Author's Note: I forgot to mention, I've changed the location of Derbyshire county altogether--I told you this would be extreme AU! Derbyshire, and Pemberly, are now much nearer the southern coast of England, perhaps a mile from the sea. It's important to note that Derbyshire county (in this universe) is directly from a port town in France called Calaise. This makes the boat trip over the Channel only about 30 minutes long. Matlock (the Fitzwilliam estate) is in the county just north of Derbyshire's new location.
Also, it's entirely possible that the cast could be updated at any point during the story. If I change it in any way, I'll post a notice with the next chapter.
Author's Apology: I suck at action sequences--part of the reason I'm writing this fic, lol, is to practice. So please bear with me. I apologize ahead of time.
Chapter One
In Which the Bennéts are Separated and Georgiana is Informed
June 13, 1799
Somewhere outside Marseille. France
Until then, sitting in a condemned meeting room in a decrepit manor (and only as comfortable as broken furniture of at least twenty years old could afford), Elizabeth had believed herself to be living in fear. After all, it was only through her father's good sense and the whim of fate that her family had not been imprisoned by the Committee of Public Safety. Though the book she was reading was a particular favorite, Lizzy had lost her avid interest--she snapped the book shut.
"Committee of Public Safety, indeed," she said bitterly to herself. "How much of the public is truly safer thanks to their efforts? Very little, I should imagine! One is more likely to be killed than protected by this committee."
Angry enough to feel vaguely ill, Lizzy stood and, after picking up the stubby candle, made her way across the room. The roof of this particular room kept out a great deal of light, but let in an equally great deal of rain. She kept to the dry portions of the room as she stepped delicately around broken and dusty furniture. The old--perhaps even ancient--manor was in such a state of disrepair that the idea of anyone, or anything, inhabiting it amazed her.
Still, she was hardly going to complain. Her family was still together and whole, unlike many families across France, and for that she was unceasingly grateful. Lizzy pushed open the door and entered the main hall.
This room, unlike the one she as just quitted, had a vaguely snug feel about it. A large heart in each end of the hall, in which equally large fires were blazing, both lit and warmed the hall, and the furniture was whole, in general, and useable. In fact, the west wing of the abandoned manor was largely intact, if not precisely luxurious. Having lived in the manor for the past year, the Bennéts had become quite adept at practicality and making the best of what they had. Only the east wing, a room of which Lizzy had only just left, was capable of being called condemned.
Lizzy blew out the candle--they were extremely difficult to come by--in order to preserve their stores and set it and the book down on the table. Her mind drifted back to the recent execution--murder--of the King. It was true, Louis had not been the wisest of men, but to resort to murder? If the rumors were true, then Jean-Paul Marat had established himself as head of the Committee before the King's body was even taken away from the guillotine. She had heard of this Marat and his radical views.
For all their learned practicality, she feared that the family Bennét would be dead within a fortnight.
"Lizzy," a voice called, and she looked up to see her twin sister standing in the doorway. Jane was clearly disturbed: her posture was stiff, and her eyes were slightly wider than what could be considered normal. Elizabeth was immediately on her guard.
"What is it?" she asked, gripping a nearby chair rather tightly.
"There is someone here to see you. He is waiting in father's study."
With a jolt of dread, Elizabeth numbly followed her sister out of the hall, across the foyer, and to the study. Just before they reached the door, Lizzy turned to her sister. "Is my guest a friend?"
Jane paused, considering this for a moment. "He once was," she said finally. "But has not been so for quite some time. Perhaps a year."
It couldn't be… Surely not even he would be so bold? She glanced at the door, then said lowly, "Keep everyone gathered in once place. Nearby. With their things."
Jane nodded firmly in agreement. "I had already planned it," she assured her sister.
Lizzy squeezed her sister's hand before going to the door and, after drawing in a deep breath, pushing it open. At first she saw no one, and with a frown she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Then she saw him, standing near the hearth, and her eyes narrowed.
"Marcellus," she said distastefully. "What do you want? You have no reason to darken my doorstep anymore."
Marcellus Jerrard was a handsome man, attractive in a dangerous way. With dark eyes, darker hair, and a grin that could make the coldest woman melt where she stood, she had once been one of the many girls completely smitten with him. However, in a surprising turn of events, it wasn't long before he was completely in love with her. Then, however, the revolution began, and he avowed that he would die before marrying a daughter of the aristocracy. To add insult to injury, he stated at the same time that he had only involved himself with her in order to move closer to the "traitors of the people," so as to better position himself for turning such traitors in to the Committee.
"Is that any way to greet a former love, ma chéri?" he inquired, grinning at her winningly.
"Note the operative use of the word 'former,' monsieur," she retorted icily. "What do you want?"
To Elizabeth's great surprise, Marcellus ceased his games and said straightforwardly, "I have a proposition for you."
Her insides turned to lead and ice all at once; he had uttered remarkably similar words when he proposed. "My answer is no," she said categorically.
"You make your answer so hastily, citoyenne," he commented, clearly amused, watching her in a manner that was not unlike an ornery cat toying with a mouse. "You have yet to hear my offer."
It was then that Elizabeth realized the name of the anonymous emotion she'd been subject to for the past several moments: fear. The comprehension astounded her at the first, but then she realized that she had every reason to fear this man. Marcellus Jerrard would, without a thought to plague him, toss her to the wolves of the Committee--and their deadly jaws, the ever-ready guillotine--and would do worse to her family. His presence was, essentially, the kiss of death to her family; he represented the hordes of angry French citizens that were leading innocents to their deaths all over the country, and the thought frightened her more than she would willingly admit.
When she acknowledged this fear, it seemed to open the floodgates, and she was nearly swamped by it. However, anger tempered the fear, for in truth, she was more angry with this man than afraid of him, and for many of the very reasons that caused her fear. This man had not simply slighted her--he was a murderer, working the name of liberty.
"You can have no proposal, monsieur, that I could be induced to accept," she said informed him with cold deliberation. "You call me 'citoyenne,' yet I am of the loathed aristocracy. Have your loyalties shifted, Monsieur Jerrard?"
His expression was inscrutable as he stood and walked purposefully toward her. Elizabeth refused to move, standing straight and proud--if she was to die for what her name was, and for what her peers had done, then she would confront her fate bravely.
"I can help you, Elizabeth," he said lowly. "I can keep you from meeting the same end as the traitors that plague our country, but you must help me in return."
"I can offer no service that would be of use to you, or the Republic," she informed him in a hard voice, her tone very near to mocking when she spoke of the… animals… that he represented, which her countrymen had become.
"On the contrary, my dearest Elizabeth," he said, now standing behind her and very close. "Give me the names and whereabouts of the sacrés aristos, and I will save you, ma chéri."
"I am one of those sacrés aristos, Marcellus," she cried incredulously.
"No…" He lifted a hand and laid it at the crook of her neck, gently stroking the hair that draped over her shoulders. "No, you cannot be one of them. How else could I have loved you, Eliza? How else could I still feel as I do?"
Feeling sick with disgust, she turned her head to look at him, struggling to hide at least the majority of her anger and revulsion. "That time has been long past, Monsieur Jerrard," she said coldly. "I was a silly young girl, in love with an idea, not a man."
His expression, one moment ardent and almost hopeful, was utterly flat the next. "Don't be a fool, Elizabeth," he said abruptly. "You don't realize what the Committee is planning. Our country has enemies, Mademoiselle Bennét, within and without, and soon, we will purge France of her foes."
"The only enemies of France I see," she retorted heatedly, "are the fools who believe that this never-ending massacre is the way to attain liberty!"
Abruptly he reached out and seized her, hauling her forward until she was pressed against him tightly. "Give me the information I seek and I will spare you," he snarled.
"And what of my family?" she spat. "You profess undying love, yet give me an ultimatum? Do your motivations serve anyone's purposes other than your own?"
As equally abruptly as he had taken hold of her, he thrust her away, and Elizabeth stumbled into the desk. A glass fell off and shattered on the floor, but she was too enraged to care.
"I confess!" Marcellus announced furiously. "I came here in the hopes of gaining your allegiance. You were mine once, and I have every intention of making you thus again. I have no care for your family. Even now, there are men awaiting my orders. Make your choice, Elizabeth. But whatever you decide, Madame la Guillotine awaits your family!"
She never paused to think; Elizabeth grabbed up a book, lying open on the desk, and struck him over the head with it so violently that the blow sent him pitching to the floor. She raced past him and to the door, slamming it shut behind her.
"Lizzy!" Jane cried worriedly, seeing her sister's angry and distraught countenance. "What has happened?"
"We must go," she said tersely. "Now. Marcellus has men waiting to arrest all of us. Everyone, please…"
Her father, looking grimmer than she had yet to see him, lead their family towards the back entrance as Elizabeth grabbed up the plain brown rucksack that Jane had brought from the room they shared. Her parents and sisters already had their packs, and so no time was lost as they filed down the narrow corridor. To the orchard, she thought, knowing her father was thinking the same. If we can make it to the orchard, we can escape them.
Unfortunately, the orchard was well-nigh a mile distant from the condemned manor.
Desperately attempting to ignore this, Elizabeth ushered her sisters and father past her into the dark outdoors. The rain had paused, which was both a blessing and a curse: they would not be nearly so cold, but the rain would not be there to wash away their footprints. Just before she stepped outside, her mother paused and gripped Elizabeth's hand tightly.
"He offered you life?" she asked enigmatically.
"He offered me emptiness, Maman," she amended with a slightly forced smile, "not life."
"My Lisbet," her mother sighed, "surrendering all in the hopes for nothing. Think of how many lives you may have saved."
"I can hardly-"
The door to the study burst open explosively, and Elizabeth gasped, instinctively recoiling. "Run, Maman," she muttered urgently. Marcellus skidded out of the room and, by a mere unhappy chance, happened to glance down the narrow corridor to see them make their escape. Elizabeth pushed her mother out the door before another detail could be absorbed, and the two of them fled out into the overgrown lawn, where their family waited.
"We were seen," Elizabeth said, and suddenly they heard shouts, which not even a timely crash of thunder could mask.
"Go!" her father cried.
A sudden thrill of panic gripped her, and she would not have moved if not for her sister's hand grabbing her own. Elizabeth looked down at their hands, looked back at Jane, and thought, He will kill us all.
The thought of her family being lead to the guillotine, which was surely what would befall them, was enough set her to moving. Without warning, she began running at a dead sprint, setting her course to the stagnant field directly behind the manor and, beyond that, the overgrown orchard that could afford her family relatively safety… if they could reach it before Marcellus and his men reached them.
The heavens chose that moment to set loose a second torrent, and soon all Elizabeth could hear were the men tracking them, the storm, and her own labored breathing. They entered the field, a sea of weeds and brambles, the tallest of which were level with Elizabeth's shoulders. She clung tightly to Jane's hand as they ran, half-expecting one of Marcellus' agents to catch up and take hold of one or both of them. It was a struggle to run through the overrun field, and soon her lungs began to burn as her legs began to ache. Elizabeth wondered faintly if she could collapse and be taken despite her best efforts.
They were halfway through the field. Nearly there, nearly there… she thought to herself, her gaze fixed on the orchard and the hope of safety. Suddenly one of the figures ahead of them fell, and a second figure tripped and fell over them. Elizabeth and Jane both, seemingly at once, struggled to run faster as the three figures ahead of them that were still on their feet stumbled to a half and went to help the fallen.
Elizabeth was afraid that she'd fall into them, but somehow she managed to skid to a halt just before. Suddenly she heard gunfire, and Lydia screamed. Catherine and Mary, the two that had fallen, were pulled to their feet, and Elizabeth cried, "To the orchard! Quickly!"
The three younger sisters and their parents all began to run, and even as Elizabeth and Jane made to join them, shots rang out once more, and Jane gave a pained cry.
"JANE!" Lizzy shrieked, filled with nothing short of terror, as her sister fell into her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her family stop, and she yelled at them, "Keep running, you fools!"
After a slight hesitation, one of the five began running back toward where Lizzy struggled to support her sister, while the rest resumed their flight to the orchard. "What is it?" she asked her sister. "What's wrong?"
"My arm, only," Jane replied in a terse voice. There was another shot, and Elizabeth flung both herself and her sister to the ground. Jane gave a sharp cry at the impact--for it was her wounded shoulder that hit the ground first--and swoon from the pain.
"Jane," Elizabeth hissed, panic beginning to blur her thinking. She could hear the men behind her, shouting and they charged after them through the weeds. "Jane, please, we have to run."
There was a great deal of crashing through the weeds, and before Elizabeth could react, her mother appeared, looking tight and drawn, falling to her knees beside her two daughters.
"Jane's wounded," Lizzy supplied instantly. "She's unconscious." A sense of hopelessness settled over the young woman as she gazed down on her twin. We will be caught, she thought, her eyes burning. We will be caught, and we will be sent to the guillotine.
"Take care of them all for me?" her mother asked suddenly, and Elizabeth looked up at her in surprise.
"What?"
"Take care of them," the Marquise repeated firmly. "Get out of France, and take care of them. Now, promise me you will not make a sound, not matter what transpires."
"Maman-"
"Promise me!" the woman hissed urgently, her grip almost painful on her daughter's arm.
Elizabeth was at a loss. If her mother was swearing her to silence, surely it meant that the woman had something dangerous, even fatal, planned? But what else was there to do but to follow her mothers orders? She looked down at Jane, thought of her beautiful and beloved twin being murdered in the name of liberty, and nodded to her mother.
"I promise," Elizabeth said hesitantly, and her mother looked satisfied. The Marquise touched Jane's arm, kissed Elizabeth's forehead, then murmured, "Please tell you father and sisters how much I love them."
Elizabeth gasped and reached out to restrain her mother, but she had acted to slowly: the Marquise had already leaped to her feet and was running directly for their pursuers.
"You killed them! You killed my darlings!" the woman shrieked. Lizzy bit her lip to suppress the tears as she crawled forward in order to better see what was happening.
"They can't all be dead," she heard Marcellus said disgustedly. She strained to see where he was, but the weeds were thick, and she didn't dare raise herself high enough to be seen.
"My youngest have disappeared, but my eldest-" her mother broke off in a sob, and Elizabeth realized, for the first time, just how truly great an actress her mother must have been to have made her way in the French court. "You killed them. My Jane and Lizzy, they are both dead!"
There was a strange, very tense pause, and a strangled voice said, "Elizabeth is dead?"
"Dead!" the Marquise cried in anguish. "My only consolation is that she is free from nefarious creatures like you!"
Suddenly, Elizabeth realized that the strangled voice had belonged to Marcellus. Just what had caused his strange tone? Had he been truthful about his lingering regard for her? Or simply disappointed to have two less victims for Madame la Guillotine?
There was a sound she could not identify, rather like a heavy object hitting… something… and a sharp cry. Elizabeth raised herself ever so slightly, finding herself a slightly clearer place to look through; she could now see both Marcellus and her mother.
Her mother was on the ground, her hand to her head, as Marcellus stood over her. Elizabeth shivered: she had never seen him so angry in her life, and the sight was a fairly frightening one. As she watched, he reached out and took a pistol from one of the men standing nearby him.
"Who shot at them?" he demanded, but received no response, which only angered him further. "WHO?"
A man stepped forward, almost into Elizabeth's area of sight. "I did, sir."
"Stupid." And quite suddenly, Marcellus raised the pistol he had taken and shot the man without hesitation.
Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth, barely stifling a scream. Marcellus tossed that pistol to the ground, then pulled out his own. "You, Marquise," he said, "should thank me. Now you will not have to witness the execution of your own children for your treason."
Marcellus raised the gun, and Elizabeth threw herself to the ground as the shot was fired.
Pemberly Estate. Derbyshire, England.
Georgiana Darcy was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an unintelligent young woman. Having been raised by Fitzwilliam Darcy and Richard Fitzwilliam, it seemed that she made better company for men than for her own sex. Perhaps this should have disturbed her more than it did, but it didn't; she was more than happy to continue her life as it was, associating with those who knew and loved her (most of whom, it had to be admitted, were male) rather than actually moving in society.
She sighed and stood, moving to stare out the window. The day was bright and clear, and thanks to Pemberly's position atop one of the rolling hills, she could see the sea from that window. Had her brother yet returned from France? She had absolutely no way of knowing, and felt useless because of it. The secret rooms they had for the aristocratic refugees had been prepared for a day, giving Georgiana one less thing to occupy her time with.
She turned abruptly, her eyes instantly landing on the seated figure of her cousin, who was nearly as dear to her as her brother. He was reading, the wire-rimmed glasses he used for such activities perched on his nose. It was almost a comical sight, a cavalryman reading with a small pair of spectacles balanced on his nose, but she knew full well that he only needed them for reading; strangely, he could see better than young men half his age, unless he was reading. She often used it to tease him, and he would always tell her, "Someday, most radiant cousin, I will need such cumbersome things all of the time, and then what will you say?"
"Do you think the unrest in France will have any affect on us?" she asked him.
Richard's eyes remained fixed on the page as he replied, "I believe it already has, or am I much mistaken?"
Georgiana sighed, moving to sit across from him, her hands clutching each other in her lap. "That isn't-"
"I know." With a sigh that spoke of more than mere remorse at quitting his book, Richard closed the volume and removed his spectacles. "You know that the French King and his family attempted to escape the country not long ago and were captured in the endeavor. From what I understand, however, Louis had recently been sent to visit Madame la Guillotine. Which, I am afraid to add, is being put to use more frequently than before, if you can believe it. Wealthy families, not just aristocrats, are terrified out of their wits that they will be accused of crimes against the republic."
Georgiana looked away, towards the southern window and France. "And fools like the Pimpernel are his cohorts are plunging into the fray as often as they can."
She had reason to worry: Fitzwilliam Darcy was a proud man, but a noble one. The execution of the French King would only serve, to him, as a perverse sort of call to action; his efforts in rescuing the French aristocracy would only be stoked by the inflamed violence. Her brother, however, was not the only one who caused her to worry. It would be best, however, not to voice that concern: Richard had yet to discover her relationship with Sir Andrew, and perhaps it would be to everyone's advantage to wait. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was, quite possibly, even more protective than her own brother, if such a thing were possible.
Richard didn't respond immediately to her statement, more than likely because he saw the truth of it as well as she did, and she stood and moved back toward the window. "Your brother knows full well how to go about his pursuits and enterprises, Georgiana," he assured her then.
"And the French know full well how to operate a guillotine," she said, almost bitterly, resting her hands on the windowsill. "Lord knows they've had a great deal of practice at it."
She pressed her hand against the glass, rather fancying that she could summon her brother home with merely her thoughts. Richard came up from behind her to stand by her side at the window, surveying the distant sea as she did. "If it's of any comfort, we both know that your brother is entirely capable of sending any of those frog-eaters running to their mamas with one shot of that glare of his, which I still say he inherited from Aunt Catherine-"
Georgiana giggled at this; indeed, Fitzwilliam Darcy had a glare that could shrivel the healthiest plants within an instant, if he so chose to bestow it.
"And, I must confess," he continued, "I rather wish I was there myself."
He had spoken so nonchalantly that she nearly missed the gravity in his expression as he stared at the sea. She knew what he was referring to, of course; anyone who truly knew Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam would have realized it. The memory was as painful to her as it was to him, but just the same…
"It was over a year ago, Richard," she said softly, gazing at him with concern.
"A year two months back," he said flippantly. There was no emotion to his words nor his expression.
"We have no way of knowing if she even survived the robbery," she said, almost desperately. Georgiana had had a very difficult time overcoming the disappearance of her dear friend, Josephine Aldridge. It was widely believed that she--as well as every servant in the house at the time--had been the prey of thieves. All of the victims had been located except for Josephine; not even a body had been found. She had simply disappeared, and the thieves were never apprehended. The lack of any conclusive evidence had ensured that true closure would never be accomplished; it was entirely likely that Georgiana and her cousin would never know what had befallen their dear friend.
As difficult, however, as it had been for Georgiana to bear the loss and the circumstances surrounding it, Richard seemed to have suffered even further. It worried her: Even a year after the incident, her cousin still seemed to be under the weight of an intense grief. Not for the first time, she wondered if perhaps their relationship had run deeper than anyone had suspected.
"I realize that," he said, a vague note of impatience to his tone. He turned and stalked back toward center of the room. Georgiana watched him, more than a little concerned at his behavior. "I realize many things that most don't expect me to realize. And yet-"
He stopped abruptly. For her own part, Georgiana felt rather like someone had ripped a bandage off a half-healed wound. Even Josephine's father, Sir John Aldridge, had accepted the inexorable truth: Josephine Elaine Nicolette Aldridge was gone. Not lost, but gone. When Mr. Aldridge had quitted the search efforts three months ago, eight after the disappearance, it had been relatively easier for Georgiana to accept the fact that her friend simply wasn't going to return home. Richard, however, had never accepted such truths, and when Mr. Aldridge called off the search, the Colonel had taken up his own. In truth, Richard's search was much less grand, as he had not the means or connections that Mr. Aldridge had, but it was, nevertheless, a search.
"I know she's alive, Georgiana. Whoever might have taken her would want to keep her alive," he said with conviction.
Stop this, Richard! she wanted to cry. Stop! Instead, she simply sank into a nearby chair--the most uncomfortable seat in the room, for which reason it had been pushed near the window, out of the way--watching her cousin with a mixture of sympathy, anguish, and aggrieved exasperation. "Why would thieves wish to keep the daughter of one of the most influential men in England alive a year after they took her? For that matter, if they intended to keep her alive, why did they not demand ransom?" she demanded. "Think sensibly, Richard!"
"They weren't thieves," he said abruptly, beginning to pace, as he often did when frustrated, and always did when this particular subject was raised.
"What?" she cried. "Not thieves? But everyone was told-"
"We suspected thieves," he interrupted. "But nothing was stolen from the estate. Not even the silver."
Georgiana didn't speak as she absorbed this newfound information. Nothing taken? Then why would the intruders invade Ravensgate if not to loot? Why else would they have killed all of the servants? Unless, of course, their intentions had been unrelated to material valuables…
"Then who could it have been?" she demanded, wanting only to end the painful conversation and forget its implications. "Did the French steal her away?"
The look he gave her was one that rendered her immovable. "In truth," he said slowly, "I have reason to believe that is precisely who took her."
Georgiana opened her mouth to ask still more questions when, unfortunately for her, the door to the sitting room was opened, and her brother, looking rather worse for wear, entered the room with as much dignity as his exhausted form could muster.
"Fitzwilliam!" she cried, leaping from her seat. He gave her a fleeting smile as he closed the door behind him. The look of his face stilled her when she would have gone to him.
"Darcy, you look terrible," Richard said bluntly, a look of concern on his face. One could hardly tell that not a moment before he'd been nearly beside himself with frustration and grief. "Sit down, man, before you fall down."
"I came as swiftly as I could manage," he said, waving his cousin's words away. "I bring news from France."
Georgiana drew upon her reserves of sensibility and protective instinct, going over to grip Darcy's arm and tow him over to a seat. "What news do you bring us?" she inquired soothingly, guiding him to a chair and gently pushing him into it.
"Three days ago," he said, "the Jacobins took control of the Committee of Public Safety."
Richard gave a grim, terse sigh and went over to stand near a window, once again staring towards the south. "How many of the Girondins are dead?" he asked darkly. "No true Jacobin will risk being usurped once he has taken control."
"Thirty-one of them were arrested just before the Jacobins took control," Fitzwilliam said grimly. This seemed to be something of significance, as Richard muttered something under his breath--most likely a few rather colorful curses--and turned away from the window, resuming his pacing.
Georgiana, however, was at a loss. She knew very little of Jacobins and Girondins; only that the Jacobins had the support of the Parisians, where as the others did not. Seeing her confused frown, Fitzwilliam explained: "La Gironde and La Montagne are both political parties in France. Girondins are widely viewed as the conservative party, as they are largely theorists and idealists. La Montagne is currently under the sway of the Jacobins, who are more radical and prone to action. That is, Girondins think without acting, and Jacobins act without thinking."
"Which then translates," Richard added, "to Girondins being more open to influence. In truth, the goals of both parties are exactly the same-"
"-and the true difference is merely in temperament."
"How they go about reaching those goals?" Georgiana suggested, beginning to comprehend.
"Precisely," Richard said, flashing her a rather forced grin. It quickly fell as he look to Fitzwilliam. "Who is in control?"
"At the moment, Jean-Paul Marat holds the greatest influence," was the reply, to which Richard muttered another short string of curses and resumed his pacing.
"Jean-Paul Marat?"
"A radical, even for a Jacobin," Fitzwilliam explained. "He was one of the men behind the September Massacres last year, and is known to frequently write the death lists from which many are executed."
"And so the French have finally find a leader as mad as the rest of them," Richard added with grim humor, bracing his hands on the back of a chair as he faced his cousins. "Reassuring to know that a lunatic is managing the asylum. Rather like the blind leading the lame, I dare say."
"Is anyone safe in France now?" Georgiana asked, thinking of her English friends who at times ventured into France. None of them were remotely related to the republic or the former aristocracy. Did this mean that they were in danger despite the lack of connection?
"No," Fitzwilliam answered. "No one. Jacobins are a suspicious lot, and I doubt they will pause to consider their actions before they send their suspects to the guillotine. All efforts of getting the gentry out of France must be augmented ten-fold."
No! she thought, horrified. You can't return to that awful place!
"And Britain must make some sort of response," Richard added, heading for the door. Brother and sister both turned to look at him as he marched purposefully toward the exit.
"What will the government do?" Georgiana called, bringing her cousin to a stop. Truth be told, she wished for Richard to leave as much as she wished it for Fitzwilliam; that is, none at all.
"I can't say for certain," Richard said, his hand on the door handle. "But there isn't a chance that we'll merely sit, fat and comfortable, when France has just handed the reigns to the radicals amid wild cheers. A call to arms, at least."
Fitzwilliam nodded agreement. "Good luck," he offered.
Richard returned the nod and replied, "God speed." He nodded then to Georgiana, and left.
She wondered, with a sense of growing doom, if France would pull the entire world into ruin.
Very special thanks to:
Jena: I'm glad you like it so far; here's the next bit!
Bhavana: Lol, to tell you the truth, I'm glad that someone does feel for Josephine! I was afraid that since she's an original character, no one would care about her.
percyismine: A girl after my own heart! I hope I don't disappoint!
