A White Rose
The cloudy dawn on the horizon of the coast had not yet brought what young Sally Jellyband was waiting for. She hadn't waited a single minute: at the news of the return of the Day Dream she was already at the dock, her hesitation trapped in her hands ruined by the kitchen water, in the muscles of her arms now accustomed to loading full tankards, clenched teeth and trembling lips, in a naive hesitation, like that first moment when they had met so many years ago, the military nobleman had shown with a single gesture, in a single glance, who he really was.
She hadn't even had time to put her apron on the kitchen counter and it still encircled her hips trained by long strides and narrow tables, still wet; she hadn't even come home, she hadn't even told him yet.
At the end of her shift, when the pub closed, she had just sat there waiting on that bank for the Day Dream to arrive on time, as expected.
The message had been received since his departure from the French coast, this time the people rescued from Madame la Guillotine's clutches came from the Arras hospital. A miracle, a miracle, an almost mute woman in a sanatorium far from Paris, but on the road to Calais. The only ray of hope among those gray clouds of a tiring morning like many others: a white rose that survived the thorns of the Revolution.
The young woman waited patiently for the three gentlemen to descend from the schooner, followed them in their every step, every gesture and every single move, in a forced and nervous silence, ready to step forward. She helped the person veiled in white to go through the door of the rooms of the "Fisherman's Rest" .
Only once he left the sight of a clientele still asleep in the dreams of the night, she greeted the married couple with a nod of her head and, without hesitation, with her eyes filled with tears of joy, she embraced the tall and slender veiled figure who accompanied them.
But that embrace so intense and desired, that affection and emotion, that hope now extinguished and yet rekindled by the miraculous discovery, did not meet on the other side the same love, as much benevolence and the same desire to meet again. That mysterious but well-known character seemed to have stopped breathing, stiffened by a tension of defense.
Never showing their closeness to poor Sally's embrace and affection, the mysterious figure still had his head covered by a veil. Their loose blond hair fell to their shoulders; he showed only a gesture of passive tolerance: only an affectionate hug from a loved one with vaguely familiar expressions.
Asking the Blakeneys' permission first, Sally nodded to Marguerite and invited her guest to sit on the soft bed. She lifted those veils with care, met her blue eyes and a sense of absence and oblivion pervaded the young maid. The words he wanted to say, the time spent knowing of another cruel fate, the tired eyes of the night spent waiting for that moment, congealed in the dry throat of the morning and his voice exhausted.
Marguerite noted how Miss Jellyband, in all her peasant grace and simplicity, had never ventured so much with any of their guests and companions who landed from the Day Dream, but perhaps the greatest amazement came when the girl began to speak in French. Perfect, the Parisian accent, so luxurious and sophisticated, so similar to her pronunciation as an erudite actress. The dense words, the pressing questions of the young Sally met only amazement and fright on the part of her interlocutor.
For a few minutes, Percy showed no signs of astonishment at Sally's beautiful accent, but more at the absence of mind and vagueness of the former soldier and commander.
The man approached the young woman and asked her to leave, without receiving an answer from the poor weeping maid. That beautiful flight of hope had already encountered a brick and concrete wall ready to hinder him.
The young woman followed Sir Blakeney's advice and left the room, carefully closing the door.
"Oscar?" - he asked.
The figure turned to Percy, still gripped by an expression of surprise and fear at the young woman's reaction and gestures to the servants.
"Do you remember her? She's here to take you to safety!"- Marguerite said.
Oscar shook his head in denial.
"What's your name?" - Percy asked, treading a little more on that old English accent that he usually knew perfectly well. He hardly remembered the face of his interlocutor, but not that of the two women, the name gushed from his lips like a mechanical recitation.
"Oscar?"- they asked, looking for confirmation in the expressions of the couple. Their shoulders relaxed a little in the presence of the elegantly robed man with tired eyes.
Marguerite delicately extended a hand to those of the military noble with a sense of reassuring understanding, but turned her gaze to Percy, looking for further confirmation.
At first, the man said nothing, looked away from them and narrowed his view towards an uncertain horizon and frowned thoughtfully.
Another obstacle to be solved in a time that is already completely non-existent. He should have set sail again for the Dutch coast, he should have asked for Drouet.
With his hands behind his back, he stepped back and, without any warning and motivation, pounced on the one he remembered to be the Colonel of the Queen's guard, the noble and proud duelist of "The Crazy Day".
Instinctively, Oscar blocked his opponent's blow and responded to the gesture with the same force. In a few moments, the tall and mighty Sir Percy was already with his back to the wall: his precious necks, stretched by the untrained hand of the soldier.
Untrained and ten years older, yet she could still hold her own: that ancient duel of theirs would really, only, dishonor the Blakeneys' abilities.
"Do you think he can't lead an equal duel with you? You too? What do I have to prove to someone like you? And to all the others?"- Oscar asked.
"What do you know about me?"- he asked in response.
"I don't remember, Sir. All the people we have met since the landing call you Sir Percy, I assume this is your name"- answered Oscar.
"We don't have much time, we have to set sail again for Norderney. Marguerite has to go back to the Richmond mansion, someone is waiting for her. Miss Sally is a dear acquaintance of yours: she is here to take you to a safe place and recover your strength..."- Percy said, looking for the diplomacy that slowly failed to his kind words. However Oscar had nothing more to lose, no other kind words addressed to his alleged benefactor, who in reality seemed to have only brought trouble in a new anonymous and apparently quiet life. A deceptive appearance, however.
"Sir! I spent months, years, among people I didn't know and whose faces I don't even remember! I've spent years trying to remember something! To learn it all over again! And all you did was take me out of that place, out of that white, windy, cold room, just to lock me in a cabin for days, lock me up in this room now! Now that you have released me from that prison of health, you cannot leave me in the care of this stranger! ".
Unknown ...
The young maid burst into the room again between the sobs of desperate tears, the exasperation of a heart betrayed by fate.
Sally spoke so fast, Oscar's ears seemed to be submerged under water and she couldn't hear that clear and elegant voice, she couldn't even recognize where it was. The blood throbbed painfully towards his temples, deep in his absent eyes, the pain was still excruciating. In the confusion of that scene full of mere despair, Oscar could not feel any feeling for a drama that no longer belonged to his memories. He did not remember ever having lived those moments so intense and desperate and, in their place, only nothing appeared. He didn't want to listen anymore.
"I don't remember you at all, Mademoiselle Sally" - she said instinctively.
"It will be just a moment of distraction! I will prepare you a hot soup and you will remember everything immediately! "- the young woman replied.
"All I remember is pain. If that's the case, maybe I don't want to follow you and heal: I don't want to remember anymore, Mademoiselle Sally ".
Mademoiselle Sally.
Two words as sharp as shards of glass. Oscar had no idea who he was.
The young waitress had lost all the fortitude she had shown, to stay with them, to accept the weight of such a terrible reality. So cruel to her: the good Lord gives, the good Lord takes away.
"At this point I can't help but say goodbye to you again, Oscar" - the young woman whispered between sobs, wiping the thick tears with her beautiful apron.
Without saying a word more, she took Oscar's hands and placed a paper rose between her fingers.
A white rose.