On with the story!
Prologue
I find myself quite at a loss of what to write...
Genius, Blakeney. Utter genius.
Annoyed by his sarcastic thoughts and the rather dismal start, the parchment was crumpled and fed to the blazing fire that heated Sir Percy’s study. Another piece was procured, and once more the pen and ink fell idle in thought.
The date I find myself writing upon this parchment is March the 22nd. I, as was suggested to myself by my brother and personal physician Dr. Armand Blakeney, have begun recording my thoughts. He suggests I also write of my past, as though to deviate myself from painful memories through the course of writing them upon this sheet of paper. Of painful memories, I have had my fair share. My own mother gone mad with me at but a young age. My father dying not long after this sad event. These two childhood scars left me alone in the world with naught to call my own save my brother, Armand Blakeney. Armand Chauvelin, I suppose, as he prefers to call himself now. Upon entering the medical profession, he took up some great-aunt’s maiden name, so as to separate himself from my persona. I suppose I cannot blame him. After all, who would be reassured by the knowledge that his physician’s mother had been insane and his brother was, by far, the most inane idiot in all of London society?
Percy grinned to himself as he considered the next few lines.
The title has served me well, however. All during those dreaded times called now by the apt title of “The Reign of Terror”, the nincompoop of London was commandeering a group of nineteen brave souls to save aristocrats from beneath the blade of the guillotine. Ah, those were the joyous times. The times when I still was the Pimpernel. The times before...
The pen froze again, but this time not for lack of words to write. It was for the sake of allowing Sir Percy a moment to collect himself, while he tried to avoid crying again.
The times before...
A soft knock at the door interrupted the thoughts of a certain Dr. Armand Blakeney, now retitled with the surname Chauvelin. He looked up in irritation, placing the notes he had been writing upon away in his desk.
“Enter,” he said, his voice not attempting to conceal his displeasure. This, however, instantly vanished by the appearance of his manservant, Mercier, at the door.
“A message has just arrived for you, sir.”
The faithful valet placed the small envelope on his master’s desk, gave him a knowing nod, and quietly left the room. Chauvelin could not help but smile as he looked over the envelope cleverly disguised as doctoral papers. All such letters were brought directly to him, by way of his manservant Mercier, carefully appointed from the best guards France could offer.
True, he remained in this house with none but his brother and his nephew. True, no one ever came to visit. And true, also, that his brother was, by far, the stupidest person alive, his condition worsened by the terrible twists of luck fate had placed upon him. And yet, no chances could be taken. This time, they must not fail.
Chauvelin’s fingers opened the small envelope rapidly, his fox-like eyes taking in every word written on the small piece of parchment.
StJ & family to be gathered today.
Chauvelin careful placed a corner of the paper upon the candle burning nearby.
One time in Paris, during that time of desolation and destruction, I went to the Comedie Francais to meet with somebody. I can hardly recall now who, it seems of little import. All I can recall of the evening was watching an actress tend her little garden onstage. The most beautiful creature I have ever seen. I was completely entranced.
He chuckled to himself unknowingly.
I suppose I still am. I suppose there will never be a time when I am not. I came to the theater for her every performance, it became as though habit. One day I met her...
Again Percy was forced to pause, his eyes filling as memories came pouring back upon him. I cannot perceive what it was she saw in me. And yet, she seemed to fancy me a little. I began to court her. Her! The beautiful and witty Marguerite St. Just. No one would have believed it, had I not married her and brought her home with me to England. Ah... those were the happy days.
He chuckled again, a small smile edging the corner of his lips.
Perhaps part of the happiness lay in the knowledge that my dear brother was studying in Paris, far from our home in Richmond. But those were indeed the happy days. Until the day the storm arrived.
Mary St. Just sat on the floor of her Parisian room, ignoring for the moment the dolls, animals, and various other toys that lined her room for the sake of playing with a small flower.
Her father, Armand St. Just, had returned once more from one of his various adventures. She never really understood what he was doing, but knew that it kept him away from her. While he was gone, her mother would fret and worry and would have no time for her. When he was home, which was quite infrequently, they would still pay little or no attention to her. All this had made her quite insolent and angry at the way the world worked. Especially since her mother nearly never allowed her to step outside. This time, however, her father had returned from England and brought her a small flower. He called it a pimpernel, a word she had heard him use before but only in the hushed conversations with her mother deep in the darkness of night.
But this was of no importance to Mary. She was playing with her flower, pretending she had her own garden of these beautiful delights. Perhaps other flowers grew there as well, although she knew not what any other flower looked like.
She was imagining this garden so well, she did not even hear the approaching footsteps near their door. Her only concern was that she had dropped the flower beneath her bed by accident. She crawled underneath it to retrieve this precious plaything when the footfall near the doorstep turned into a banging at the door. This startling sound brought about screams from her mother and angered shouts from her father. In fear, Mary huddled in the corner, hidden beneath the bed, as men stormed through their home, searching the rooms quickly as they escorted her parents from the house. Even after all had fallen silent and dark, she curled up underneath the bed, clutching her flower, until she fell asleep.
My own dear Marguerite was going to have our child. I called my brother back from Paris; he came, I feel, only because he could conjure up no excuse not to. All seemed right with the world until an early September morn. It was a dreary day, the moor looked quite deserted and a storm seemed to be gathering off on the horizon. However, Marguerite knew she would have little time for visiting her beloved garden soon enough and begged me allow her one last visit. I should never have let her go. Never. The weather seemed to promise trouble and, although Armand...
Percy paused a moment, then crossed out the name several times.
Chauvelin had told us she would not give birth for at least a month, I should have seen it. I should never have let her go. And yet... who could ever say no to that lovely woman? However, I let her go alone. This is where I have faltered; this is where I have failed her. I believed she would be safe by herself. I believed no harm could come to her. She promised to return soon. An hour went by. At the end of this hour, the storm had risen in force and I bade Chauvelin come with me to search for her. It was... difficult. Her screams echoed ‘cross the moor, carried by the wind to lead us to her place of torment. Her garden is guarded by a maze of hedges. In my madness, I nearly forgot the way through. Her screams were chilling me to the bone.
His pen faltered, and he bit his lip to allow him to continue writing.
I still hear those screams. Late at night. Haunting me. Begging me to help her. But I cannot. I would give my life to save her, but I cannot. When we found her...
He could not hold it back any longer. The pen scratched across the page as he fell to the desk, weeping bitterly.
Chauvelin glanced at his watch and smiled.
They should be arresting those traitors right about now. This time our plan will not fail. This time the world will be ours.
He helped himself to a pinch of snuff before retiring the room and crossing a few long hallways to his only patient’s room.
Percy picked himself up from the table, grasping the pen once more in his hand.
I will conquer this! I will!
As though to ward away any ghosts lurking in the shadows, he began to write furiously, the letters scratching across the page as fast as they could be thought of.
When we found her, she was indeed in her garden. However, she was unable to do anything save scream in hopes that someone would find her. The rain had begun to fall, making all around us turn to slippery mud. Chauvelin told me the child would be born any moment, far too early. We had to get her back to the manor. I took her upon my own horse, holding her as I spurred it onward. I have never in my life ridden so fast; perhaps that is what has killed her. I could see nothing, hear nothing. The rain was stinging my face, so I assume, but I could not feel it. The wind had risen, howling about us as though demons mocking our pain. But all I could hear were her screams. She clutched to me as though drowning, drowning in some unseen power that I could not rescue her from. It drove me well nigh mad. The manor appeared finally and we escaped from the horrid storm. Lightning began to strike about, casting ghostly light and eerie shadows about us as we hurried to get her safe. As soon as I had deposited her upon her bed, I was all but thrown from the room by Chauvelin, telling me it would not be something I would wish to see. Perhaps I can thank him for this; perhaps I should strangle him for this. The door between us muffled somewhat the sound, protecting me from this torture. However, the door did stand between us. I paced as the noise went on. I paced until my legs were too tired to stand, then proceeded to pace some more. I could not sit still. Finally, one blood-curdling scream had given way to another. Two voices could be heard now in the room, one of my dear Margot and the other of one I had yet to meet. No door could have kept me out of that room now. I, to this day, do not comprehend how I managed to break down that door. I have never had it fixed, as I refuse to go near that room at all. Yet it was for certain broken down. I came into the room as a wild savage, Chauvelin quite startled by my sudden appearance. He looked sad, he looked as though he pitied me. Never in my life have I seen him pity me, save this one single moment. My child he took from the room. I never even noticed him go. All I saw was a bed soaked through and through with blood. And somewhere in the middle lay a woman I loved, her screams gone now, her pain dissipating. For one brief moment, I hoped. I sat next to her upon the bed, holding her in my arms. I wanted to tell her I was sorry I had let her go alone. I wanted to tell her we had a child. I wanted to hold her until her pain was gone. But I did not have time. I did not time. As I pulled her into my arms, she smiled at me. Softly. Then she closed her eyes. She closed her eyes and left me. Left me all alone.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes looked up as a soft knock came at the door. Most befuddled, he cautiously called out, “Who is it?”
The landlady of the filthy inn Andrew at the moment called home called back to him, “Letter for you, citizen.”
Only one solution presented itself. The League. He quickly threw open the door and snatched the letter from the woman’s hand. Thanking her, he closed the door even quicker and ran to the dingy table hosting his source of light to read.
He was still confused; there was no need for letters. Paris, from the loss of Citizen Ropespierre, had become quite easier to manage. A few squabbles arose every now and again, aristocrats were still being persecuted at times, but there was no need for secret messages. Andrew was gathering a small group of aristocrats being persecuted this evening and would return to England with the morning tide. No change in plans had been expected. Because of this, he tore open the missive with curious hands. His face went sickly pale on discovery of the contents.
Armand St. Just and his wife are dead. Some radical Frenchmen took them from their home. (The pen shook on the next few words, blots of ink proof of the owner’s shaking hands) I saw their bodies this morning, left where the guillotine once was. ~ Tony
The next day, she was taken to be prepared for a funeral. I had wept all the night before and had no tears left. I inquired after my child. I wish I never knew. Chauvelin had done all he could, but the child had been born with an underdeveloped brain. I suppose ‘tis rather ironic. Here I paraded about as an idiot when one I was not. For this deception, I was punished in that my child had to become the idiot I was not. In addition to this, his legs were not developed well, either. He would never be able to stand upon them. As it was, Chauvelin was not even sure the child would live at all. Chauvelin commanded the child to remain under his care and I was not to interfere. I agreed; my state of heath was nowhere near what was needed to raise a child. It still is not. I see him when I am allowed. Always only by night, when my boy is sleeping. I am never to wake him. My poor, sweet Jack. You are all that is left of my Margot. And even you I cannot hold... Because of this, I have holed myself up in this house as a recluse. The Reign of Terror ended without me, without the Pimpernel. The League saved the world, as I always knew they would. They wrote from time to time, begging me to return. But what would I return to?
Andrew stepped slowly into the house, gulping back the emotions that rose in his throat. Tony placed a supportive hand on his shoulder, saddened as well. Signs of Armand were everywhere, he had obviously returned home. Supper, long since grown cold, was scattered across the floor. Glasses and plates had been broken, strewn about in the radicals’ haste. Stepping over the fragmented pieces of Armand and Jeanne’s home, they began the search for the few possessions Armand had retained of his sister. Whether Percy would want them or not was anyone’s guess, but they felt they should retrieve them before the looters appeared. Andrew lit a candle and proceeded into the bedrooms. One, as he entered, spoke quickly to be a child’s room. He could not help but smile at the collection of toys spread about the room, and feel a pain in his heart at the sight of the empty bed. He turned to leave the room when a soft noise stopped him. A noise he was not even entirely certain he had really heard. It sounded of a child breathing softly in her sleep.
Chauvelin carefully guarded the flickering light of the candle from the face of his young patient. Jack Blakeney slept soundly in his bed, turning occasionally and making soft noises as he dreamed. Chauvelin smiled.
The plan is coming together nicely.
Air puffed from his lips and the wavering light of the candle was extinguished. The room was once more drowned in solitary darkness, the wind pricking at the windowsills.
“What is it, Ffoulkes?” Tony asked, the sudden noise causing Andrew to jump. He turned to see Tony in the doorway, staring at him most curiously.
“I thought I heard something.” Andrew paused a moment in contemplation, then knelt down beside the bed. Tony looked about nervously.
“Ffoulkes, we need to be going. The tide won’t wait for us.”
But Andrew had gazed beneath the bed and turned to look up at Tony with a shocked expression. “But... that can’t be!”
“What can’t be?”
Tony knelt down beside him and gazed at the sleeping figure curled up beneath the bed.
“I thought you said you saw the daughter dead.”
“No,” Tony interjected, his eyes widening. “It was just Armand and Jeanne. I did not even think about the daughter.”
Their squabbling woke Mary slightly and she looked out at them through sleepy eyes.
“Who are you?”
They turned back to the girl, stunned. Andrew was the first to speak.
“Friends of your parents, milady. I am Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and this is Lord Antony Dewhurst.”
“Hullo,” Tony managed, waving to the confused girl. Andrew continued.
“Are you Mary?”
The girl nodded, then laid her head back upon the floor to resume sleeping. They stood in confused silence for a moment, unsure of quite how to proceed. Finally, Andrew reached in and pulled the small girl from beneath the bed. Gathering her up in his arms, he carefully stood to his feet. He had expected no resistance from the girl, but she now spoke as forcefully as one can when they are still at the threshold of the dream world.
“My flower...”
After yet another moment of confusion, Tony obliged by crawling beneath the bed and retrieving the precious flower. They both smiled upon recognizing the humble weed, and Tony gave it to his young mistress with a gentle kiss to her forehead. She smiled dreamily at him, yawning and snuggling up to Andrew as she spoke.
“Where are we going?”
“To England,” Tony said, smiling sweetly. “Where the flowers grow.”
* * * * *
“There’s a man whom no one sees
There’s a man who lives alone
There’s a heart that beats in silence for
The life he’s never known...”
~ “There’s a Man – Transition” from “The Secret Garden”
A small drawer creaked open and Chauvelin’s fingers creeped over the various files hosted therein. They paused briefly over a file marked elusively as “PB”. With a flicker of a smile on his face, he removed the file and skimmed over the document.
Patient is suffering severe depression. He confides in me that he hears voices at night and seems to be constantly reliving that traumatic night.
It was rather traumatic...
He brushed the thought aside, as one would a fly, with no more thought to it than you would pay the insect.
He shows no interest in activities he previously excelled in. He hosts no visitors, his correspondence stacks up upon his desk, unread. In addition to this, he experiences flashback moments, in which he truly believes his wife is still alive. He returns to his once normal state of health, until inevitably something reminds him. The drop to reality is always quite harsh.
I actually quite prefer him moody and melancholy. At least then he remains silent and out of the way.
I have advised patient to begin recording his emotions in a private journal of sorts, in an effort to bring him to peace with his past.
The journal of an insane idiot, now there stands a novel desirable to be read, he thought, quite sarcastically.
Because of this instability of the mind and the present state of his son, I continue to allow him visit by night only.
Taking his pen, he quickly corrected a spelling error. As he began to read again, a knock sounded at the door. Closing the file, he called out his usual “Enter”. Mercier entered with a letter and a quizzical expression on his face.
“Letter for you, sir.”
“Ah, thank you, Mercier. Those patient files have arrived just in time.”
Mercier, however, was not amused.
“No, this is not that kind of letter, sir.”
Curious, Chauvelin took the letter and was quite bewildered to find himself at a loss to recognize the handwriting. Tearing it open, he was far more amazed to find the letter from none other than a one Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Placing the file back in its drawer, he grabbed his coat.
Quite a silly brother have I! To think that the Scarlet Pimpernel does not know of his plans! True, he does not know that the Scarlet Pimpernel rests in the humble body of his foppish brother, but that, mayhap, is what makes it so devilishly amusing. To see him return from France telling me of the peoples’ lives he has saved, when I know full well he has simply been down to conspire and kill, and ‘tis I who have saved!. Ah well... I wonder where Margot is this fair morning.
Sir Percy sat quite comfortably on a stone bench outside, overlooking the moor that sat behind Blakeney Manor, housing many mazes and various gardens. A gentle smile played at the edge of his lips as he wondered where his wife might have wandered off to. He felt inclined to go look for her when he noticed Chauvelin approach with a letter in his hand. He smiled as his brother called out to him.
I do so love a good tease.
“Good morning, Percy!”
“Oh, Chomberton! Out for a morning walk?”
Mon Dieu, non! And to think, I had hoped to get work done this morning...
“The name is Chauvelin, Percy,” he said, his voice instinctively growing irritated at the man before him who, living now in the past, looked most confused.
“Chauvelin? Are you quite sure?”
“Yes, Percy. The name taken from the great-uncle who...”
“Oh, but I could have sworn you said Chomberton before. I remember it quite distinctly.”
“No, Percy. I did not.”
“Really. Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“Entirely?”
“Yes.”
“Completely, without a doubt?”
“YES, Percy!”
“Ah, splendid.” He thought a moment, then looked up in confusion. “Pardon my asking, but what are you certain about again?”
“I am certain, Percy, that my name is Chauvelin. ”
“Chauvelin? I thought you were certain it was Chomberton!”
“No, Percy.”
He considered this a moment, then shook his head in irritation.
“Most interesting. Simply shall have to have my ears checked. But tell me... Why the deuce did you change it anyway, Shufflin?”
Chauvelin let out a low growl, then slowed his speech as one would to a child.
“Because, Percy, I was doctoring to the people of France.”
Percy crossed his legs, leaning back to smile inanely up at Chauvelin.
“Well, if ever I was so inclined as to want a change of name, I should chose something far more British than Shufflin.”
“That is exactly the point, Percy. I was working in France, therefore I had want of a more French name.”
“Then again, you cannot get more British than “Blakeney”, I assume... Wait. Pray tell, did you say something? I could have simply sworn you did.”
“Yes, Percy. I was explaining that as I was working in France, I had want of a more French name...”
“Oh, of course! Sink me, Shufflin, but ‘tis rather obvious. Really, what do you take me for? Some form of idiotic ninny?”
Chauvelin thought this over a moment, then decided best not to answer. He sat beside Percy, hoping to bring up the subject he had ventured outside to bring up, but Percy interrupted him.
“So, do you mean to say that you thought those Frenchies would accept you better if you sounded more French?”
“Yes, Percy. That is the idea of it.”
“Rather backwards lot they are, eh what? Next you will be telling me they do not enjoy a good game of cricket!”
“Actually, Percy...”
No, not worth the effort.
“Actually, Percy, the reason I came to talk with you is that I have received word from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.”
“Sir Andrew Ffoulkes! Zounds, now there’s a bloke I have not spoken to in ages! He has not invited you to cricket, has he? It would be most beastly of him to invite you and not me...”
“No, Percy. Not cricket.”
“A ball then, perhaps?”
“No.”
Chauvelin opened the letter as though to read it, but Percy was not finished yet.
“Rather curious he wrote to you and not to me. After all, during that bloody revolution, he and I were close as brothers while you were rambling around Paris.”
Chauvelin coughed as though to silence Percy.
“Yes, Percy. I feel he has written to me as you seem to be a bit remiss in your correspondence.”
“Am I? Oh, Margot will have my head if she hears of that! Pray, do not mention it to her, or I shall like to find myself...”
“THE LETTER STATES, Percy, that your brother-in-law Armand has died.”
No sooner had he spoken those words that Percy’s face drooped; his idiotic grin turning rapidly downward and his lazy eyes falling downward in sudden pain.
Ah non, here he goes again.
Thunder. Lightning. Rain. Howls. Blood. Fear. Darkness. Wind. Pain. Locks. Walls. Blood.
All these things attacked him. But none was so worse as the vision before him. Eyes. Eyes he had loved so dear. Eyes that had once told him she loved him. Eyes that had sparkled so vividly.
Eyes that no longer held life. Eyes that sat hollow and lifeless. Eyes that no longer loved him. And through it all, he heard the screams.
These things weighed him down, drowning him in a thick swamp of memories. He felt the pain sucking him down into a bottomless pit. Margot was calling his name, but he couldn’t move as the quicksand began to pull him under. The screams echoed loudly through his ears. He felt suffocated; he was wrapped in the memory too close, it was choking him. He couldn’t breathe, everything was going dark. The key had turned, the door was locked. He couldn’t leave. Couldn’t escape. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Just as the darkness threatened to take him over completely, -- SLASH! -- the darkness was split in two by a burst of white hot lightning that threw Percy to the ground, tears springing to his eyes and gasping for breath.
Chauvelin stood over the collapsed carcass of his brother, observing the wretch with an indifferent eye.
“Sir Andrew writes that Armand and his wife have died, leaving behind their daughter Mary. The nearest relation the girl has is, in fact, you. He is asking to send the girl here.”
His arms pushing his body up and out of the mud, Percy hoarsely managed but a few words between breaths and sobs as his now muddy hair dripped.
“This is no place for a child.”
Chauvelin smiled and folded the letter back into his pocket.
“I could not possibly agree with you more. Therefore, it’s simply a matter of finding an appropriate school...”
But Percy’s strength had begun to return to him and he slowly raised himself up from off the ground.
“No. The girl is Margot’s niece. She will come here.”
He began to walk slowly back to the house, but turned to give his brother an icy glare.
“And get the girl some clothes. I do not want her dressed in black, wandering about like a lost soul.”
He turned back to the house, muttering under his breath. “That are far more than enough of those here already.”
Why on earth do I allow this child to come? Margot’s niece. As though I need another reminder of her lurking about this place. Yet, I remember those schools. Pretending to learn something whilst in truth you are simply worrying after your mother. That is, after all, where I first learned the fine art of idioticity. My dear brother set his mind to work to dull the pain of mother’s death. I simply learned to act stupid so as to avoid people. It took us both far, he to become a doctor and fine revolutionary. I to become a counter-revolutionary worthy even of my own brother’s respect, though he knows it not. But while it has served us well, I fear it may not fare well with this child... But I will not see her. I will not be reminded.
As the carriage lurched to life, Sir Andrew turned his gaze from the letter laying crinkled and folded in his hand to the child sitting beside him. He spoke, hoping to shorten the trip by conversation. “What do you know of your uncle?”
The girl did not even turn from the window, her cross voice nearly lost from the sound of the wind outside.
“My parents never had time to tell me stories and I never wished to hear them.”
Sir Andrew was a bit put off by these comments, but by no means surprised. He had learned quickly that a child can be quite sweet when half asleep ~ and quite the opposite when awake.
He studied the child before speaking again. The dark auburn curls lay matted on her head, despite Suzanne’s best attempts to control them. The surly pout on her fact continued as well, despite both their efforts to produce a happier countenance. Even now she stared out the window with a defiant glare. And yet, despite the overall sullen attitude, the child was obviously a relative of Marguerite’s. He offered up a silent prayer in hopes that she would not alarm Sir Percy.
“He must be a monster, though.”
Andrew smiled at the muttered words, most amused.
“And where on earth did you hear such nonsense?”
“You... and your wife,” she said, turning her hard blue eyes to him. Seeing him confused, she continued. “Last night I overheard your wife asking if it was safe to send me here.”
Andrew turned back to the window, the smile drooping quickly.
“Your uncle, Sir Percy, is having trouble accepting his wife’s death.”
“My aunt Marguerite?”
“Indeed. But I swear to you, child, that he is the kindest man on this earth and shall treat you well.”
Thus contented, or perhaps simply with no further argument, Mary turned back to the window to watch the passing scenery.
“Is there no sun in this horrid place?”
Andrew could not help but smile.
“Pray do forgive the weather, milady. I fear spring has not entirely arrived.”
The day had risen gray and cold, typical of an English spring morn. It even continued to fill out the requirements of the stereotype by remaining somewhat dark and drizzling at times so as to dampen the spirits of all held captive by the dreary day. Thus, animals remained in their dens, plants continued their hibernation in the warmth of the ground, and men closed the curtains in their studies so as to hide from view the forlorn setting they found themselves in.
Because of this, evening approached with muted footsteps; the normal indications that the day had ended seemed not readily apparent. Men walking the halls who chanced to look out their windows, in this case the brother of our protagonist, seemed startled to realize the sudden approach of night. They, or rather, Chauvelin seemed yet far more surprised to see the real time by way of his watch, gawking momentarily at the lateness of the hour in which a visitor was arriving at their doorstep.
Knowing full well that Percy had locked himself within his study with strict instructions not to be disturbed, Chauvelin inwardly groaned at the sight of the carriage. His groan deepened as he recognized its occupants to be none other than Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and a small female, fresh from Paris.
Chauvelin walked sedately to the main door, hoping to bypass a visit. Opening the door, he saw Sir Andrew’s face fall as he recognized their greeter. His clutch on the small girl’s hand tightened. “Welcome, Sir Andrew. I pray you come in and warm yourself by the fire. However, I feel compelled to inform you that Sir Percy is locked in his study with a desire to not be disturbed.” Sir Andrew responded quickly, whilst striding into the hall.
“Surely for an old friend there can be an exception!”
“I am afraid not, sir. Percy has given me explicit instructions and I, as his physician, quite agree with this decision.”
Sir Andrew paused a moment, debating whether or not to argue. A few moments later, he grumpily acquiesced.
“Lady Ffoulkes shall be expecting me home soon. Perhaps I shall call at a later time.”
Chauvelin did his best to conceal a general relief.
“As you wish, Sir Andrew.” Turning his attentions to the young charge at Andrew’s side, he continued. “So this is the child of the St. Just’s?”
Mary instinctively shrunk away from the sable-clad figure. Andrew scooted her forward. “Mary St. Just, this is Dr. Chauvelin. Your uncle’s brother.”
The name did nothing to evoke any further affection and Chauvelin himself seemed to notice this. Straightening up, he took the child’s hand with far less kindness than before.
“The hour is getting late, Sir Andrew, and I understand you have a fair piece yet to drive.”
“Yes, thank you, sir. I shall bid you both goodnight, with the hope that you relate to Sir Percy my visit and my hope to return soon.”
Chauvelin nodded a goodbye, and Sir Andrew took his leave. The cold, clammy hand led Mary down hallway after hallway of this cavernous mansion. Perhaps it could have been beautiful, but the aura of sadness permeated every room and cast a powerful spell of darkness over the home. They finally arrived at a yet another immense room, gargoyles of sorrow hiding in the corners and perching atop the bookshelves. Mary would have shivered in fear, had she not suddenly succumbed to the lateness of the hour.
Before her head could touch the pillow, she had nodded off into a dark and restless sleep.
Voices.
Mary was lying in a large bed, surrounded on all sides by flowers. Vines crept up around her, turning the cavernous bedroom into a jungle of sorts, frightening in all respects to the small girl. Voices called to her from without the door. Voices.
“Father!” she called out, stretching her arms in a silent plea to the door.
In harmony with her wishes, the doorway opened to reveal her own father standing there. She happily tried to climb from the bed, but found she could not move. Horrified, she called after him, begging him to stay. He turned away. She cried harder, but he started to close the door. As the door slammed shut, her eyes popped wide open.
While the room was, indeed, the same, she found it far more frightening than upon her arrival through its doors. The night had crept into the room whilst she slept, replacing curtains with ghosts and furniture with goblins. And, as she stared in horror, another scream permeated the walls ~ this time not from her father.
Percy sat straight up in his chair, the lingering dream still floating about his head, smothering him. With the eyes of one possessed, (whether by fear or demons, it makes no difference) he furtively searched the room for the plagues that had troubled his sleep.
As he sat there, pined to the chair by the fear of the unknown that lay behind him, he heard a sound.
“Percy...”
To the casual listener, the sound would’ve been no more than a small creature baying outside or mayhap a breeze on the window, but to our dear Sir Percy it was a voice.
No, more than a voice. It was her voice...
He jumped from the chair and raced to the door. It took several pulls at the knob for the fact that the door was indeed locked to penetrate Percy’s subconscious. His feet barely touched the floor in their hurry to his desk. Papers, unopened and unwritten letters fluttered to the floor as scavenged for the key that would bring freedom. The prized item finally in his grasp, he retraced his steps to the door. Only to stop dead in his tracks halfway there.
The portrait of Marguerite still hung on the walls, and her clear blue eyes froze his steps. The next few moments found Sir Percy thus: standing in his study, staring up into the eyes of the spirit that had haunted his dreams. However, these few moments only spurred his madness when that nameless whisper reappeared once more.
“Percy...”
He fled the room.
Chauvelin sat straight up in bed at the sound, taking but a moment to distinguish the origin of the heartbreaking cry. Groaning out loud, he lit a lamp and reached for his slippers.
Not again...
As the sounds neared her door, Mary cautiously peeked out from beneath her sheets.
What on earth could make such a horrid sound?
The curiosity and courage of children can never be doubted, especially as we watch this girl travel cautiously across the shadowy cavern that occupies her. She has lighted a lamp, which causes more shadows and imaginary creatures to leap out at her, bringing her walk to a faster pace.
Upon reaching the door, she paused, hand outstretched. Her palm slowly closed over the cool metal of the knob and, as she heard a cry sound from without, quickly threw open the door.
Margot! Where are you?
His crazed, half-asleep eyes fell upon door after door, looking but not seeing, until they fell upon a girl. A girl with auburn curls and sweet blue eyes.
The cries came from a man standing across the hall. His features were entirely in shadow; the only impression the girl seemed to find was that he was tall and his figure seemed bent with sorrow.
“Marguerite?”
The voice was low with sorrow and, in that instant, Mary recalled all the stories she had read of ghosts that haunted large manors. In sudden fear for her life, she slammed shut the door and ran to quiver beneath the sheets once more.
Chauvelin looked over the boy once more, grateful for the ceasing of the child’s nightmares. The boy had rolled over in bed once more, twitching in his sleep. Content, Chauvelin turned back to the door to return to sleep himself, only to have Percy come flying in the door.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
Chauvelin needed no translation, but simply pulled his brother away.
“Come, Percy. You should be sleeping.”
“Where are you hiding her?”
“Come Percy,” Chauvelin said, this time a little stronger. Percy’s rage was not as yet subsided, however.
“WHERE IS SHE?”
“She’s dead, Percy!” Chauvelin growled, noticing a sudden change in the manner of the other. Percy’s rage fled and his shoulders slumped once more. Putting an arm around his brother’s shoulders, Chauvelin pulled him away. Percy clung heavily to his brother’s arm, sobbing uncontrollably in the voice of a child younger than the one he fathered. Chauvelin dragged the man from the room, disgusted by this Englishman’s sudden, and most irregular, show of emotion.
As the flickering candle now grasped by the claw-like hands of Chauvelin exited the room, the child stirred. Upon finding himself once again alone, he passed the apparition off as a dream, and returned to an unsettled sleep.
When Mary next awakened, a rather dim sunlight was filtering through the large windows and someone had opened her door. She sat up with a start, worried after the identity of the stranger. Her eyes fell upon a Frenchwoman across the room, smiling at her awakened ward.
“Who are you?” Mary asked, looking the woman over curiously.
“Bon matin! I am Marie Tussaud. I am a friend of your uncle.” The woman paused, looking the girl over herself. “Are you ready for some breakfast, ma petite?”
Mary’s eyes wandered from the woman to the tray of food she held in her grasp. Although Mary’s stomach grumbled with hunger, she stubbornly refused the food.
“Not hungry? Get your clothes on then and run out to play. That will give you hunger enough for your porridge.”
“But what will I have to do? There’s nothing out there.”
Marie’s eyes twinkled as she gathered up some warm clothes for the child.
“I would not say that. Mon enfant, Dickon, goes out there everyday. I would not be surprised if you saw him.”
Mary debated this a moment, then decided it to be more interesting outside than in. She dressed quickly, then wandered to the door. Marie looked up as she turned the knob.
“Can you find your way out yourself, then? It is down the stairs, past the ballroom, through the aisle...”
“I shall find it myself!” Mary exclaimed defiantly, then slammed the door.
“And how did you sleep last night, Percy?” Chauvelin asked, pausing in his writing to take a sip of tea and look up at his brother.
Percy, spending this moment looking out over the moor through Chauvelin’s study’s window, took a few moments to consider this.
“I had another dream...” he finally offered, turning from the window to sit by Chauvelin’s desk and occasionally rustle through the papers.
Chauvelin looked up momentarily from his notes, but paid no heed to his brother.
“And what was it about?” he asked evenly.
“The same as they always are.”
He picked up a letter, looked it over with a bored eye, and threw it back onto the desk. Pausing for a moment, he looked around the room.
“What?” Chauvelin asked.
Percy stood to get a better vantage point.
“My cup of tea seems to have taken up feet...”
Finally spotting it, he crossed the room in a few bounds, took a sip, and nearly spat it back out.
“What’s wrong, Percy?” Chauvelin asked uninterestedly, not looking up from his papers.
“My tea has gotten a bit chilly...” He snickered at this, his smile that of one who had not done so in awhile. Chauvelin looked up, and Percy apologetically spoke.
“’Tis an old joke I had with friends of mine... a cold cup of tea...”
Chauvelin turned back to his papers, shaking his head.
“I see no way you could possibly find humor in a cold cup of tea.”
“Well, now that I think about it, I don’t suppose you would find it very funny.”
Mary, although she wouldn’t admit it, was quite lost. Finding herself in yet another hallway, she started trying to open the locked doors on either side of the hallway.
“Percy, have you seen today’s newspaper? I could have sworn I set it right here...”
Percy shook his head and Chauvelin searched a moment more in annoyance. Finally, with a growl of impatience, he stood and made his way to the door.
“I shall go ask Mercier. Just... don’t touch anything. I shall be right back.”
Percy looked back at his cup of tea and swirled the spoon about as aimlessly as his thoughts.
After waving farewell to his comrades, Percy sprang eagerly up the steps to Blakeney Manor, glad to be home. He flung open the doors, his face brightening instantly as he saw Marguerite siting on the stairs, waiting for him. His smile dissipated, however, when he noticed the scowl upon her face.
“Milady?”
“A husband not yet a day, and already running off to the cricket fields?”
He smiled.
“And who, pray tell, is spreading such vicious rumors about mine humble self?”
“Fisher,” she said, turning Percy’s attention momentarily from his wife to his butler, who had unknowingly entered the room. Upon seeing his lord and ladyship in an argument about himself, he wisely retreated. Percy sat himself at Marguerite’s feet, trying to catch her eye.
“’Tis a tradition, milady, and you shall find in this land that traditions are valued quite highly. Especially when they dictate for the men to play cricket.”
Marguerite was not amused and, pushing him aside, made her way quite defiantly into the conservatory where she sat upon the couch, her face turned from his. Percy noticed, however, the small hint of a suppressed smile edging her lips, and knew that the game was up.
“Your ladyship will forgive mine error, will she not?”
Marguerite said nothing, turning her head further so as not to reveal her now spreading grin. He threw his lanky form across the back of the couch, posturing himself upside down upon the furniture, his blonde hair nearly swaying across the floor. He tried his best to look melodramatically depressed as she began to giggle.
“If your ladyship so commands, I shall from this day hence disown the game entirely, content to simply stay at the home and remain your faithful servant. I shall even do all in my power to keep hidden from thine ladyship’s sight my obvious depression at the lack of this marvelous game. Though, I dare say, it shall be quite difficult...”
They enjoyed a loud laugh that could be heard all the way to Chauvelin’s study, who gritted his teeth against the noise.
As the laughing subsided, Marguerite began to play with Percy’s hair, winding it between her fingers. Percy looked up at her earnestly, his clear blue eyes searching hers.
“You are not really angry with me, are you?”
She smiled gently.
“Sir Percy, I do not believe ‘tis possible for anyone to remain angry with you long.”
“Oh, there is a way.” He winked. “’Tis my most secret of secrets. I never share it with anyone I should ever desire to stay angry with me. Least of all my wife.”
“I am sure she shall be most glad to hear of it.”
They sat in silence a moment, until Percy pulled himself up to a sitting position and took Marguerite’s hands in his own. Looking quite serious indeed, he began to speak.
“Margot, today during cricket, I proposed an idea to my friends that I have been considering for...” His eyes wandered to the ceiling, as though he could see through it to the brother that the room held, “...for some time. They all joined with me, but now I must broach it to you.”
Marguerite smiled, a bit confused. “But why should it concern me?”
Percy considered this a moment, then spoke directly and forcefully.
“Because if I must return home to that scowl on your face everytime, I simply shan’t go.”
The day it all began...
“Are you my Uncle Percy?”
The voice startled him, and his teacup nearly slipped from his fingers, spilling tea upon his coat. “Who’s that?” he called, despite the girl standing nearly directly in front of him. She looked at him curiously as he tried somewhat to dry himself off.
“Mary St. Just, monsieur. Are you my Uncle Percy?”
“Yes, I am. Good morning, child.”
“Are you going to be my father now?”
“I am your guardian. Though I’m a poor one for any child.”
He set his tea down and took his handkerchief out while Mary wandered about Chauvelin’s study. As she did so, she found a small painting of Marguerite and held it up for her uncle to see.
“Is this my aunt Marguerite in this picture?”
Percy’s face softened as he took it in his hands.
“Yes... ‘tis.” He suddenly had a thought and looked up. “Where did you get this?”
“Is she a ghost now?”
“Why?”
“I heard someone crying in the house last night, but I don’t know anything about ghosts. Is my father a ghost now?”
Percy turned back to the window with Marguerite’s picture.
Armand a ghost?
He snickered under his breath.
Heaven help us all.
“I do not know, child.” Looking about the barren land outside the window, and feeling the familiar tugs at his heart upon seeing a picture of his beloved, he turned back to the girl with a sorrowful gaze. “I offer you my deepest sympathies upon your arrival.”
He turned back to the window, thinking she had left.
“Did my mother have any other family?”
He heard the door close behind her as she left.
Sir Philip Glynde silently rejoiced as he once more breathed in the cold British air. Stepping off the boat direct from Calais, he smiled in appreciation at the familiar landscape and, as a small drizzle of rain began to fall, the familiar weather. He made his way to the familiar inn that waited nearby ~ The Fisherman’s Rest.
The soft sound of rain falling over the countryside proved sharp contrast as he stepped inside the bustling inn. Mr. Waite was in his usual chair, Sally emerged occasionally from the kitchen, and mine good host Jellyband moved ‘bout the room. Upon sight of the newly arrived Sir Philip, Jellyband approached the gentleman with an enjoyed smile.
“Sir Philip Glynde, as I live and breathe! A sight for sore eyes!”
Sir Philip heartily shook his hand, the smell of Sally’s famous stew warming his mood. He moved to claim a seat, but found Jellyband’s hand still holding his.
“Milord, I hold a letter for you.”
“For me?” he asked, quite surprised as Jellyband procured forth a small missive written in a hand he did not recognize. Thanking his good host, he settled down to a table to read.
“Friday next. Place d’Grieve. 7 o’clock.”
Mary skipped down the pathway, listening to the gravel skid beneath her feet. ‘Spring is in the wind’ Marie had told her. All Mary knew was that the air was crisp and her breath hung in the air before her like a swiftly disappearing fog.
She turned the corner and smiled as Fisher came into view, warming himself by a small grassfire. She skipped over and felt her frozen cheeks begin to warm as she neared the flickering flames. The wizened old man granted her a small smile as she drew near.
“Good morning, Fisher.”
“Back again today, are ye?”
She smiled as she noticed the bag of seed sitting near his tools.
“I saw that robin again today.”
Fisher had pointed out a robin earlier, one that seemed to follow this head gardener, probably due to the fact that he fed him.
“And I know where he lives, too. Somewhere in where that path leads.”
A small opening in a hedge led to a mysterious path that Mary had yet to venture down. Something held her back, yet also piqued her interest. Fisher’s face grew stern as she said this.
“Now little mam’zelle, that was Lady Blakeney’s garden.”
“Her garden!” Mary squealed with excitement. “But I want to see it! Will you show me the door?”
“No, I won’t,” he said stubbornly. “When she died, your Uncle Percy gave orders to lock it up. Said no one was to go in there anymore and buried the key. And now, even if you could get through the maze, (Which I doubt) the ivy’s grown up over the door, so that even I don’t know where it is anymore.”
Mary ventured to the opening of the maze, peeking in at the pathway that now hid the forbidden garden from prying eyes.
“You stay away from that garden,” Fisher warned, gathering up his tools as he prepared to leave, “I don’t fancy having to come find you when you get lost in there...”
Fisher was pruning the maze’s hedges when he heard giggling coming from within. Peeking through some of the branches, he saw Lady Blakeney sitting on her swing, Sir Percy sitting on a bench opposite, writing poetry. Both were obviously quite in love.
“I confess I did not know I had married a poet, Sir Percy.”
With the discretion accredited only to those with many years behind them, Fisher let the branch fall back into place, and found gardening work elsewhere.
Mary summoned up her courage and took a step into the maze. Only to be startled a moment later by an unfamiliar voice by the fire.
“Hello there, Mary.”
She jumped, then turned around to see a boy about her own age staring at her with a crooked grin. A raven perched on his shoulder, yet the boy’s wild eyes seemed to make the bird appear tamer than the boy. Mary stepped forward cautiously.
“Are you Marie’s son? Dickon?”
He nodded an affirmative, which made her far more curious.
“Why haven’t I seen you before?”
“Ye haven’t been looking hard enough, I assume. Wild creatures aren’t easily found when one has not the energy to seek them. But look here,” He pulled a small pouch from his coat pocket. “My mother sent ye a packet of seeds for your garden.”
“I don’t have a garden. I want to go in that one,” she said stubbornly, pointing to the maze. As she did so, she noticed the robin once more emerge and perch near the fire in search of nest building materials. She smiled. “The garden where the robin lives.”
“Ah, but he’s making his nest there, Mary. Can’t afford to have you interfering if you’re not friendly.”
“Can you tell him I’m friendly?”
He smiled.
“I don’t think ye need to tell him that. Animals know these things by themselves.” He stepped forward, motioned to the path Mary had nearly taken.
“And what be it beyond that hedge that holds your fancy so?”
“A garden,” Mary replied simply. Dickon smiled.
“’Tis plenty enough a them to be seen elsewhere, Mistress Mary.” She turned from him back to the hedges, standing on tiptoe as though to somehow see to the garden’s door from her newfound inch of height. “Perhaps ‘tis only the mystery that calls ye?”
“Perhaps,” Mary said dejectedly as she slumped to the ground in annoyance, finding herself suddenly in a small patch of familiar looking red flowers. She plucked one ruthlessly from the ground and examined it with delight for a moment.
“Ye taking a fancy to the pimpernels there?”
Dickon watched her a moment more than, feeling a change in the wind, turned to once more return to his earlier course of action.
“I’m off then, Mistress Mary. But, a word of advice?”
She looked up from the flower.
“If ye got your heart set on seeing the garden, I’d have myself a talk with the most recent owner.” He motioned to the robin perched a-top the hedge, staring at them both with a cocked head. Dickon winked, then walked away.
The robin chirped a hello as Mary stood. She stared at the creature a moment before she spoke, her voice low and quavering when she did.
“If you know where the key is... show me.”
The robin turned his head, warbled, but remained in one spot. Mary quite hesitantly added, “Please?”
The robin jumped from his perch and set off flying down Mary’s side of the hedge. She willingly followed at a near run for a few moments, when the robin settled down on the ground. Right a-top another patch of the wayside flowers.
Mary, quite unsure of herself, approached the mound slowly, jumping with fright when the robin took off. She knelt down onto her knees and began to dig through the ground beneath the flowers. It was slow going as she had never done such a thing in her life and the earth was still quite solid, as spring had not yet awakened it from its peaceful slumber. She dug furiously until her nearly numb fingertips touched cold metal. She fought a cruel game of tug-of-war with the ground before she finally tore the key loose, but then found herself the proud owner of the key to the secret garden. She stared wondrously at it a moment then, remembering her manners, smiled up at the robin.
“Merci, pretty robin.”
“Mary!” Marie’s voice echoed through the gardens, making Mary jump at the sound. Taking one last look at this precious treasure, she thrust it into her pocket and went to find Marie.
Sir Percy sat in his study, waiting for the arrival of his young charge. Needing an occupation for his mind, he retrieved his journal and, mindless, began to write. It wasn’t long before his writing shifted from narrative to plea.
Margot, where are you? I’m lost without you. I cannot walk these halls without you. Margot, why did you leave me? I have searched the world, but you’re not there. Come and tell me why you brought me home if you’re not here. My Margot, where are you? I’m lost without you. Margot, I’m lost without...
“Mary St. Just to see you, sir...”
Percy visibly jumped at the sound, then stood to greet the small girl. Mary entered quite hesitantly, glancing about her as she entered the unfamiliar room. He sat again, placing the journal back into a desk drawer and looking about him for something with which to occupy his eyes. The girl looked so much like his dear Margot...
“Are you getting along well, child? Do they take care of you as they should?”
Startled by the suddenness of the question, Mary answered quickly.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“My brother, as well as personal physician, has instructed me that you would be happier in a school somewhere...”
Had Mary not been so worried by the prospect, she might’ve noticed her uncle’s shoulders sag and his eyes grow sad with memories of yesteryears. However, her fear caused her to notice naught and to burst out with a rather improper shout of “No!”
Calming herself, she began again.
“Please, sir. I am most happy here. I do not wish to go away. I am no trouble. I do not need much. Just...”
She fell silent, unsure of how to continue with her request. Puzzled at her silence, Sir Percy unwittingly looked up. Their eyes met as Mary spoke, her voice low and soft.
“Might I have a bit of earth, sir? To plant seeds and watch them grow into flowers? I should stay out of the way... Please, sir?”
Percy watched her for a moment then, abruptly, jumped from his chair and began to pace the room, his eyes wild and his gait hard and quick. He waved his hand for her to leave then, throwing himself into a chair, managed out a few words.
“Take a bit of earth. And go!”
Mary did not have to be told twice. Her feet carried her swiftly to the door, where she raced down the corridor to her room. As she once more found herself in her room, she allowed herself a brief moment of enjoyment at the feel of the cold metal of the key against her skin. Clasping it tightly in her hand, she collapsed upon her bed. The sheer excitement of the day finally took its toll and the girl retired, exhausted, into a dreamless sleep.
“Sir Percy, this is all your land?” Marguerite asked, her voice quite incredulous as she surveyed Blakeney Manor’s “backyard” for the first time. Percy smiled.
“Indeed, Lady Blakeney.”
She smiled back.
“I daresay, Sir Percy, you adore that name with higher esteem than even I do!”
“Simply because I have so long wished to address you by it.” His adoring eyes caused her cheeks to blush once more, and she turned back to her new home.
“Do you like gardens, Lady Blakeney?”
“I do, indeed,” she said, smiling. Percy pretended to be quite seriously thinking something over. “Well, I do seem to recall that Fisher was saying something about an empty garden. He had mentioned that he should be wanting someone to care for it...”
Marguerite smiled, then flung her arms around Percy’s neck: a move that caught him off guard yet delighted him immensely.
“Have you any idea of someone who could be of assistance?”
Chauvelin wandered the hallways aimlessly, his mind far elsewhere. Ironically, however, he was not far from Percy’s thoughts...
Chauvelin was sitting in his study, awaiting any moment the return of his brother and new-found bride. For nearly two months, he had been left alone at Blakeney Manor to study, plot, and aid the republic from the home of the biggest fop in England. Now, however, he would be forced to hide away in his study once more. It was a terrible thing to think about. Yet, not so terrible as what happened next...
At the sound of a carriage approaching. Chauvelin stood, put his papers away, and prepared to meet once more with his brother. He squinted as he stepped outside into the elusive sunlight that, for the moment, greeted Blakeney Manor. His brother stepped from the carriage and smiled idiotically at him. Chauvelin felt his jaw tighten.
“Arm-And!” He called, mispronouncing the French name as he usually did. “Come meet my dear, new wife!”
Percy offered a hand into the carriage and, a moment later, Chauvelin saw before his eyes a vision of beauty. Never before had he felt such a flutter, never before had he felt so possessive. Yet the woman entranced him and he instantly felt that she could never belong to such a man as his brother. He bowed low and kissed the woman’s hand.
“Enchanté, Madame.”
The new Lady Blakeney, however, greeted him rather indifferently and resumed her walk with Percy. A pang of jealously rang out in his blackened heart as a small ray of light began to penetrate through. Yet with it came anger...
Chauvelin’s thoughts turned abruptly from the memory when the soft pitter-patter of raindrops began their melodies against the glass. Brushing the sudden emotion from him, as well as the mist forming around his eyes, he straightened his back and walked sharply into his office where he disappeared once more into his work.
The Revolution failed before because we were not careful enough. We were bears to be baited, rather than wolves waiting to pounce. But this time, this time we shall conquer! We shall be as falcons in the dive.
An ironical smile twinged the edge of the sable-clad figure’s mouth.
It has a certain ring to it, has it not?
Mary sat upright in bed; the darkness of the room huddled close round her lone candle, as though rubbing its hands to rid itself of a chill. She knew she must put it out ‘ere it died completely, but her hand wavered as it drew near the flame. Pulling the candlestick closer to herself, she drew in a deep, yet rather haggard, breath. As she puckered her lips to blow, a cry echoed through the room, leaving the breath dead upon her lips and the candle still, vaguely, alive.
She started at the noise and it is a wonder she did not drop the candle altogether. She felt for a moment that the dark had made the noise, in defiance to her destroying of its lone heat. But, her eyes wide as saucers, the noise came again, louder than before.
It was not the cry of a darkness, rather the cry of a child.
Someone here is lost... or mad.
More in surprise now than fear, she jumped and raced across the room for her slippers and warm shawl. A child’s curiosity, much like a flame, will not be easily hindered once sparked to life.
It is simply a shame Citizen Ropespierre did not live to see this day. The Revolution spreading once more beneath my hands and soon, very soon, I shall bring the Revolution money and power. Showing that my sole mistress now is Liberty, Equality, et Fraternity.
Marguerite? Why ever did you fall in love with a fool such as me? Why? Could you not have spared us all this terror, this wretched cruelty? Your career showed promise, why waste it upon a man whose very home would bring you death?
After wandering on for several minutes, Mary finally seemed to locate the origin of the screaming. Clutching the candlestick desperately in her left hand, she slowly twisted the creaky doorknob with her right. Pushing upon the heavy door, she poked her head around cautiously, only to be greeted by a sudden stop in the cries. Poking her head in further for a better look, she caught sight of a boy staring up at her with astonished eyes.
After sizing the other up for a moment, the boy was the first to speak.
“Are you a ghost?”
“No, I’m not,” Mary said defiantly, convinced by the tiny squeak of the boy’s voice that he was quite harmless. His pronounced fears also showed that, most likely, he himself was not a ghost. Striding into the room, she stood before this oddity ~ a young, blonde boy that seemed no different than any other, yet was lying helplessly upon the bed ~ with a superior toss of the head. “I am Mary St. Just. Sir Percy Blakeney is my uncle.”
The boy, starting to realize that the figure before him was indeed mortal, began to smile softly. “I am Jack. Sir Percy is my father. Perhaps he told you of me...?” The boy’s words were hopeful, yet seemed to understand when Mary shook her head. With a toss of his own head, not from superiority but rather from indifference to the following words, he replied lightly, “I understand why not. I am going to die, you see.”
“How do you know?” Mary asked, doing her best to remain strong-willed, but turning rather curious.
“I hear everyone talking about it.”
“Everyone?”
“Dr. Chauvelin. And his assistant.”
“And you believe that to be everybody?”
“They are the only people I am allowed to see. Therefore, they are everybody.” Mary grew sulky at this, mostly owing to her lack of a good response. Jack wisely changed the subject.
“Where do you come from? I have not seen you before.”
“From France,” she replied, her face somewhat downcast. “My parents died there.”
“My mother is dead, too,” Jack replied, these gloomy tidings taken well in stride. For, one must realize, very few cheery tidings had ever come his way. “She died when I was born. That is why my father hates me.” At Mary’s questioning glance, he continued. “Dr. Chauvelin told me that my father never wishes to see me, because I remind him of my mother. Although, he says, I look nothing like her.”
Mary had to agree with the doctor for once. The boy stretched before her, although far more pale and sickly looking, was long, lanky, blonde, and held stunning blue eyes. Even his hands matched his father’s: long, rather feminine, fingers.
“Is that why you cry all the time?”
“Mostly.”
“You never cry because you fear the words of the doctor?”
“No. I shan’t be afraid to die.”
Mercier paused at the sound and followed it, nearly with horror, to the door of his master’s young charge. Stooping at the door, he bent and retrieved the dropped shawl of the young girl and quickly raced to Chauvelin’s study.
Chauvelin was simply tidying up and finishing the last of some correspondence when Mercier came bounding into the study, clutching a shawl and talking far too rapidly to discern words.
“Gasp, gasp, breath... girl... breath, gasp... Jack... wheeze... the girl!”
“Slow down, Mercier,” Chauvelin said, inwardly rolling his eyes at such incompetence. Taking the shawl slowly into his own hands, he spoke slowly.
“Where’s the girl?”
By now, fortunately, Mercier had recovered his breath.
“In Blakeney’s room.”
“What possible difference could that make?” he asked, smelling the shawl softly, then throwing it into a chair.
“Not that Blakeney!”
“You know nothing of your father?”
“No. What is he like, Cousin Mary?”
Mary thought for a moment, unsure of what to tell her cousin. His pale face had lit up slightly at the mention of this unknown man and Mary was hesitant to destroy that.
“He looks quite a bit like you...”
“Really?” Jack interjected, smiling. “I know I do not look like my mother; her portrait is on that wall. She looks... I say, she looks quite a bit like you!”
Mary smiled.
“Jack, what is wrong with you?”
“I’m a cripple,” he said, without taking his eyes off the painting hanging opposite his bed. “I should never be able to walk, should I live.”
Mary opened her mouth to speak again, but heard a noise at the door. Not but a moment later, Doctor Chauvelin and Mercier had entered the room and dragged her from it by her ear. Slamming the door behind her, Chauvelin and Mercier turned their sternest eye to the girl.
“Mary St. Just, you foolish child!”
“I was afraid of something like this.”
“Now you listen to me!”
“I should have sent you away while there was still time.”
“You are never to see Jack again.”
Frustrated with anger, Mary pulled herself from their grasp and ran fast as her feet could carry her to her bedroom. Throwing herself against the wall, she paused for a moment to catch her breath. As she did so, her eyes caught upon the window and, further than that, at the gardens beyond. Her eyes transfixed, she felt in her pocket for the key. Something was drawing her outside. Something was pulling her to the garden. Tonight.
Percy looked up from his journalizing in astonishment at the darkness of the room. The cackling fire and the sputtering candle held the only light in the room, despite the evening’s hour. Standing in amazement, he crossed the room to stand by the window. As he did so, a small raindrop plunked against the glass.
After Mary raced away, Chauvelin turned back to the room.
“Why did you never tell me my cousin had arrived, Dr. Chauvelin?”
“It is of no importance. Now, you must sleep.”
He tucked the tired boy back into bed, watching the droopy eyelids settle shut. Taking up his candle once more, he turned to quit the room. But something held him back. Stepping forward, he blanched momentarily at the clear blue eyes staring down at him.
Those eyes that loved my brother, never me. Those eyes that first I loved so.
Chauvelin’s thoughts turned abruptly from the memory when a rumble of thunder announced the entrance of a storm. He raced to the window, in time to watch the storm clouds gather, the wind pick up, and a bolt of lightning shimmer against the sky further down the countryside.
A storm was gathering, and it wouldn’t leave without a fight.
Mary reached the hedge as the wind began to pick up. The rain had arrived, yet was not as yet entirely strong. This was the one thing that held Mary to her promise to find the door tonight. Summoning up her courage, she willed her feet to step past the foreboding hedge gate and step onto the forbidden ground. As her foot touched the hardened earth, a dull roar of thunder wound its way through the garden gates, whispering a warning to her. Shaking it off hesitantly, she wiped the rain from her face and turned left into the maze.
Percy was suddenly aware of the storm as well, though not in the same way. The warm sun that hung overhead as Marguerite and he wandered aimlessly through the garden had turned his back on him, leaving him alone in a now dark garden, full of shadows and fear.
His heart pounding, he stepped over the overgrowing vines, the flowers that sprang to their feet to grab at his, the crows and ravens that seemed the only birds to witness this occasion. He began to run, feeling the rain pelt at his eyes, feeling the vines tearing at his feet, hearing the screams echo in his ears. “Margot!” he screamed, running harder. “MARGOT!”
The wind had picked up and was clawing at Mary’s face. Her eyes stung from the cold, but it made no difference. The darkness had overwhelmed her, and she could see naught but a few inches before her.
Mistress Mary, quite contrary...
Although she told herself that it was but her memory softly singing the ditty, she could not help looking behind her to find the source of the words that had been whispered airily. The leaves of the hedge bent and rustled in the wind, shrieking for aid and reaching for help. Her scalp prickled in fear. She drew her cloak closer around her and tried to run, but could find no where to go. The wind whistled all around her, pushing her in every direction.
How does your garden grow?
Her throat was burning from the cold air, and she stopped running. For a moment she leaned against the hedge to catch her breath. In that space of time, a burst of light split the sky in half, illuminating the pelting of the rain and the frozen ground beneath her feet. As the light began to fade, a raven perched upon the hedge and, glaring at her, let out an echoing “Caw!” as its wings ruffled a ominous sound.
Again pushed into a run of fear, Mary felt the earth tremble beneath her feet as the thunder bellowed its fury.
“I hate you! Why can you never be home?”
Tears began to sting Mary’s eyes, this time not from the rain. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, hoping to push away the memories as well.
“I hate you, Papa! Why can’t you just go away and never come back?”
The tears began to come in earnest now, she didn’t bother to brush them away. What was the purpose of trying to see when darkness was all around you?
“Open this door! In the name of the Republic!”
Her mother’s screams. Her father’s fear.
Had an early frost, now it’s gone, it’s lost.
Another bolt of lightning. Another roar of thunder. Another howl of the animals that lurked about her in the darkness.
Dig it up and out you go.
The wind howled around her, sounding like a scream that pierced her to the bone. Another one; was it truly the wind?
It’s a maze this garden, it’s a maze of ways. Meant to lead a soul astray.
The torrents of rain pelted down upon her, soaking her to the skin. Her lip trembling, she tried to turn back.
It’s a maze this garden. It’s a maze of ways...
She didn’t know how to get back. Turning around in all directions, she quickly came to the conclusion that she was quite horribly lost. Gathering up a deep breath, she screamed, “Help!” but her words died not far from her lips. She could not be heard above the storm.
Percy thrust his perspiration-soaked head upon the window, his eyes half mad as they scoured the countryside, darting back and forth. His fingers clawed the glass; sweat seeping from his forehead.
It’s not real, Blakeney. She’s not out there. Just a storm. Nothing to worry about. No one is out there. No one.
Mary fell to the ground, unable to stand upon her legs against this storm any longer. Clutching her knees with her arms, she sobbed violently in fear and desperation. She cried aloud for aid, but all that responded was the foreboding raven and the clawing brush. The wind blew rain about her, whispering words and dredging up fears that chilled her more than the icy temperature of the night.
But, as her eyes dropped tears, she noticed something sitting beside her. Leaning back upon her knees, she bent closer and realized she had collapsed upon a patch of pimpernels.
A stroke of lightning stabbed the sky and, in its brief moment of life, she looked about her. A small smile beginning to show on her face, she looked back at the way she had come. Pimpernels lined one side of the path, leading back to the way out. Looking to the other way, she paused at the sight that the pimpernels went no further. A brief moment of light appeared on her face, and she slowly rose to her feet. Pulling the ivy of the hedge aside, she stared at the door to the garden.
‘Tis all over, Blakeney. The storm has passed.