It was a mission that Anthony would remember with fondness.
The Marquis de Toussaint and his family were being taken, in a ramshackle carriage, to the court to be 'tried', although everyone, especially themselves, knew they would be sentenced and given a date for a meeting with Madame la Guillotine. The prison guards tasked with transporting them were not incompetent by any means, but they were no match for ten young, highly organised English noblemen dressed as shepherds.
It was rather beautiful to watch. The cart turned down a side street, making its way to the Conciergerie via the most direct route. Anthony, from his high viewpoint, gave the signal, and Tom, Andrew, and the others released three dozen sheep and rams into the road from the other direction.
Chaos ensued.
The carriage overturned.
The 'helpful shepherds' assisted in getting it back upright, by which time, of course, the Marquis, his wife, and two children had disappeared, and the chief guard had an uncomfortable feeling that there were more shepherds leaving the alley in pursuit of their runaway flock than he had seen entering.
…
Sir Anthony Strallan was infamous for not dressing at the height of fashion. Nevertheless, when he knocked at the door of Grantham House two days later, he was not attired as a peasant shepherd either, despite a lingering temptation to do so.
Gone were the days of rides in his phaeton. Lady Grantham had insisted most strenuously that she or her trusted housekeeper, Mrs Hughes, should chaperone the engaged couple at all times until the nuptials. Anthony had been relieved for it helped him mask his turbulent emotions concerning Edith's actions in France. However, certain members of Edith's family were entertained.
…
Mary had been so very amused when at tea with Sybil and Cora the previous week.
"Really, Mama! Poor Edith is marrying the dullest man in England. Do you expect him to seduce her, or kidnap her?" sneered Mary.
"Or elope with her! Oh, that would be so romantic!" gasped Sybil.
"Be sensible, Sybil. As if Anthony Strallan could even imagine doing such a thing! At least you won't have to give Edith the same talk that you gave me, Mama!" sneered Mary.
"Girls, please be civil about your sister's intended! I'm informed that he's richer than the Duke of Devonshire and, believe me, you do not want to upset someone like that" stated Cora.
"Of course I'm not going to upset one of my husband's closest friends. Even if he does get his clothes from third-class tailors" agreed Sybil.
"If he's so rich, why does he dress so badly?" asked Mary.
"I assume that the poor man can't tell the difference!" sighed Cora.
"And I think that he just doesn't care about something so unimportant!" declared Sybil, "Anyway, the clothes he wears are nice ENOUGH."
"Yes" agreed Mary, "if you're a tradesman from the provinces."
"Be careful, Mary dear" Cora mumbled quietly. "Your husband may now be the heir to your father's earldom, but he was until recently a provincial solicitor."
…
Although Anthony wasn't privy to that particular exchange, he had overheard some version of the conversation many times from many people. And it was just how he liked it to be.
"What should I pack for the honeymoon, Anthony?" asked Edith over scones.
"Full marks for trying, m'dear, but I am not going to be tricked into telling you where we are going."
"I think that sounds just a trifle unreasonable, Sir Anthony. A lady should know at least what climate she should expect, so that she might be appropriately forewarned" Cora said gently.
Anthony looked comically shocked. "I would never be knowingly unreasonable." He looked back at Edith. "In that case, you shall know: we are going to Loxley."
He smiled with pride, as though expecting her to be delighted. However, he hated the small part of him that was pleased to observe her face freeze momentarily, before she was her usual polite self again. "Oh, that's wonderful. I was looking forward to seeing it."
"And now you shall. But I think two weeks in the old place is enough, for a honeymoon! Then we shall set up home in Richmond properly."
"How are you coping with plans for redecorating, Edith?" her mother changed the topic tactfully.
"I've chosen all the colours. The work will happen while we are on honeymoon … in … er … Yorkshire. It should be ready for us when we return." There was a hitch to her voice, and Anthony almost wavered. Almost, but not quite. There were some things that Edith, Lady Strallan did not need to know. The best way of keeping her ignorant of them was by keeping her away from France. He couldn't even risk travelling through it to somewhere else. No, honeymooning in England was safest.
"I hope you were kind to me, m'dear." He turned to Cora. "She promised she wouldn't choose colours that were too exciting for me!"
"Which ones are they?"
"Oh, just purple. And red. Also yellow. Orange is so awful, no one would choose it anyway. Just those. Edith could choose anything else she wanted!"
"From blue and green, yes, I see." Cora's voice was pleasant enough, but she narrowed her eyes when Sir Anthony wasn't looking.
…
The wedding took place on a Saturday morning*, at St George's, Hanover Square. Anthony sat by the altar awaiting his bride, his best man at his side. Only a few weeks ago, this had been the stuff of his fantasies: waiting for a young and beautiful woman to walk down the aisle and then to tie herself willingly to him, of all men! for the rest of their lives, to support and aid his work in France perhaps … even to bear his children, and to sooth his old age.
Now? All that had to be forgotten. Anthony had considered this from every angle imaginable, and the only answer was that Edith must never know his identity as the Scarlet Pimpernel. She must be kept in the dark about the League and its members. It was the only way to protect his friends and their work, and the only way that he could ensure that he did that, was by withdrawing from her. There was no question that he would honour his promise to marry her. Anything else would make her unmarriageable, and him a wretched blackguard. But, oh god! how he longed for the marriage he had dreamt of and yearned for.
"Forgive me for saying so, but you don't look like a man about to be married, Anthony" remarked Tom.
"Do I not? Tell me, how should a man about to be married look?"
"Well, for example, I was so nervous Matthew told me that he could hear my sword jangling!" Tom, magnificent in his militia uniform, rattled his sabre in its sheath in demonstration.
"Then thank heavens that I have no claim to wear a uniform" Anthony drawled. His own wedding suit was better than he usually wore, but still a country mile away from being what a man as rich as Creosus would be expected to wear to his wedding.
"You … I just … I know something's wrong! It is, isn't it? Look, if you don't want to marry Edith, we can still get you out of it somehow. Just give the word!"
Anthony smiled fondly at him and put a fraternal hand on his shoulder. "You, Tom, are the most excellent best friend and finest best man anyone could hope for. I do want to marry Edith, so very, very much. It's just that …"
But he was interrupted. The organ began to play, Anthony shrugged, stood up, and took his position at the altar rail. He did not look round at his bride walking towards him on her father's arm since he thought that might actually make him weep. Instead, he kept his eyes solemnly fixed forward until they reached him. Then he turned his head to greet her as formally as he could manage. She was dressed in a breath-taking dress of long ivory silk, a tiara of sapphires and diamonds (a wedding present from him) was placed in her hair, and a long veil covered her head. Anthony was sure that he had never seen such a beautiful creature in all his life, and he knew that his face betrayed his feelings despite his vows to himself not to just moments before. May God help me, let me hide from her how wounded I have been by her actions. He smiled gently at her, and she suddenly beamed back at him in return, as if she had been waiting for his permission.
"Good morning" she said huskily.
"Good morning, my dear" he answered.
They turned to face the priest.
…
She knew that he loved her, she kept telling herself. He was marrying her. He gave her lovely presents. He talked to her as though her tendency to "difficult reading" (as her father called it) was a virtue rather than a nuisance. And when he kissed her, or kissed her hand, she felt like she was floating.
He had stopped kissing her rather abruptly a few weeks back, just after they had announced their engagement. She had assumed that he was merely being considerate and observing the usual proprieties, but there was something in his eyes that made her feel unsettled. He was hiding something, she was sure. She'd attempted to bring whatever was concerning him out into the open. Surely discussion and openness was paramount in a strong marriage? Yet every time he evaded her deftly.
She turned to him before the altar and saw it, the love in his eyes that she had seen weeks before. Then it was gone once more. If there was something she could help him with, or could help by listening to while he talked, anything, then she would convince him that she loved him enough to do that. In the next two weeks in Yorkshire, she would have time to do that. Then, and only then, she would be happy.
…
In an anteroom in Paris, a man stood quite still. To any observer he would not have looked like a man awaiting admission to the presence of Citizen Robespierre. He would have given the impression of being a snake in human form, utterly motionless, waiting for his prey. The man was not tall, perhaps four or five inches below six foot. His hair was jet black, shoulder length, and lank, and his skin was pasty and unhealthy. But his black eyes were those of a cobra.
The door opened, and he was ushered into the office of the most powerful man in France.
"Ah, Citizen Chauvelin. I have had very encouraging reports of you from people whose opinion I value."
"I am humbled, Citizen."
"Not too much, I hope. The task I am about to give you will require the sharpest wits in France."
"Then, might I ask, sir, why you have not taken this assignment yourself?"
Robespierre smiled wanly. He never smiled more warmly than that, and it was never meant as a smile. He removed the pince-nez that he was obliged to wear due to his shortsightedness, and discreetly adjusted his hair which he always wore powered, a hangover from when he might have been considered an enemy of the people himself. But his experience as a lawyer had taught him many things, among them how to manipulate people using merely words.
"You have wit, Citizen. But, alas, the exigencies of state preclude my taking on this … aha … most enjoyable and yet most important of works."
"The capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel" stated Chauvelin brusquely.
"Just so. I am glad that you are quick on the uptake. My time is forever limited. I want him executed in Paris for preference, but if that is not possible, bring me his body and we'll guillotine that. I assume you will need an entrance to society in England; I am appointing you the Ambassador to the Court of St James. Keep me informed. Use whatever means you need. Good day, citizen, and good hunting."
*Until 1886, weddings in England had to take place between the hours of 8am and 12 noon. Don't ask me why.