Concrete Angel

III. Through the wind and the rain she stands hard as a stone (September 1794)

The gale was picking up considerably, lashing against the side of the ramshackle cottage as though determined to dash it to pieces. But despite the ferocity, the storm was also their ally; too dangerous was it for those that would wish to kill them, to track them here in this rage.

Still, not all of their party was safe within the little hovel.

And so she stood in the doorway, the front of her ragged dress soaked through, and her hair plastered to her forehead and shoulders, dripping into her eyes as she tried to gaze through the sheets of water to see the thin track that led to the cottage. The rough sabots she had donned were splattered with mud, which also speckled her delicate ankles. But she did not even notice the haggard, rough appearance she presented. And if she was aware of how she looked, she most certainly didn't care.

Behind her, in a tiny room with a small fire in the hearth, her comrades were tracing out escape routes to the coast, the low rumble of their voices drowned by the driving rain and the loud clashes of thunder, until one of them apparently glanced up and saw her standing in the open doorway, staring out into the quickly-gathering darkness. He called loudly for her to come back inside, lest she catch her death of cold.

How easy it was to ignore them, she thought wryly. Men she danced with in London, men she entertained in her home, men who kissed her dainty fingertips and bowed to her at balls. Men she trusted, because they trusted her husband. But she could still ignore them, despite this. Standing completely still, like the sentry she was, she continued to squint into the rain, grateful for each flash of lightening that illuminated the muddy landscape and gave her a bright view of the path.

A firm hand suddenly appeared on the door beside her, trying to push it past her slender frame to shut out the rain. Her sharp blue eyes turned stonily to Stowmarries, and he took a quick step backward at her expression.

Sir Andrew appeared on her other side then, braver than Stowmarries. He was dressed in the rags of a French peasant and looked much the worse for the wear than he usually did, considering he had been the one to walk through the bulk of the mud, leading their cart here so the horses wouldn't lose their footing.

"Lady Blakeney, you must come within and warm yourself. Percy will be here soon. You must trust me."

"Thank you, Andrew. Of course I trust you. But I shall wait here," she replied stiffly. Her muscles ached and her head throbbed, but the fire did not sound inviting if her husband were not at her side. Before Andrew could attempt to coax her again, she turned her blue gaze back to the path, and after a few long, tense seconds, the two men left her alone and retreated to the fire once more. The low voices picked up again, as her friends divided out their meager rations. Two minutes later, Phillip appeared beside her with a pinched look in his usually handsome young face, and handed her a thick slice of stale bread.

She nodded her silent thanks and turned back to her watch, keeping the bread slightly behind her hip so that it wouldn't get wet. It was foolish to waste food, here. There was no telling when they would find more, although British gold usually would do the trick, if nothing else worked.

The minutes ticked by, until thirty had passed, and a sudden flash of lightening shot through the sky, outlining the large silhouette of an approaching man, who was carrying a bundle in his arms while another shorter figure stumbled along beside him, clutching his left arm for support. Marguerite Blakeney cried out softly, and immediately, Phillip and Andrew were on their feet. Both touched her shoulder as though to impart their strength to her before running out into the rain to meet their chief; one quickly lent his arm to the stumbling figure while the second offered to take the bundle (and was subsequently refused, which was quite usual).

As they came closer, Marguerite quickly stepped back and held the door open; her husband paused only to give her a weary, yet loving look that plainly told her how grateful he was to see her standing there, before he brushed into the cottage and deposited a young, sniffling little girl beside the fire. Andrew and Phillip followed him, each supporting an aristocratic (and rain-soaked) woman, who managed a tiny, haughty smile at Marguerite before she staggered forward to join her daughter. Already, Tony and Hastings were handing them bread and milk; both ladies profusely thanked their rescuers in hoarse voices before falling to their meager meal.

Marguerite noticed her husband had slipped out of sight, however. Likely he had gone back outside, and without thought, she hurried into the rain, knowing that the other members of the League were too engrossed with assisting the Comtesse de Anaelle and her daughter to follow her.

It was in the tumbling stables that she found her husband, dutifully checking on the wet horses that had dragged the cart and the other members of the League to this place, likely to see if they were up for the next leg of the journey now that they had rested a bit.

He glanced up at her entrance and looked her over sadly. Marguerite hurried forward before he could remark on how he wished she had remained in England, because he hated to see her thus. She threw her arms about him, kissing him firmly on the mouth.

As soon as they parted, he breathed huskily, "You're soaked to the skin, Margot." She could feel his hand trembling against the small of her back; through her thin dress, the heat was scorching. He whispered, "You'll catch cold, and I shall never forgive myself. I knew this was not a good idea, to have you come along on our missions."

"Dieu, Percy. I will not wait in England whilst you are here. Not any longer. I am soaked because I was waiting for you. Had you not arrived..." She shuddered at the thought, then, to distract herself, she held out the piece of bread Phillip had given her. "You're starved, I'm sure," she said briskly.

"Have you eaten?" he asked, his expression suspicious.

A few seconds passed, with only the sound of the drowning, pounding rain on the roof of the precarious stable in their ears. Then, with a wry smile, she tore the piece of bread in half, knowing that if he had asked such a question, he would not eat until she had.

He took it with a soft, sad smile...for no other words were necessary between them then, right now.