Author's Note: A random little drabble that has been sitting on my hard drive for some time. Far too short for a story. Just musings that came about from re-reading some of the books.
Specific spoilers for the novel Sir Percy Leads the Band.
The World Upon His Shoulders
The atmosphere in the sumptuous bedroom was tense, though helped significantly by the steady personality of Doctor Simon Pradel, who was known for his ability to remain calm in his work. He went about his tasks with a detached, level-headed attitude befitting his position, and placidly informed those around him what to do from moment to moment.
To one side of the bed, Louise was white as a ghost, her hand clenched in her ladyship's. It was clear that she had no idea her petite, graceful mistress could grip anyone's hand so tightly, and she must have been wondering when her fingers would fall off, but she kept her lips pressed tightly together and uttered no sound.
The same could not be said for her ladyship, however – she was soaked in sweat, her normally beautiful auburn hair plastered to her white forehead and neck as she went through the difficulties of childbirth.
The doctor turned to his wife, who was standing to the other side of the bed, ready to assist if she was needed.
"Cecile, if you would – please inform his lordship that it will be a bit longer, yet. I'm sure he is quite worried."
Cecile Pradel nodded, squeezed her ladyship's other hand, and asked in French, "Do you wish to send him a message, madame?"
Marguerite looked up at her, clearly in pain and exhausted, but gave her a small smile. "Tell him I am fine, chéri. My husband has a bad habit of carrying the world upon his shoulders and worrying far more than he should."
Cecile nodded and left the room as another contraction hit and Marguerite gave a cry of pain. She quickly closed the door to block the sound as much as possible.
As she made her way down the halls of Richmond, passing servants who were fetching various items for her husband's work, her mind turned to Marguerite's request.
My husband has a bad habit of carrying the world upon his shoulders and worrying far more than he should.
What a strange thing to say of Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., the biggest fop London had ever seen, who seemed to care for nothing other than how to tie his cravat and how soft was the lace about his wrists. Cecile frowned slightly. More than once, she had wondered if there was more to Sir Percy than met the eye – but each time, she had shaken the suspicion away. It was impossible. To see him surrounded by the glittering ladies who adored him at parties and balls, laughing that droll, inane laugh of his... he couldn't possibly be more than a dimwitted fop.
But Marguerite's words rang in her head. Why should an inane fool worry more than he should, or carry the weight of the world on his shoulders? He had tenants, of course – all wealthy men of his status and position did – but that shouldn't be too much a burden to bear. Her own father had dealt with such things years ago when he had been alive.
Well. Perhaps it didn't matter. Marguerite was the man's wife, and obviously knew him better than anyone else. If there was more there than met the eye, she would know it far more than the rest of society.
Cecile stopped outside his lordship's study. She had been told that he would wait for news there, and the heavy door was open a few inches. She placed her hand against a dark paneled wood and quietly pressed the door open, peeping around the edge to make certain she wasn't interrupting him.
Sir Percy was in front of the huge fireplace, his hands spread up and above him, braced against the mantel, his head bowed and his shoulders tense. He looked broken, standing as he was, and Cecile felt a pang of sadness for him. Perhaps Marguerite was right. Perhaps he did worry too much. It was still vexing, though.
She gently knocked her knuckles against the wood to announce herself. Startled, he straightened quickly and turned to face her.
"Pardon-moi," she said apologetically. "My husband asked that I let you know that it will be some time yet. And her ladyship asked that I inform you that she is as well as can be for now. She was most concerned that you would be exceedingly worried..."
He smiled sadly and interrupted her. "I will worry regardless, and nothing anyone says will change that," he said. "Not even Marguerite. But thank you for letting me know."
He spoke in perfect French, and Cecile paused, suddenly confused again. She gazed up at him, at the broad shoulders and strong torso, the worried blue eyes, and she gasped out loud.
His brow furrowed. "Is something wrong, madame?" he asked – again, in perfect French.
"Your French!" she stammered.
He looked even more uncertain. "I'm sorry?" he asked politely.
"But... it is perfect..."
His eyes changed slightly, becoming less lazy and less heavy. They turned wary.
"I have heard you speak it so badly," she went on, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her a bit, though not all the way. She shook her head. "As though you never learned to speak the language properly. But... just now... you spoke it fluently, without any fault. If I had not been looking at you, I would have thought you were French."
He shifted uncomfortably and sighed, a hand falling to the mantel again. "Forgive me, little one. I'm afraid I lapsed a bit." He laughed softly, that inane laugh which grated upon many people's nerves. "If I've done that before, I cannot recall! Gad, but this whole affair has me most unlike myself, I daresay." He rubbed a hand over his face harshly.
"It was you, then." She stared at him in awe. The mask had slipped just a fraction and she had seen – and she would not forget. She would never forget. As clearly as she remembered the tall sergeant carrying maman over uneven ground...as clearly as she remembered the grimy fiddler, running out of the grand ballroom of La Rodiere with the man dressed in black over his shoulder...so she now saw Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet. He was no fool at all, and the part he played in society – that of the fop – was so perfectly crafted that it had fooled hundreds. Even her.
He took a deep breath and gestured politely to the chair next to the fire, inviting her to sit. She did so slowly, hardly conscious of going through the motions.
"Often," he said, gazing into the crackling flames, "I wondered if you knew. But I didn't want to ask. I conceal my identity from as many as possible."
"I sometimes thought of it, but always convinced myself otherwise," she admitted. "You play your role so well, so incredibly well, that I always told myself it was impossible after all. My family, even my husband – we owe you our lives," she added, her voice trembling.
He shook his head. "Do not say that, madame. You owe me nothing."
"But we do. Why would you risk your lives to help people you do not know?" she whispered.
He laughed again – this time loud and amused, very unlike his usual laugh. "If you ask my men, they will all give you different answers. But likely for sport – that is what we love, after all. The sport of it. The danger, the thrill."
"It cannot be so mundane a reason," she pressed.
He smiled. "I'm afraid it is, and so you shall have to accept the answer, Lady Pradel. I'm afraid there is little for us to do there these days though, with Napoleon in power. We detest him, and yet, can do nothing."
"It must be hard on you," she murmured. "To sit back and do nothing while he gains control."
"Immensely."
A distant scream made them both jump, and Cecile immediately roused herself. "Forgive me, monsieur," she said quickly, rising and smoothing her dress out to offer him a polite curtesy. "I must get back to my husband and your wife. I will return as soon as I have news."
She had just reached the door when he said softly, "If you insist upon repaying me, let it be in this way, madame. By assisting your husband and my wife. I thank you for it, more than you will ever know."
She inclined her head and, with her mind tumbling over what she had learned, she quietly closed the door behind her and hurried back to the birthing room.