Author's waffle: Thanks to Elyse for her valuable beta-reading skills. To paraphrase Stephen King, for what is right (grammatically and semantically), thank her, for what is wrong, blame me (and my inability to stop picking and poking at a story)! I've broken this angst-fest up into manageable chunks, and each chapter is titled with a line from a Wet Wet Wet song, 'Fool For Your Love', which I thought fit Marguerite and Percy, pre-reconciliation, very well. I've sprinkled the story with a smattering of French, because I love how it sounds, but it's nothing that can't be found in a standard school dictionary. Final thanks to the Baroness Orczy and her wonderful characters, which I hope I am treating well.
Outside the streets were beginning to come to life. Market day started just as early in Paris, even when the food was scarce and the men and women were caught up in the unrest of the times. Percy lay awake, listening to the rumble of cart wheels and the weary tread of both horses and humans along the main road outside his apartments.
He turned his head towards the windows. Grey light was beginning to filter through the lace curtains, chasing the shadows of the first floor room and revealing the time-worn panelling of the walls and the few pieces of furniture. Something stirred beneath the fresh white bed linen alongside him, and Percy became aware that he was being watched. He tilted his head still further, and met the wide blue gaze of two brightly wakeful eyes, peering at him from over the covers. Curls brighter than the light afforded by the window crowned the pillow next to his; the red-gold of her hair shining as a corona around her face.
My wife, Percy thought to himself as he smiled at her. More than the sound of the words, he loved what it meant to be able to say them – that she had chosen him, that she loved him. Marguerite St Just, who, in her position as the leading actress of the National Theatre, had reigned over her Parisian coterie for five years with her beauty, charm and wit. And just twenty hours earlier, she had forsaken that lead role to become Lady Blakeney.
Percy was not blind to the fact that the Comédie-Française was crumbling, with the future of its players dependent upon whether they chose king or nation as their audience. It was also impossible to ignore that the Paris so familiar to Marguerite's society of pure ideals and enthusiastic discussion was making way for a more aggressive leadership. Yet despite the radical changes that were already eroding Marguerite's firm footing in higher circles than her own, Percy admired the bravery she had shown in choosing a new life. After all, what could she really know about him?
"Good morning, Lady Blakeney," Percy announced, turning to his new bride.
"Dieu, that sounds imposing!" Marguerite exclaimed. "I hope I shall grow into the title!"
He laughed, and reached for her slender hand that rested on the pillow beside her head, pressing his lips to her fingers. "It is not such a title, as I am sure a duchess or two will subtly remind you."
"When we are in England?"
His brows twitched into a small frown. "Does that worry you, Margot?"
"No –" She began, glancing at her hand in his. "Not the duchesses, du moins!"
It was easy to forget sometimes that, at twenty-four, she was still so young. Marguerite had lost her parents at an early age; an absence impossible to fill, as Percy knew from personal experience. Raised by her brother Armand, in some ways she had matured perhaps faster than would a girl with the gentle influence of a mother and the wise authority of a father. Brother and sister had moved to Paris, under the guardianship of their aunt, until, at the tender age of eighteen, Marguerite's burgeoning talent on the stage had swiftly developed into a coveted career with the Comédie-Française. Balancing her precocious and early entrance with a generous nature and a willingness to learn from her contemporaries, she soon became the darling of the theatre, and she and Armand had been able to move into apartments on the Rue de Richelieu. Four years after that, the highlight of the young actress' career came at a performance at Versailles, where she had been personally requested by the Queen – and where she had first entranced the young English milord.
Yet Marguerite was still essentially a girl at heart, for all the rapid developments in her young life: the woman with the strong presence on the theatre stage – the opinionated speaker at salon gatherings – the leader of fashionable society – each was just as much a role in her life as when she read Phedré. Percy thought he could understand her worries over leaving behind the familiar for the unknown, especially as she would essentially be facing this change alone. Naturally, he would support her, and try to protect her from the worst initiations of English high society, but he would still only be her English husband – part and parcel of the alien culture and lifestyle to which she would have to adjust. He could only hope that their love would be sanctuary enough.
"My poor Margot," he murmured, "there's hardly been time to pause for breath in this little romance of ours, has there?" He leaned across to plant a gentle kiss into the soft waves of her hair.
Marguerite pressed her free hand to her husband's face, where Percy's rose to envelope it. Their gaze locked, his lazy blue eyes seeming to seek something in hers.
"Je t'adore," she mouthed.
Percy let out a short sigh. "Je t'adore aussi," he offered pathetically, kissing the palm of her hand. The automatic reply of 'I love you too' – even in French – just didn't seem enough to convey what he felt for this woman.
"What will your friends in England say?"
"Those friends that count, already know," he told her. "And I'm sure you will quickly win over the others!"
"Let's leave Paris – let's go to England – right now, Percy!" Marguerite rushed, raising herself up on one elbow.
Percy responded with warm laughter, his mirth politely restrained as usual, so that he managed to sound both shy and slightly childish. Still, it was infectious, and soon Marguerite was giggling too, in her own musical tones.
"I love how you embrace a challenge, chère coeur," he said earnestly. "I think that must be what drew us together, that spirit of 'the world be demmed'! But – surely you must want to say your farewells properly?"
Marguerite's excitement was briefly checked; she managed to keep the corners of her lips in a smile, and her bright eyes were only shaded for a moment, but Percy noticed the change.
"There's nothing here for me anymore," she said softly; "it has only ever been Armand and myself, and I know that he will visit as often as he can –"
A tear broke free from the shine in her eyes. "Dieu -" She said under her breath, pulling her hand free from his to wipe her eyes. Percy eased her hand away, and caught the moisture with the cuff of his shirt.
"Let me," he said gently. "I never could bear to see a beautiful woman cry. It seems so unnatural."
He kept his tone light, because he could see she was embarrassed, but Percy's thoughts were in turmoil: were her tears because of him? Had he swept a young girl over-fond of romance and drama into a marriage that she wasn't ready for? Had he mistaken the real Marguerite for Mademoiselle St Just of the Comédie-Française, brave in her views when at home with her brother and acting the part when surrounded by her many adoring acquaintances? No, he didn't believe so. She could be a very strong woman – every line of her exquisite face held a clue to that ardent nature. Her regal stature had attracted him two years earlier, and he had returned to find that her character more than matched her looks. But still – did she really love him?
"I'm not upset, honestly," Marguerite said, taking a hitching breath and sitting up straight; "it's only that so much has happened, so quickly."
He caught a glance of her classical profile, the lines of which suddenly seemed to have hardened. Percy couldn't say why, but he was suddenly sure that she was referring to more than their spontaneous marriage in the Church of St. Roch the day before.
"We must have been swept up in the spirit of this once fair city, m'dear," he offered. "Revolution is the ruling passion at the moment, who says it should only apply to politics?"
Marguerite flashed him such a look of fear and suspicion over her shoulder, that, although the intense emotions quickly dissolved from her lovely features, the effect startled Percy.
"Marguerite, I'm sorry," he said, raising himself up behind her. He instinctively moved to hold her, but then checked that impulse, afraid to touch the rigid lines of her back and shoulders."What right have I to talk to a daughter of France about the revolution? I haven't lived through the changes, and you have."
Marguerite looked to force herself to relax, leaning back on her hands, and letting her legs, which had been drawn up against her chest, dip towards Percy's. She was facing him once again. "Yes – yes, everything has changed. I thought it would be for the best, but I wasn't ready for how much people would change – people I thought I knew. That's why there's nothing left here for me, except dear Armand."
"You rather sound like you're running away, m'dear."
A strange smile pulled at her mouth, and then she leaned in closer, closing her eyes. Percy regarded her face for a brief second – that flawless mask, with its straight brows and chiselled nose – wondering just how much he knew about her, and then he kissed her: kissed the smooth forehead, the closed eyes, the tip of her nose, and the exquisite, silken lips. As she responded, snaking an arm around his neck, Percy only knew that he loved her, wholly and truly.