The next day dawned sunny and warm. Marguerite awoke early, a little disoriented until stretching brought a throb of pain from her thigh. Memories of the previous day flashed back into place, up to the point when she drifted off in her chair the night before. She had no recollection of having returned to her room and she flushed to think that someone had carried her here.
That Roxton might have tucked her in her bed last night was altogether too familiar an act to contemplate. Though she found the man tremendously attractive, she had been secretly relieved that his ardour toward her had seemingly cooled. Relieved on one hand perhaps, but she had been surprised at how often she had suffered a stab of jealousy and disappointment at his recent interest in other women on the plateau. To be envious of a young nymph like Princess Klaire who Roxton promised to marry a few weeks ago - it was preposterous. And yet she had felt it.
Worse yet, it appeared that Roxton had noticed. He had teased her about it in the village. Like he knew how she felt and was making her feel better. Every so often there would be these little glimpses of kindness and concern that broke through the diffidence of his usual behaviour. Still, it was best that Roxton had pulled away. If he hadn't, it would have been up to her. And she wasn't sure she would be able to deny her attraction to him or the long-dormant feelings of affection that he kindled.
She rose and hobbled over to her dresser, the stitches pulling at her healing wound and causing the torn flesh to protest sharply. She felt drained, as exhausted as if she had run a mile. She supposed it was a natural result of the amount of blood she had lost the previous day. She dressed and made her way gingerly to the kitchen. Veronica was the only other occupant this early; she had the fire kindled and the kettle boiling. With a nod, Marguerite accepted the offer of a cup of tea. When asked, she assured Veronica that she was much better, noticing that the anger of yesterday had subsided. Instead, Veronica appeared awkward and edgy.
"Thank you for what you did yesterday. I shouldn't have gotten angry. I was upset, I guess." Veronica rambled a little, her eyes focussed on stoking the fire.
"No thanks needed. You would have done the same for me."
But I didn't expect it from you Marguerite. The unspoken words hung between them.
"Well, you did a good job with that sword. Your training with Roxton paid off. May I pour you another cup?"
Marguerite extended her cup for the refill, realizing that she had received as close to a compliment as she was ever likely to receive from the critical woman. Veronica moved to the cooking area to prepare breakfast as Marguerite sipped her tea.
"You shouldn't be up."
Marguerite's heart beat a little faster to hear concern beneath the censure in the voice issuing from behind her. She replied without turning around.
"Why Lord Roxton, I thought you'd be glad to see I was up and about. Or would you rather I lay around all day?"
"Well, I am glad, of course." The hunter was a little nonplussed to see the tables turned. The vulnerable woman of the previous day had disappeared beneath the bristly exterior of the guarded Miss Krux. "I just think that Challenger should take a look at you before you exert yourself too much."
"Ah, that noted physician. I suspect my own medical knowledge is adequate for the occasion."
The hunter bobbed his head in acquiescence, afraid to trigger another acidic comment. His face was filled with chagrin. He ended the brief silence with a greeting for Veronica. Pouring a cup of tea, he walked out to the balcony, commenting on the warm weather.
Ned rounded the corner filled with his habitual boyish energy.
"Wow, you mean I'm the last one up? Marguerite, how are you this morning?"
"Ready for a nap, I'm afraid." The dark-haired woman yawned magnificently as if to emphasize her point.
Roxton scowled, hastening back from the veranda.
"You should rest. Maybe I should get Challenger." He couldn't resist his urge to protect the pale brunette. "Where is he anyway?"
"I heard him down in the lab," Ned offered.
Veronica answered from the cooking area. "He grabbed the last of the fresh fruit and headed down there earlier. That project he's working on seems to be absorbing him completely. I'm afraid it's dried meat and eggs for breakfast for the rest of us."
Malone turned his attentions to the injured woman. "Tell me, Marguerite, we've been wondering - why didn't you come back and get reinforcements when Veronica was captured yesterday?"
Marguerite put her cup in its saucer with a sigh. "Ever the reporter. Considering everything, it seemed that time was of the essence."
Veronica turned to look sharply at her. If Marguerite hadn't known better she'd swear the blonde woman was afraid of something.
Ned pressed the issue, his curiosity piqued. "Why couldn't you take the time to come back to the treehouse? It wouldn't have taken that long."
Veronica broke in before the brunette could answer. "Marguerite likes to handle things on her own. Thinks she knows better than the rest of us."
Marguerite's blue-green eyes flared wide then narrowed in a stony stare at Veronica. The jungle woman met her eyes with a look of defiance tinged with a hint of distress. Marguerite knew instinctively - she was hiding something. Veronica didn't want her to tell the others what happened. But why?
Marguerite shrugged her shoulders in apparent indifference "If I came back without Veronica, I'd never hear the end of it. I thought it would be simpler to take out my pistol and reason with them."
Veronica broke in. "You knew why those slavers were there. You were just trying to make up for your mistakes. If you hadn't been sneaking out to the clearing all week long the slavers wouldn't have staked it out." Veronica smouldered as she dwelt on how Marguerite's carelessness in visiting the clearing alone had gotten her captured.
Marguerite didn't acknowledge the interruption in her narrative. "Then when my gun was ruined, it got personal." She gave no sign that Veronica's accusation had taken her by surprise. So that's why the slavers were there waiting. Once again it was her fault; somehow it always seemed to be her fault.
Putting on a nonchalant smile she placed her cup and saucer on the table. As she settled back into her chair she assessed the effect her story had had on her listeners. Ned's blue eyes were quizzical, the next question already on his lips. Veronica had a look of disapproval and, if she read it right, relief on her face. Roxton's arms were folded across his chest, anger tensing his jaw and disappointment deflecting his gaze. As she had expected everyone believed that the callous Miss Krux had once again disregarded the safety of one of her friends. That the story had come to her lips so easily was a result of much practice in telling believable lies. That her housemates found it so easy to believe that lie was a sign of how little they trusted her. Though she steeled herself against it, that knowledge hurt her a little.
"But, Marguerite, if you- " Ned's question was overridden by Marguerite's brisk query.
"Did someone say there was something to eat? Or should I just retire to my room and read my book until breakfast is served?"
Roxton jumped up to hold out an arm to her. "You look like you could use a rest. I'm sure we can provide breakfast in your room."
The injured woman used the proffered arm to lever her sore body to a stand. She couldn't restrain her grateful smile.
Roxton was struck by the way her wan face lit up with that smile. There was something out of tune with the cold calculating persona she had just projected. No-one that selfish could have a smile like hers - filled with warmth, simple delight, and a wary tenderness.
He suspected that she had deliberately given the impression that Veronica's capture was of little concern to her. Though why she would choose to antagonize their hostess baffled him.
Veronica watched them go. She supposed she was lucky that Marguerite hadn't noticed yesterday that the slaver had been about to violate her. At least now she wouldn't have to share that shame with the cold heiress and a household full of protective men. But a part of her was hurt that Marguerite was so little concerned about her well-being. She had thought for a moment that Marguerite knew what had been going on and was protecting her with her story. At the same time she was dismayed at the idea that the heiress knew what was going on. It was better, she decided, that Marguerite was ignorant of the danger she had been in. It would seem that she had sized up the heartless woman pretty well.
Marguerite moved more easily as the stiffness left her limbs. She didn't need to lean on Lord Roxton but she did anyway. He helped her down the stairs and into her room. Leaving her standing there for a moment, he pulled her chair back so the light from the window would shine over her shoulder as she read. With his aid she settled into the chair with a sigh.
"Could you get me a pillow, Lord Roxton?
"As you command, my queen." He replied, stuffing the pillow behind her back.
Marguerite shifted around to make herself comfortable. "Veronica's chairs are a little uncompromising."
"Like their owner."
She chuckled in appreciation of his observation.
"And my book?"
As he delivered the volume she had indicated, he expressed his pride in her exploits the previous day.
"I hear you were pretty handy with that sword."
He was surprised to see a disgusted grimace cross her face.
"I was stupid. This," she gestured at her propped-up leg, "was a result of not showing my opponent enough respect."
He laughed out loud at her look of indignation. "You don't give yourself much credit, do you? Everyone is very impressed with what you did yesterday."
"Everyone but Veronica."
"Touché!" He nodded reluctantly. "But she'll come around. Relax. I'll bring you breakfast in a few minutes." He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder before he left the room.
Marguerite closed her eyes in weariness and put her own hand where Roxton's had been. That had felt nice. She started to drift a little, her body's need for rest a force too powerful to resist.
Damn, thought Roxton as he returned to the dining room. So much for keeping his distance. But it was hard to focus on Marguerite's cold-blooded nature when he saw her sitting there, so subdued, a little vulnerable. This resolution was going to be far more difficult to stick to than he first thought.
Moving back to the main room he barely avoided colliding with Challenger emerging from the lab.
"Roxton, I've been analyzing those rock samples we brought up earlier. You wouldn't believe it. The basalt which I have been examining has an enormously high proportion of magnetites. That rock underlies much of the plateau. It most likely has affected our survey equipment. No wonder our maps have proven to be inaccurate. I'll have to shield the compasses and we'll survey the area again."
"Give us a day or two, George. Marguerite isn't even on her feet yet," Roxton protested.
"Good gracious, I have been remiss. How is Miss Krux this morning?"
"Fine, I think. But you should- " Roxton stopped as Challenger had already brushed by him, still talking.
"It really is amazing. I must get Marguerite's opinion on my findings. This could account for the continued existence of dinosaurs here. If the reversal of polarity that precipitated the K/T boundary event didn't happen on this plateau, then…" The scientist's excited commentary was muffled as he rounded the corner into the dining room.
Roxton shook his head at the visionary's enthusiasm. It seemed that they were about to be swept up once more in one of Challenger's non-ending experiments. He hurried to waylay the single-minded scientist before he disturbed Marguerite.
"George. Wait!"
The End
Fencing
Fencing terms taken from www.synec-doc.be/escrime/dico/engl.htm
Ned's famous swordswoman
La Maupin, 17th century French swordswoman, adventuress and opera star, was like something out of a novel by Dumas or Sabatini, except for two things. First she was real, and second few authors would have attributed her exploits to a woman. Theophile Gautier borrowed her name and a few of her characteristics for the heroine of his novel Mademoiselle De Maupin, but in many ways his character was only a pale imitation of the original. The real Maupin was a complex creature. Well born and privileged, she knew how to use her influential friends and contacts to get what she wanted or to escape danger, but she was also proud and self-reliant. She seems to have craved the center stage, revelling in both fame and infamy. She had a fiery temperament and equally fiery passion, often the fool for love.
Mlle. Maupin was, excepting her sex, the very image of the swashbuckling romantic cavalier: tall, dark and handsome, one of the finest swordswomen or swordsmen of her day. She was athletically built, had very white skin and dark auburn curls with blonde highlights, blue eyes, an aquiline nose, a pretty mouth and, it is said, perfect breasts.
She was also a star of one of the greatest theatres of her day -- the Paris Opera. She had a lovely contralto voice and a phenomenal memory. Although she was largely unschooled in music and is said by some to have had little talent for singing, her good looks, beautiful voice, love of attention, excellent memory and flamboyance seem to have suited her well for stardom on the stage of the Paris Opera.
Sulfa drugs – a history
This red dye was first studied during the First World War but its medicinal properties were not identified till the 30's. I figured it wasn't too great a stretch to think that Challenger might have paralleled that discovery.