An idea I had to show just how badly Marguerite had hurt the two men who loved her.

Marguerite

Prayer

The moment he saw her, he loved her. End of story, there was no more to it, he had to have her, no matter the cost. She was stunning, to say the least; a child of flame and passion, so much like his own. It was as if they had been created from the very same soul, that they were meant for each other, and Percy Blakeney knew that he could have no other woman. It was either this one or none at all.

He had instantly set on romancing the innocent young thing, and she was so very receptive to his attentions. Of course, she had been a bit reluctant at first to actually think of him as a suitor, but then she had every reason to be; he was quite a bit older, spoke a whole different language, and lived so very far away from the land that she loved and called home. And, of course, he was an aristocrat, which was a very dangerous thing to be in those times in that country, and it was just as dangerous to be associated with one.

But alas, he still sent her copious amounts of flowers, and he still delivered notes, letters and poems in which he had tried to scribble all of his heart's affections for her, but words failed him time and time again. He had never been contented by how far his messages struck from what he actually felt for the woman, but the pretty thing was more than delighted to receive them and would greet him with a tight embrace and a kiss on the cheek after she had read one of the many that he had sent in those first weeks, and his heart would fly because of it.

And then she had begun to love him. Imagine, a witty little actress, the cleverest woman in all of Europe, in love with him, the greatest fool in all of England! It was thrilling, intoxicating, far too wonderful to imagine. They were nearly inseparable, the star of the Paris stage and the richest man in all England. He made certain that he did not miss a single performance of hers, and had spoken to the manager of the theatre, ensuring that he would have the best seats every night. He had contacted the finest florists in France and paid them well to deliver the rarest and most beautiful bouquets to her dressing room after every performance. He and the lovely mademoiselle would dine together, take picnics in the gardens, just walk along the lovely paths within the parks inside or near the city, and he would always be sure to walk the lovely woman home at an appropriate time, kiss her farewell and bid her good evening and good bye until tomorrow.

It was a whirlwind of a romance, but a wonderful one. There was nothing that stood between them, nothing at all, and Percy felt he had no choice to show the world that he and his lovely actress were meant to be together, that they were one soul inhabiting two bodies, and one could not have lived without the other. He was complete with her, and was empty, half a man, nearly dead without her in his presence, and the longing that took him to be beside her when he was not was beastly intolerable. No, this woman and himself needed to be together for the rest of their lives, and Percy would make damned sure that it was so.

After a mere six weeks, he could no longer take those long hours of the night when he was away from her. He was sure he sounded like a fool and he watched as his hands trembled with dreaded anticipation as he slid the ring upon her finger and asked her to be his wife. But heaven had ordained that they were a match befitting the angels, and she had flung herself into his arms and kissed him, crying tears of joy as she eagerly accepted. Never was there a night quite as wonderful as that one.

Two days later, they were off to England to be married, to be joined forever, and Percy could not be happier. All those years he had waited for a woman to look beyond whatever inane game he played with the world and see and love him for who he was had suddenly become more than worth the while. She was his, and the entire thing, their meeting, the time they had spent together in Paris, and their quickly nearing marriage was a wonderful, perfect dream, and Percy had wondered what he had done so right to receive such a blessing.

It was on their wedding night that Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, awoke from that dream. He could not believe it at first when his good friend Tony Dewhurst handed him the note that denounced his close associate St. Cry and his family and sent the lot to the guillotine. It simply couldn't be that his own wife had been the case of the death of that entire family, not just the Marquis, but his wife and three children as well, the eldest being no more than twelve years of age. He recognized the handwriting, the dainty little signature each slope and curve of the ink was no doubt his wife's hand. And the elegant scrawl written over it, plainly stating, "Thank you for your help, my dear" did nothing to help his wife's innocence.

The baronet did not believe it so much, that he had argued against Tony, had scoffed at him, called him a fool, for there was no way that this could have belonged to his wife, the angel. The other hand, signed by the Citizen Chauvelin – that dark, sinister man from the theatre – he hadn't spoken to the girl, had he? No, it couldn't have been her, and the note must have been delivered to the wrong address…

He said he would prove it so, that his wife was innocent as a newborn babe, and sent Jessup to deliver the note to the pretty thing, and told Tony but to watch close, for she would not have the faintest idea as to what it was.

He could only stare in shock, mouth agape, a sharp pain in his chest when his wife had accepted the letter, calling it a congratulatory note from a friend on her wedding when asked of it. His entire world shattered before his eyes when suddenly the woman he had so thought he knew was stained with blood. An actress indeed, to have fooled him as such, to have made him believe that she was good, innocent, and if he had been fooled about that, there was no telling what other things the cunning woman had hidden from his sight. Where was she? Where had the woman that he had fallen in love with gone? She had suddenly vanished, and this woman…

He did not know her.

Oh God, he was a fool, to have been so deceived. He was so utterly stunned, so shocked, so numb, that when she came to him, he had put on the mask that he put on for the rest of England and had sent her away. She looked at him, nearly as shocked as he had been, asked him in her so typical innocent fashion what was wrong, an Percy almost forgot her sin, nearly took her into his arms and carried her up the stairs to his bedroom…. But the woman was not to be trusted. She couldn't be, not after this…

With the greatest amount of effort, he had turned her away yet again, muttering some foolishness as an excuse that he could not recall a second later. So much for his so hopeful happy marriage and all the joy that he had felt in those past few weeks…

And it was here he now stood out in the gardens of his estate, completely numb and emotionless. Everything inside of him had suddenly died as the woman that he had married was suddenly gone, no longer the woman he knew. But mark him, he still loved her with all his heart, and that was perhaps the greatest tragedy of it all. Why now, God, of all times to destroy his very being, why on this day, which should have been the most splendid of his life.

He was suddenly struck with such a pain in his chest that he doubled over, gasping for breath. The numbness that he previously felt quickly receded as he acutely felt his heart and soul die within his body as his mind turned over the harsh fact that his wife had killed, had lied to him, had held secrets from him, and could not be trusted. Where was the faith, that holy trust that should have existed between them? How could they have been so different, and how could he have been so deceived?

Bitter tears hung in his eyes as he watched the receding figure of his wife play out in his mind, slowly drifting away form him, no matter how he chased her. Let her deeds go uncared for, he wanted her, he loved her, and he would surely die without her! But to be with her and continue to be deceived by this actress, that could not be done.

No, no matter how much he longed for her, she simply could not be trusted, and as much as it hurt to have to let her go, he did not think he could survive another blow like this one. Let him live by her, but let him never trust the woman again. He would have to keep his distance, be sure to never hold her as he used to, never to pay her heed as he once did, for that would only pull him into her again, and she may well deceive him as she had done tonight yet again.

But he still loved her more than his own life. It would be such a trial to be so close to her and be unable to show how much he cared, but lest he endanger placing his faith in her again, it could not be done.

What a woman she was, to so easily abuse his absolute faith, to keep secrets while he bared his soul to her. But he supposed that it was the very nature of an actress, to wear a different mask for each person she met, to never show her true self, and being the fool that he was, he had believed that he had seen her true face, that she would show it only to him, that there ware no secrets between them, no lies, no hidden lives…

So be it. If that were the way she would play the game, then he may as well play. Let her have her hidden lives, her secrets, for he too would have his. He would find a way to endure the pain, if by nothing else, but revelling in the hope that one day he may love her again.

This vision who was not quite real…