felt wrong to leave Andrew alone at this time – for he was now truly alone – but there was nothing to be done in that room until the door opened again to invite a friend's support. Perhaps that would come in an hour or two, or in the morning, but it was for Andrew to open the door. Percy could make the first practical arrangements, and he would, but he had neither the words nor the strength to force his friend into confronting what had happened this night. It barely seemed real to him.

Still dressed in his exquisite finery, Percy lowered himself against the banister to sit on the floor, resting his arms on his knees. He could not even begin to imagine how Andrew must be feeling at this time, if indeed he could feel at all – should the roles be reversed and he were to lose Marguerite ... But empathy was beyond him. He did not know, and would not even consider, what it would be like to start the evening with everything to live for, only to have to wait for it to end when there was nothing left of that dream. A beautiful wife, waiting patiently for years to claim her husband's full devotion and the joy of his safe return entirely as her own; the promise of a family; all that youth and good health and miraculous fortune could bestow upon the most deserving of men – naught but a fragile illusion in a golden frame, shattered in one incredible moment.

"Suzanne ..." Andrew's tear-choked voice, muffled behind the door, tore at Percy's heart. What if their roles were reversed? Would Andrew sit, numb and hesitant for the first time, on the other side of a closed door, whilst a lifetime friend and loyal ally crumbled in on himself beside the still, cold form of his beloved? Had Andrew ever left him to suffer alone throughout their long career together as the heart and mind of the League?

Percy silently berated himself for his own show of weakness, but at the same time he understood that Andrew was facing the hardest, most extreme challenge in his life, and that nothing could have prepared any of them – Andrew, Marguerite, himself – for this new test of courage and will. Defying the Revolutionary guard, baiting Chauvelin, risking their lives for the thrill of the chase and the reward of sparing another life from the blade of the guillotine – three years of selfless yet satisfying adventures did not fortify a man against the shock of watching his best friend's soul wink out like a candle. And what right did he have to intrude upon Andrew's farewell to his wife, merely to appease his own conscience? As Percy had silently backed out of the room, Andrew had remained on his knees beside the bed, his hands grasping Suzanne's fingers, his face buried in her skirts. That man did not know that others felt his loss, or were waiting with him to wake fully from the shock; such as Marguerite, who had started trembling from head to foot, but had not as yet –

Percy suddenly stiffened, turning his head sharply to one side to listen down the stairs behind him. Scrambling to his feet, he swung around the corner of the banister, gripping the newel post, and took the stairs two at a time to the ground floor.

The Rose Arbour

The rose arbour was damp and dreary, but Marguerite sank onto the sheltered bench with a gasp of relief. As her rapid breathing evened out, she became aware of the distant sighing of the river, stifled by the heavy mist, and of the steady dripping of the leaves and branches all around her; she had never come to the arbour so late on a miserable night like this, but still the sounds were familiar and soothing. Heavy drops of rainwater fell intermittently from the boughs above her head, splashing onto her bare arms and trickling down her neck from her hair, but an involuntary shiver was the only reaction she gave. Her eyes stared blankly into the distance, their usual beauty lost in the shadows.

The image that stayed with her was of Suzanne's gown as she collapsed, her pooling skirts collecting like rose petals as she sank gracefully lower and lower towards the floor. As she remembered it now, it seemed as if Suzanne had fainted in slow motion, supported by the air until Percy's lightning reflexes had saved her from falling completely, but it had all happened in a blink of the eye – her friend had not even complained of feeling dizzy.

They had been talking of France and when, if ever, it would be safe to return there; Suzanne had confessed a longing to visit the countryside outside Paris where her family had owned a chateau. She had been asked, by a gentleman who was friendlier with the wine than with the people around him, if she now regarded England as her home or if she still considered herself as a Frenchwoman – but she had not heeded the barb in his question, only answering with honesty and happiness: "My husband and my family are my home, and they are here." Marguerite had met her friend's proud smile and then turned her glittering gaze to Percy, stood beside Suzanne at the centre of the little group before the great fireplace, and reaffirmed her own promise with her eyes.

How true Suzanne's words were – they had both forged new bonds and pledged fidelity to another, but it was not merely an exchange of nationalities. Suzanne's heart had belonged to her parents in Paris, just as Marguerite had only ever worshipped her brother before meeting Sir Percy, and now they were wives who had challenged pride and supported selfless heroism at cost of their own hearts to stand beside their husbands. Only the other wives in the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and then perhaps not to the same degree, could understand the sacrifice and resolution that Marguerite and Suzanne had already given for their loves, and this private knowledge made their friendship even stronger. It need not even be said that Sir Andrew would lay down his life for Blakeney, and for Marguerite through his good friend and chief; Marguerite and Suzanne shared the same enduring alliance – the four were bound together through old associations and new trials, and there seemed to be only life's rewards ahead of them now that the men had returned and the League was disbanded.

Suzanne's gaze drifted naturally in the direction of Sir Andrew, who had earlier excused himself to talk with Sir William Vavasour, a family friend from the north. Marguerite watched as the young man glanced up and sought his wife's eyes, aware of her notice even as they stood divided by the width of the ball room.

"Should I throw myself into the breach and rescue him for you, Lady Ffoulkes?" Percy whispered, bowing his great height to catch her ear.

Suzanne laughed. "Sir William is an old friend of Andrew's family, I am sure my husband does not suffer!"

"I also know Sir William, and I warrant Ffoulkes is starting to feel the pinch," Percy replied. "And what man would not rather stand and gaze upon his wife, instead of the drawn features of a doctor from the provincial north?"

"Sir Andrew can see Suzanne well enough from where he stands," Marguerite countered, reaching out a delicate hand to take her husband's arm. "You need not concern yourself, sir."

And in the midst of this playful, inconsequential chatter, Suzanne had been slowly fading. Dwelling upon that vivid memory, Marguerite's heart sank within her as she replayed those last moments – had there been a visible change come over her friend? She tried to recapture Suzanne's small face as it was happening in her mind's eye, but could only see the usual tumble of curls and deep brown study of those same warm features she had known since childhood. And she had been looking at Percy, and Sir Andrew, and then at Percy again – had she even noticed Suzanne, beyond her own amusement at the Ffoulkes' tireless devotion? No, that was unnecessarily harsh; there had been no cause for worry, no signal of the implausible finale of that evening, and only a morbid divination could have caused her to devote more attention than usual to such a constant and familiar presence as Suzanne within her own home. It was sudden, unexpected, and swift; God's will, or a cruel twist of fate – all the usual epithets for a young life lost, but beyond comprehension on such an intimate level.

Percy had turned his face to glance at Suzanne, offering a rueful smile for his light words, and Marguerite, her eyes still on her husband in what returned to her now as an impolite display of her own indulgence, was taken aback by the flash of alarm that had locked his features. That clear image of Percy's suddenly alert blue eyes, his parted lips snapped shut and the set of his jaw, had then blurred into the confusion of events and reactions following on from his instinctive save of Suzanne's unconscious form – an instant or an age might have passed without notice, all save those billowing folds of a pale rose-coloured gown gathering on the floor at her feet.

The Hall

"Benyon, where is Lady Blakeney?" Percy demanded, surprising the butler as he entered the hall from the library.

"I – I believe her ladyship was retiring to her chambers, sir," the older man replied softly, the slight catch in his throat betraying unprofessional but understandable distress after the swift change in mood and focus of the evening.

"I've just come from upstairs, she's not there," Percy told him.

"I am afraid I must have missed Lady Blakeney, sir, as I was showing the physician – Sir William – to the library," Benyon answered. "Shall I ask in the kitchen if –" But there was no need to continue as his master was no longer listening, Sir Percy having turned his tired, serious face towards the front door.

"Has anybody been here, Benyon?" he asked, glancing with a frown from the entrance to the passage beyond where Benyon stood neatly in the hallway.

"No, sir," the butler told him, sure of the answer but not of the question. Then he observed a sudden lifting of his master's great height, his shoulders squaring as he straightened out his spine, and Benyon recognised the signs at once: Sir Percy had found a purpose to distract his own thoughts and suffering, a deed to channel unspoken words and feelings.

Turning on his heel, Percy marched up to the unobtrusive figure of his butler and then carried straight on past him. "Thank you, Benyon," he fired back, before halting to add: "If Sir Andrew should – I will only be at the rose arbour, beside the river.

"Yes, sir!" Benyon called. "Shall I get you cloak?"

"Not needed," Percy dismissed him, as he continued towards the rear of the manor house. "And make sure that door is closed and bolted!"

Benyon, ready to perform whatever bidding his poor master might ask of him, started automatically towards the entrance. Drawing nearer, he noticed belatedly that the door was stood ajar, closed but for the latch, and he wondered who might have left it so on a night like this.

The Riverbank

How had he known? She had not cried out, nor grimaced in pain, and she would never have appealed to him for assistance anyway, always believing that she owed him too much as it was. But her bright eyes had suddenly lost their glitter, and a grey veil had fallen over the healthy blush of her complexion. Suzanne did not struggle to protect her dignity in a room full of people, did not turn her dull eyes to Percy or Marguerite, in fact barely moved at all – until her knees failed her and suddenly she was falling, tumbling to the ground as if every muscle in her body had relaxed at once

Percy had thrown out an arm in time to grip her waist and pull her to him, her limp form bending backwards until he had to drop to the floor with her, supporting her head against his chest and then his shoulder. His ears registered the continued murmur of conversation in the room – few people had noticed Suzanne yet – as his eyes took in the fading life of the woman in his arms. And then Marguerite was on her knees beside him – he could hear the rustle of her gown, smell her perfume, hear her taking sharp, shallow breaths as she looked on – and taking up one of her friend's limp hands in her own.

"Suzette!" she cried, and a curious hush rippled out across the room. "Percy, lift her! Bring her to a chair beside the fire, her fingers are cold!" his wife bid him.

Suzanne's eyes were still beneath half-closed lids.

"Ffoulkes!"Percy shouted, barely noticing as his other guestsbegan to driftin around themHe heard a tremble in his voice, and had to clear his throat. "Andrew, quickly!"

As he arranged his arms around Suzanne to carry her, Percy feared the worst – when he bowed his face close to hers, the only breathing he could hear was the gulping half-sobs of his wife from beside him; Suzanne's rouged lips were parted, her complexion grey and misted with perspiration, and she sank heavily in his grasp as he struggled to his feet. But Ffoulkes' immediate arrival at his side allowed him to battle reason with compassion, and he tried to cheat his mind with his heart for a while longer. Parting the groups of onlookers, friends and associates who had been standing close by when Marguerite had called out, Andrew's firmstride faltered as he reached the fireplace.

"Suzanne?" hecalled his wife's name, glancing from her stricken figure to his best friend. "What happened Has she fainted? Suzanne!"

Percy gently set his burden down on a chaise longue beside the fire, allowing her head to roll slowly onto the seat as he slipped his arm free. The hand that Marguerite had held now hungnerveless over the edge of the chair, and Percy returned it to her side before turning to face his friend.

"It's my fault," Andrew told himself as he sidestepped Percy to kneel beside Suzanne. "She said she felt tired this morning, and I should have listened." He reached for his wife's fingers, pressing them to his lips. "Suzanne, chérie, wake up, I shall take you home."

Whispers were beginning to build upon the nervous rustle of ladies' gowns and the shifting step of awkward feet, and though their comments were inaudible, still Percy could imagine the balance of concern and curiosity. To those who knew and cared for Suzanne, the situation was bewildering, fraught with sudden emotion and the natural impulse to act; for mere acquaintances of the charming French wife of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, all that was left to indulge in was the drama of the moment and the future prospect of discussing with friends this latest rout of Lady Blakeney's

When Percy raised his heavy lidsto look around him, he saw that Marguerite was clutching her hands together so tightly that her arms trembled, and also that Sir William Vavasourwas stood at his elbow. He met the doctor's dark, calm eyes.

"Ffoulkes, perhaps you had better take Suzanne to a cooler room,"suggested Sir William, who had studied medicine to better tend his ailing older brother.

Percy stepped forwards and gave his friend's shoulder a reassuring pressWhen Andrew didn't respond, Marguerite moved stiffly to her husband's side and placed her hand upon his, her trembling fingers almost as cold as Suzanne's.

All he knew was that she had fled the house, breaking free of their home together and the painful memories it now held; her sanctuary could be one of many places within the grounds. The urgency of her departure suggested that she would not have taken the time or thought to wrap herself in a cloak, nor change from her light kidskin shoes, but Percy knew that she would be unheeding of any physical discomfort now. Outside on the terrace, with the damp air in soothing contrast to the close atmosphere of the rooms that he too had now deserted, Percy thought for a brief moment and then started off towards the river.

The chestnut alley and the stone folly were too far away, if it was really only the house she was trying to escape; the greenhouses too stifling and far from private; the summer house only four more walls and a roof in which to trap her. There was only one possible place where Marguerite could go that was at once relatively sheltered and not bound with an image of Suzanne and their friendship: the rose arbour fronting onto the river that belonged solely to husband and wife, a small corner of their once unpredictable and too public life together where they could always be alone. Now that their days were free and undemanding, he and Marguerite still occasionally sought the seclusion and selfish peace of its fragrant boughs in the summer months, but there would only be dripping branches and the chill, creeping mist from the river to greet them tonight.

"Margot?" Percy called, as he approached the dark mass of the small copse which sheltered the trellising. The arbour was set deep within the trees, disguising its presence from any traffic on the river as well as the house, and Percy could not immediately see or hear any movement from inside. "Margot, are you here?"

"Percy?" She appeared at the edge of the trees, a ghostly vision in her silver gown. Her small face was visible in relief against the gloom, with her haunted eyes wide and dark in the perfect oval of her countenance. She raised a long, slender arm to him, and he covered the ground between them with a determined stride.

"My love," he sighed into her hair, tasting the coppery scent of her damp curls as he breathed in her familiar presence. Her whole graceful body was shivering beneath his touch. "You're cold. I should have brought something for you, why didn't I think?"

She nestled in his embrace, folding her bare arms up between them, and settled her forehead against his shoulder. "It's of little matter. I didn't notice that I was cold until you came."

"Please allow me, dear heart," he told her, releasing her to strip quickly out of his silk-lined coat. Without protest, she merely stood waiting for him to drape its warm folds about her trembling shoulders, and only lowered her crossed arms when he held it open for her to slip into.

"You must have stepped out a mere moment before I came downstairs," he explained, aware of her raw eyes and quivering jaw before she leaned into him again, hiding her face against his neck where she always fit so neatly; "or you would not have been out here alone."

"I'm not alone now," she replied wearily, her voice muffled by the linen and lace at his throat. Percy locked his arms around her, pulling her tightly into the protective circle of his devoted love, and pressed his lips to the crown of her hair.

After a silence, she asked: "Is Sir William staying on?"

Percy lifted his head and looked skyward. "Only until Andrew –"

"Andrew!" Marguerite cried, struggling free of Percy's hold. "We should go to him!"

He shook his head. "I've only just left him, Margot. He's – he needs to say goodbye."

"Poor Andrew!" she gasped. "I can't think what I would have done without him and Suzanne, he's been such a true friend; never once has he let me down, or refused my wishes, even when he couldn't have known what action was for the best." Her fingertips slipped limply from her husband's grasp. "He should at least know that I am close, ready to share the burden of losing our Suzanne."

"You can't do that, Margot," Percy murmured. "No-one can, for a time."

She was frowning at him. "How can we possibly let her go?" Turning to stare out across the river, Marguerite started talking, low and calm, as if to herself: "When we were at the convent, in Paris, the sisters would have done anything for Suzanne – because her father was a diplomat and her mother descended from a great family – but she asked for nothing. She was not ignorant of the privilege of her situation, but it embarrassed her to be spoiled and cosseted for money – the other girls would take advantage and misbehave, but not Suzanne." She laughed in her throat. "Oh, we were far from angelic, never believe it, but I was probably the one to lead Suzanne astray – I was older, and there on charity, and if the sisters noticed me at all, it was not to reward me. She was my friend and my protector – if not for her, I would never have had the chance to study in England; Suzanne had the Comte sponsor my voyage, as a companion for his daughter, I think."

Marguerite lowered her burning eyes, before opening her lashes to meet Percy's level gaze. "I thought I had lost her friendship forever – she was sent to be finished at Versailles, I was just about to enter the Comédie – and then of course, Armand decided he was in love with her cousin, Angéle St Cyr ... Suzanne's parents turned against my brother and I, and I knew I would never be allowed to see her again – but fate is never so absolute. I met you, and you returned Suzanne to me. I have never been so ... happy ..."

For the second time on that momentous November evening, Percy's incredible reflexes were put to the test; Marguerite did not faint, but the grief and tension within her suddenly surged to the surface, threatening to overpower her, and she faltered on the uneven riverbank. In an instant, his arms were about her, leading her away from the water's edge; she seemed so weary and fragile, her majestic figure swaddled within the folds of his coat, that Percy feared for her health. When the taut surface of her dazed calm finally seemed to be fracturing, he was almost relieved to see the tears welling in her eyes; her suffering was one of the few weaknesses to ever shatter his natural composure, but it was somehow worse to have her facing the dreadful truth alone.

She hitched in a deep breath, fixing her eyes on the distant illumination of the house. "What does Sir William say it might have been?"

Percy studied her profile, trying to read her feverish stare and the tense muscles in her jaw and neck. "I haven't really spoken with him yet. Benyon took him downstairs to the library, and I barely noticed that he went."

"She's so young," Marguerite complained, disbelieving. "She didn't appear ailing, when we were together in my rooms. We were talking about attending the theatre, and she was looking over my new gowns that arrived today. I've never seen her brighter or more gay, Percy, it can't be that she's –"

He didn't answer straight away. "I wish there was something we could have done."

She glanced at him, returning her eyes to the front before he could meet them. "Saved her, do you mean?"

"Of course."

Did he imagine the sharp twist to her lips, or invent the bitter sigh that escaped them? Perhaps he blamed himself for allowing wife and friend to slip so easily from their lives, when he had snatched so many others – strangers, as Marguerite would have once reminded him – from an undeserved fate in the past, but he felt that, at this moment, there were others who held him responsible, too.

The Vigil

The pressure of the oaken floorboards was unrelenting against his grinding knees; his legs and feet had long since gone to sleep in the cold draught circulating under the bed; he had to keep stiffening and arching his spine to relieve the ache that was building in the small of his back; and there was a thunderous, sensitive pain between his temples - but Sir Andrew Ffoulkes felt no discomfort, save the unbearable wrenching in his heart that threatened to burst his chest.

So beautiful. Her hair was in wild disarray, framing her small face with limp curls and flyaway wisps – she would hate that, particularly after the time it took Clothilde to perfect the fashionable arrangement of tight ringlets – and the whispering lustring of her skirts lay in creases all around her. Part of him wanted to smooth back the stray tendrils and arrange her gown, but he didn't; she was beautiful to him even now, appearing playful and childlike in her tousled repose. As he gazed upon her, letting his imagination feed his disbelief as he thought of her in memories, his mood would lift irrationally, only to descend within a heartbeat into a dark jealousy of the past and a hunger for but one hour more of their future. Yet he was not one for fanciful daydreaming, however sweet the sanctuary; her skin was chill to the touch, with a bland complexion that even the candles could not liven, and her breast was still above the lace of her bodice. Wishing and reminiscing were useless, and the suffocating truth of his loss was everywhere about him.

Here with her, living was bearable; but soon her parents and brother would arrive to shed silent tears and grace his Suzanne with a prayer for the dead, morning would bring the hearse to transport her through the country lanes to their own house by the river, and after the movement and the company, he would be alone. He couldn't comprehend the constant, cruel march of time; her death was not merely a private ritual and a public procession, it was the snatching of her presence from his life and he wasn't ready to let her go. At home, her book would still be tucked into the window seat, with a sample of material to mark her page; her gowns, a wave of soft muslins and silks remaining as colourful silhouettes of her petite figure, would drape half-real upon their hangers until Clothilde packed them away; and in the morning room, dawn and dusk would measure the days unheeded, without the mistress of the house to attend to her duties or invite friends to pass the hours together. Here, he had Suzanne, for whatever time was left to him; there, he had nothing.

So short a life, and part of his but for a fraction of her young years. Had he loved her from the first? The enchanted circumstances of their meeting made it seem so, even if his notice and his loyalty had lain elsewhere upon his hasty introduction to Mademoiselle Suzanne de Tournay de Basserive. Afterwards, after Paris, perhaps as suddenly as on the deck of the Daydream but certainly by the time they had reached The Fisherman's Rest, he had known. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who had once soberly warned his best friend against marrying too soon, had hoped and loved and won the hand of his own fair bride, and after only two short months of courtship. But he was not Blakeney, and she, a gentle complement to the passion and drive of the former Marguerite St Just; he had not been seeking a wife, it is true, but joining with Suzanne had brought to an end the questing of his youth.

Only with Blakeney had he felt torn between love and duty, his vows and his oath; Suzanne could not and did not challenge his decision to leave her, but still he had seen the distress playing upon her young face, her natural serenity disturbed, and faltered all the same. She had loved him as a brave and noble champion of the innocent, the rescuer of many families like her own who had been driven out of their land by a reversal of tradition and fortune; yet his claim to such devotion had belonged in part to his best friend and chief, Sir Percy Blakeney, and as such he was torn. Had he made her unhappy during their brief union, holding onto the past when he should have been starting anew?