"They seek him here, they seek him there
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere
Is he in heaven or is he in hell?
That demned elusive Pimpernel!"
Lord and Lady Hauntley stood at the entrance to the ballroom in their stately London home welcoming their guests. Being of an age, they were both dressed at the height of fashion … from thirty years before. The majority of their guests, however, were adorned in styles much more appropriate to the current year of 1793. It was past ten o'clock, a thousand candles were blazing, the small orchestra was being fuelled by regular provision of good ale, and an undercurrent of anticipation could be felt among the dancers, diners, and gamblers awaiting the arrival of the Prince of Wales and His Highness' entourage. Who would be in favour tonight?
Finally, Lord Hauntley motioned the musicians into silence, and joined his low bow to his wife's elegant curtsey, and all the guests parted to open the floor to the Regent. But it was the small party accompanying the Prince that caused a hushed flurry of wagging tongues among the guests.
"That's Grantham! You know, the Earl who got caught in his estate in France when the monarchy fell. He looks about a quarter of a century older than when I last saw him three or four years ago!"
"So would you, dear, if you'd been through the hands of anarchists, sentenced to death with all of your family, and then rescued at the last minute by some phantom hero" was the dry reply.
"It's still a bit scandalous, though, isn't it?" remarked someone else. "And then, in the last six months, all three daughters have been married! Now, doesn't that look like trying to reduce your outgoings!"
"That, I'll grant you, looks odd. But, still, the older and younger girls look very happy, so things can't be entirely as we presume. Good choices too, I feel. The elder found a lawyer tipped for a position in the government, and the youngest ran off with a Captain in the Irish Guards. And both of them so handsome!"
"But the middle girl! Oh my dear! Why did Grantham feel he had to palm her off to Sir Anthony Strallan? He is so much older than she. And he really is the most boring man in England!"
"But also one of the richest! And there, I feel, you will find the reason for the match. I pity the poor mite, but if she has to be sacrificed to the Gods of Tedium for the sake of the bank balance of her father's estate and Earldom, I trust she will be comfortable all the while. Her gown is, by far, the most magnificent of the party!"
And they all drifted back to the buffet room.
.
A year earlier - 1792
"Anthony! Anthony!"
"What the devil?" muttered Sir Anthony Strallan at the unseemly cacophony coming from the other side of his study door. "Go and check what's what, would you Tom?"
"Yes, Anthony" answered Captain Tom Branson of the Irish Guards, completely loyal as ever.
But when Tom opened the door, a man almost charged straight through, his clothes askew, his eyes wild and pleading.
"Anthony, oh for God's sake, Anthony, please tell me we can do something?"
Calmly the baronet looked at him.
"I suspect there are lots of things we can do, Matthew. The difficulty will be choosing the course of action most likely to succeed, and then doing it."
"But..."
"What in the name of Providence are you two blathering on about?!"
"Sorry, Tom" answered Anthony, before Matthew could draw breath, "I believe our young friend is speaking of the arrest, by the agents of the revolution, of the Earl of Grantham and all his family (including the beautiful Lady Mary) while they were staying at their French château. It is said that Robespierre himself has confiscated the house, grounds, and vineyards on behalf of the Republic, and is particularly amused by this dangerous turn of events."
"I...I just don't understand it. Why would he try to steer Britain towards a clash, because that's the only outcome of arresting a peer!"
"And that's exactly why he's done it" Anthony responded, becoming more serious. "According to my sources, if Britain retaliates to this act of aggression, Robespierre feels that he will be justified, at least in the public's opinion, when he escalates things further, and that will lead to war. He's already declared hostilities towards Austria, and probably will bring the Netherlands into the fray as well. Why does he want war with us in particular? Because we don't have such a good army at present, and although we have a good navy, we certainly can't fight wars on both sides of the Atlantic at once, and Robespierre is hoping that France can solidify her holdings in Canada now that the American Colonies have got rid of us!"
"Can't he do any of that without imprisoning my fiancée?" wailed Matthew.
Ignoring him, Tom asked quietly "How do you know so much about what Robespierre is thinking, Anthony?"
Strallan looked up at Tom, his face grim.
"Now then, Tom. You know that I only share details like that if you have to know about them. And at the moment, you don't. Knowledge like that can get you killed, or worse."
"Worse?" scoffed Branson.
"Men like Robespierre like to keep their hands clean. But dirty work sometimes has to be done, or so they think, so they employ … dirty men. I would never put you, or any of The League, in that danger."
The two younger men exchanged glances that were almost spooked at the man's quiet, burning words. Anthony's eyes had held such sorrow and such anger as he spoke. They waited in silence.
"In answer to your original question, Matthew, yes, we can do something. I have an almost-complete plan in mind, but I must receive just one or two more details concerning where the Crawleys are being held before I can brief you as to our movements. You will be relieved to know that we will be on our way to France by noon tomorrow at the latest. But I must emphasise that timing will be all important for this rescue. If, as I believe they will be, Grantham and his family are condemned to death, and that sooner rather than later" (Matthew gasped) "then we will have a margin of about six hours to act. You, Matthew, will be staying at base."
"What!"
"For the safety of Mary, the whole family, for you and the whole League. Good God, man, you are a mess! Understandably so, but a mess nevertheless. I don't need that sort of unreliability in the League when we are afield." Without reacting in any way to Matthew's disappointment, Anthony continued "Instead, I will be relying on you outside of Paris, to orchestrate any fall back plans, should they be needed. Can you do that?"
"Yes. Yes, certainly."
"Good man. Tom, you will be with me, along with these fifteen of our colleagues." He handed the Captain a list of names. "Would you ask them to prepare to be ready?"
"Yes Anthony."
"Excellent."
With that, The Scarlet Pimpernel arranged yet another daring rescue of aristos unfairly caught in the cogs of revolution. What Sir Anthony Strallan didn't know was that this rescue would be one of the most important he would ever undertake, that it would change his life irrevocably.
.
It was half past eleven at night. The rain outside was drenching, and the draughts in the Conciergerie Prison were plentiful and bitterly cold. Sergeant Clareux pulled his thin coat tighter around him. At least that damned English aristo had stopped shouting now that the sentence had been passed. He'll have a job to complain tomorrow when he's headless. Nevertheless, it was going to be a very long night keeping an eye on him and the silver-spoon fed brats.
The hammering at the gate shocked him awake. He glanced at his sometimes reliable watch: nearly one in the morning. What the hell?
The hatch got stuck when he tried to open it. It always did. Finally, he freed it and saw a tall officer outside.
"That" the man said haughtily, pointing at the offending mechanism, "does not bode well. Please tell me that you are organised enough to have the prisoners ready, as you were commanded?"
"What?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" the soldier sighed wearily. "Well, when will you be ready? If you hadn't noticed, it's a bit wet out here!"
Clareux had now had time to look at the officer. To his horror, he was wearing the uniform of a capitaine in the Guards, once the body guards of the King, now Robespierre's personal regiment. He had ten or fifteen men behind him, all lieutenants or sergeants, most on horseback, some on a carriage. He scrambled to open the door, and to rip off a half-decent salute. As the Capitaine's men filed into the chamber, he looked down on Clareux from his six foot plus.
"So, when will you be ready?"
"Ready for what, sir?"
"You mean, you didn't receive the orders? This gets worse and worse." To Clareux's uncomprehending gawping, the tall officer spoke as one would to a dense child.
"Citizen Robespierre has ordered the Guards to escort the condemned English to Le Bastille prior to their execution tomorrow. He wants it done tonight so that that damned Pimpernel has no chance of attempting a rescue. Got that?"
Clareux nodded.
"So off you trot and get them for us, please; make sure they're shackled. Any time you choose. No hurry."
At least the sergeant had enough nous to recognise irony when he heard it. He dashed off to the cells.
Less than ten minutes later, Clareux and a couple of his underlings rudely ushered the man and four women towards the door. The Capitaine gave his men some instructions and then produced a quill and some paper.
"I've already signed the transfer documents. If you would care to sign too?"
It was easy to tell that the Sergeant had learnt to read and write only when promotion required it. He scribbled on both bits of paper and retained one copy, the other being taken by the tall man.
"Thank you, er, Dareux."
"It's 'Clareux', sir."
"Really?" He peered at the document. "That's not what it says here." Much to Clareux's annoyance, there was a smattering of laughter from his own men. The officer folded it neatly and stowed it away in his inside pocket.
"We wish you a good morning." With a rather superior salute, he, his men, and the English prisoners departed.
It was only the next day, once Clareux had deserted and disappeared into the country that his own officers read the paper he'd left in his haste to escape Paris. There was Clareux's scrawled signature, and beside it, in beautiful copperplate handwriting was the name of the officer who had taken the English aristos from underneath his nose: Captain S. Pimpernel.
.
Anthony climbed up to the box of the carriage, gave the order to mount, and the party moved off apace. He needed to think. Not about the rescue: so far it had gone to plan. He had to settle his feelings because the company were still very much in danger. But … what had just happened?
The Crawleys had been led out from their cells. First came the Earl, obviously scared, but no coward. He was diverting himself with comforting his wife. She had lost the battle with her tears, but she still held herself straight though leaning on her husband's arm. The love the couple shared was written clearly in their eyes. Next came the eldest daughter who was arrogant, ramrod aloof, disdaining all around her, acting exactly as the men around her expected a damned aristo to act. She had her arm entwined with the youngest, who seemed to be more angry than frightened.
Last came the middle daughter. She walked alone, and she was neither afraid, nor proud, nor angry; just appeared to be … resigned, and not only concerning her imminent grisly fate. She had accepted that none of her family cared enough about her to share any consolation or solace with her.
Unlike her family, she looked at her gaolers as she walked, glancing at him as she passed. He gave her a sympathetic look and a bow of the head, and, dear God and angels above! she had smiled back at him gratefully, briefly and faintly, but it was there. He had never seen such humanity, such bravery, and he had seen more cowardice and valour and destruction for several lifetimes.
He urged the horses on through the streets in the pouring rain, handing over the forged but signed release papers at the city gate, and, once they had passed into the countryside, giving them full rein on into the darkness. The Scarlet Pimpernel was in full control of the carriage and the mission. But Sir Anthony Strallan was lost. He had fallen in love at first sight.
.
It's been a long time since I managed to write for Andith. Do let me know if you think it is worth my while continuing with this unmitigated nonsensical fluff.