The pink fingers of dusk were covering the countryside with their rosy hue while two gentlemen sat anxiously in the coffee room of The Fisherman’s Rest. One paced the room while the other sat, one eye on a newspaper, the other on the clock. The room felt the oppressive silence of anxious waiting when company was expected and, because of this, mine host Jellyband entered cautiously.
“When, might I ask, should we be expecting Lord Tony?”
Both men started at the sudden noise, one recovering quickly enough to answer. Casting an eye upon the clock, he spoke.
“I fear Lord Tony is, at present, late. He should be arriving shortly.”
The one who had found his occupation in pacing spoke softly, “Ffoulkes, you don’t think...?”
“Indeed no, Hastings!” Rang out from the door, in the personage of one Lord Antony Dewhurst. The two gentlemen were instantly relieved and rose to greet their friend. Lord Tony threw his hat upon a chair.
“Ffoulkes, you are intolerably late,” said Sir Andrew, pacing his relief with a reprimand. Tony grinned mischievously in response and laughed.
“I’truth, I know it. But I fear it could not be helped, gentlemen. I had some friends I wished to invite along to sup with us.” Stepping aside, he bade enter a rather stout gentleman, his wife, and a small boy. “May I present the Comte and Comtess de Laurent, as well as their son Louis.”
The two English gentlemen gave the couple a proper bow, inviting them into the room.
“I fear the family must be quite famished,” Tony said, looking about him. “Where is that dear girl... Ah, my pretty Sally!” He called, as the blushing girl entered. “Do have the heart to bring these good people in and feed them some of your delectable soup.” As the girl turned to lead them out, Tony gave a last bow. “My friends and I shall join you in a moment.”
The family gone from the room, Tony turned back to Sir Andrew and Lord Hastings.
“May I be the first to say that another family has evaded danger at the hands of those fiends we thought were long gone.”
“You may indeed, Tony,” Hastings said, settling back into an oversized chair with a glass of port. “Percy would be proud.”
No sooner had the words fallen from his mouth, than the three friends quieted and grew somber. Tony looked up in gentleness, his words soft.
“How is he?”
“Not a soul has seen him since his wife... since the storm. Save his brother.”
“The fiend,” Tony said, his lip curling in distaste at the memories of Citizen Chauvelin. “I cannot see why Percy would allow him to remain under his own roof. I myself should have done damage to his person before long.”
“I am assured that you would have,” Andrew said, smiling faintly. “Now...” he searched for a change of topic, which Hastings supplied.
“Did you receive a letter as well?” he asked, receiving from Tony a nod. Tony pulled from his pockets a small piece of weather-ridden parchment covered with but a few words detailing a place and time. Hastings looked it over, then nodded.
“’Tis identical to the one I received not long ago, which was identical to the one received by Gynde. Did you follow through?”
Tony laughed sarcastically. “I thought it should be quite obvious I had.”
“Did any of the contacts recognize the handwriting?”
“No,” Tony said, his face once more serious. “No one. This... correspondence seems utterly untraceable and completely unknown.”
The two others leaned back in frustration.
“Well, we must simply see where this leads. In the meantime, I believe Miss Sally’s stew is awaiting us and I, for one, do not intend to wait here in this drafty coffee room as it grows cold!”
* * * * *
Chauvelin, upon pacing down the hallway, heard to his great chagrin a voice coming from Jack’s chambers. Gritting his teeth, he continued resolutely past the door, doing his best to blot out the noise of Mary’s voice as the two children laughed.
For days now she had been visiting his young charge; for days also he had been pestering her away. But, to no avail. The child was insistent, and Jack would throw a tantrum should she not arrive. The girl must be sent away before she discovers…
This thought that had constantly bothered him since her arrival now attacked him, filling him with a sense of hurry. Turning a corner, he went in search of his brother.
* * * * *
Percy sat upon his great chair, watching his personal valet Frank pack a supply of clothes to last him a few weeks. He pondered for a moment, deep in thought, then turned his chair to face away from the portrait of his dead wife.
Chauvelin poked his head in the door, then entered upon noticing his brother’s form.
“Percy, I simply implore you. You must let me send the girl away to a school. She shall be far happier. Perhaps even someone else could take her…”
“I can’t send her away, Shufflin’,” Percy said gruffly, glaring at him. “She has naught a person upon the earth to call her own save me.”
“But!” Chauvelin’s argument ended there, for he noticed Frank appear once more with a fashionably cut coat of the finest satins. His eyebrows raised, and he turned to an oblivious Percy.
“What are you doing, pray tell?”
“I am leaving,” Percy said simply, standing to stretch his lanky form. Walking to the window, he leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes in reflection. “What could I possibly do to aid Jack when you have made me terrified to have my own child gaze upon me. What could I do for Mary when the very sight of the girl sends me...”
He shivered against the sudden barrage of memories and, pushing them back in his mind, turned with a sudden vengeance towards his brother.
“I simply must leave. Should my son inquire, I shall be in Paris.”
Chauvelin’s complexion went white, a stark contrast to his dark attire.
“Do you believe that wise, Percy?”
“If I am ever to rid myself of her, I do believe it shall happen in Paris. The city where we met.”
“But...”
“I shall hear no arguments,” he said, throwing his hands over his ears. Frank re-entered the room and stood in servantly silence until noticed.
“Your carriage is ready, Sir Percy.”
“Thank you, Frank,” he said, striding across the room. Chauvelin followed him out.
“Percy, as your brother, as well as your personal physician, I do not believe your health to be up to this voyage.”
“Shufflin’,” Percy said, clasping his brother’s shoulder and eliciting a glare from him, “you have been my doctor for more years than I should care to remember and have never steered me wrong. However, I feel compelled to tell you that I shan’t be taking your advice and shall be going to Paris anyway.”
“Then you refuse a doctor’s advice?”
“Indeed I do. Now, as I believe the witching hour is upon us, I shall go look upon my son once more before I depart.”
“Just... don’t wake him,” Chauvelin said, nearly twitching from the uttermost fear that befell him every time his plan grew close to extinction. Percy threw him back a cold glare.
“In ten years have I ever awoken my son?”
And with that, he stalked from the room. Chauvelin retired to the safety of his study and the necessity of his snuff-box.
* * * * *
Percy’s demeanor changed entirely as he entered his child’s bedroom. The ossified face softened and even smiled gently at the sight of the sleeping boy. His feet crept silently along the floor and he sat upon the side of the bed engulfed in shadows, watching the even breathing move the blankets up and down. His fingers once more returning to their lock picking days, he ran them gently across the forbidden strands of hair that strayed across his forehead.
The thought again crossed his mind to wake the boy, if only but for a second. He wanted so terribly to hold his son in his arms, to tell his son that he loved him and to know that that his son heard him. And yet, his hand held back. Chauvelin had been a doctor before a citizen, and he did know much about medicine. He had assured Percy that Jack was still quite ill and in an extremely delicate condition. Any excitement might harm the child.
And this child was Percy’s last link to Marguerite. Smiling bittersweetly in the moonlight, he contented himself with naught but watching.
* * * * *
Chauvelin’s snuff calmed him, and upon being calmed he smiled. There was, after all, no need to worry. Percy was working right into his trap, and all would be right quite soon. Especially this latest trip to Paris. Genius! Chauvelin couldn’t have planned it better himself.
Refusing doctor’s orders, frequently relapsing back to when Marguerite was alive, sleepwalking... he has all the natural symptoms of the insanity that runs in the family. The added pain of his son’s death shall completely do him in, and he shall go entirely mad. It shall, from there, be quite simple to have him placed in an institution and therefore all ownership of this estate shall fall to me. Or, more truthfully put, to the Revolution of France!
Chauvelin grinned evilly and helped himself to a celebratory sniff of snuff.
* * * * *
“Tell me, Jack, was your day good?” Percy asked, his voice not louder than the faintest shuffling of fairy footsteps. The boy barely blinked at the sound, and therefore Percy continued.
“I am quite pleased to hear it. I am glad you enjoyed yourself so. Would you like me to continue the story?” After a brief pause, he continued. “You would? Oh, lovely. Let us now see, where did we stop last night? Ah, yes, now I recall.
“This man, Sergeant Bibot, believed himself to be the wisest guard of the Parisian gate. Smarter still than the Pimpernel himself, if such a thing can be believed. He scoffed at those whose grasp could not hold the slippery fellow, and laughed at their misfortunes over ale with other guards. He challenged the Pimpernel to come near him; he would discover him in but a moment.
“At this time there also lived there crones, decrepit old women who sat beneath the guillotine, knitting the hairs of aristocrats into their shapeless piles of wool. These were the people of which to fear, my boy, not the men and certainly not the blade. After all, the blade brought justice.
“But, one day, one of these women came forth in her cart with her son to Bibot’s gate. The son was coughing terribly, and the woman revealed she believed it was from the Plague. Needless to say, they were rushed through. After all, what harm could be in passing through a boy with the plague, a cargo of uselessness, and a hideous old hag?”
Percy’s face lit up with a mocking grin.
“But you are a clever lad, Jack, and I do believe you can guess who it was that so effortlessly fooled old Bibot. Can you not? On this cart that so easily left Paris rested none other than the Comtesse de Tournay, her two children, one of them the future wife of League member Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, and the Scarlet Pimpernel himself!”
Percy’s triumphant smile faded somewhat as he calmed himself and slowly began to memorize his son’s features once more for the long journey ahead.
“Yes, Jack, the Scarlet Pimpernel was a true hero and he saved many a Frenchie’s life. And, do you know, he is a good friend of mine. Yes, ‘tis true! And, I shall tell you something, Jack. I have asked him to try to save your life as well. And he is working very hard to do so. Very hard, indeed. He shall not rest until he has rescued you from his guillotine you suffer beneath.” A small tear ran down his cheek. “He loves you, Jack. He loves you very much.”
Standing softly beside the bed, he ran his fingers once more through the boy’s blonde hair.
“But the Pimpernel cannot do everything on his own,” Percy said, trying hard to steady himself. “You can help by taking your medicine and doing as Dr. Chauvelin orders.”
His time nearly up, he bent down and, soft as a feather, kissed his child’s forehead gently and ardently.
“I love you, Jack.”
With that, he quitted the room and retired to the safety of his carriage. Paris, and all that it held, waited.
* * * * * The Next Day * * * * *
The old door creaked and groaned in protest as the hinges were turned and garden once more seen by human eyes. Mary and Dickon, his help recruited by the new mistress of the garden, stepped hesitantly into this new world which, sad to say, was not much of a sight to see.
Archways and trellises stood forlorn and bleak against the emptiness of the gardens. The grounds stood covered with dead leaves and rotting grass. Trees stood naked against the barren sky, their garments littering the ground rather than covering their branches. All that Mary could see was death and gloominess. Frustrated, she cried aloud.
“Oh Dickon! The garden is dead!”
Stamping her foot in impatience, she turned back to the door. However, Dickon stopped her with a wave of his hand.
“Why no, Mistress Mary! The garden is alive as you or I. ‘Tis only sleeping.”
A faint light of hope sprang into her eyes.
“You mean, flowers will grow?”
Dickon took a step further into the garden and examined the newfound delights with the eye of an expert. Turning back to her, he grinned.
“Aye. If we give it a little work, come spring you’ll have more flowers than ye should know what to do with.”
Mary smiled. “How should we begin?”
* * * * *
The boisterous Parisian tavern roared with life; drunken men laughed rowdily at dirty jokes, wenches raced round, flirting with the men and drowning their sorrows in ‘l’eau de vie’, and the entire atmosphere reeked with the stench of humanity. Lights were low, candles smoked, and one civilized person could have hardly stood it.
However, two at the moment were forced to.
In a dark corner of the tavern whose name had long since faded from memory, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes slouched next Sir Philip Glynde over a tall glass of ale.
“You have heard the stories as well?” Sir Andrew asked, his voice low and husky. Sir Philip nodded the slow, dead-weighted nod of a working man.
“The one-legged man. Paris talks of nothing but him.” Sir Philip was careful to keep his voice emotionless. With the droopy eyes of one quite drunk, he turned to Sir Andrew. “But I must tell you, they are not stories. I have seen the man with my own eyes, wooden leg and all.”
Andrew laughed a drunken laugh, raising his voice.
“Ya cooouuldn’ttt seee strraaaaiightt if youurrrr hic! liiifee deeppenndedd onn itttt... hic!”
Philip threw a lazy arm around his friend and stood with him to lead each other from the inn. “Iiii ccoouulllddd stilll whiiipp yoouuse anny dayyyy...”
The drunken pair made their way to the door quite unnoticed. Once there, they nodded farewell. Only one with a trained eye could notice Andrew trip and lean momentarily next to Philip’s ear
“The League meets Sunday. Rue de Voltaire, number 10. Also, this arrived in my box this morn. No one was supposed to know where I was staying.”
With hands skilled in such tricks of sight, a small note was placed into Philip’s pocket before the two departed company. Once Philip was sure of his isolation, he opened the note. Thereupon was writ, in the same mysterious hand of before,
Rue de Libertie, number 7. Friday.
* * * * *
“Dickon!” Mary called, causing the boy to come running. His face lit up in a smile as Mary’s had done when she had discovered the small stone terrace holding a swing and rose bushes. Both smiled at the lovely sight a moment; Mary moved first, settling down upon the swing.
Dickon, however, had made a more interesting discovery.
“Mary, come and see,” he called, pulling a small metal box from beneath a stone bench. Upon opening it, he found a journal not since opened for at least ten years. The journal of one Marguerite Blakeney. Mary took it into her hands, and was stroking the cover when they both heard a cry from the distance.
“Mary...” came the call of Dickon’s mother, Marie. The two children jumped, as though caught at a crime. Agreeing to meet the next day to work again on the garden, the two set off their separate ways.
* * * * *
“Cousin Mary, I simply must read you this! I have found it most intriguing as I do believe you will as well!” Jack cried in excitement, looking up from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream as his cousin entered the room. Mary smiled.
“You are that far already?” She said, pointing out the few pages remaining of the play. Jack smiled sheepishly.
“I’truth, I finished it last night.”
“But I only gave it to you yesterday!”
Jack grinned.
“Yes, but ‘tis so wonderful! Dr. Chauvelin never really let me read anything. And I have such a growing affection for this thing called poetry. I have writ some of my own. Would you care to hear it?”
Mary smiled, settling herself upon Jack’s bed. “I should love to.”
* * * * *
Sir Percy found his steps, against his will, leading him to the Comedie Francais. As he neared the playhouse, he steeled himself to the inevitable pangs of regret that assaulted him.
Everytime I come to Paris. Everytime! Why must I be so slow-witted and plodding when I come to this city? Why can I not forget it all? Why?
The playhouse was lit up; evidently one of Moliere’s plays was being performed. Percy dropped to the steps and rested his face in his hands. I shall conquer this! I shall conquer her!
* * * * *
“Jack, you told me once that Dr. Chauvelin told you that you were quite stupid,” Mary said, hoping slightly that the comment wouldn’t be taken offensively. Jack, fortunately, did not find it so; he merely continued pouring over Julius Caesar.
“Oh, indeed. My brain was damaged quite highly at birth, you see, that is why I shall always be quite unintelligent, as well as unable to walk.”
Mary nearly laughed.
“Jack, you are reading Shakespeare. You are not stupid!”
Jack looked up from the book a moment, considering this. Mary, a thought come to her, continued hesitantly. “Perhaps, if you are not stupid as he says you are, then perhaps you are not crippled either!”
A small ray of hope lit up Jack’s eyes, yet he brushed it away.
“But how should we know? Dr. Chauvelin should never let me stand upon my own.”
“But,” she added with childlike cunning, “what if he were not around?”
* * * * *
Sir Philip looked over the letter, trying for about the millionth time to recognize the handwriting. As he looked over the letters, however, he noticed something peculiar about their location stated.
* * * * *
“You’ve found my mother’s garden?” Jack exclaimed, his cheeks growing rosy with excitement. “Really?”
“Yes,” Mary said. “It didn’t look like much right away, but when Dickon and I cleared away some of the dead leaves, you could see the beginnings of flowers. Everything is beginning to grow. It’s like magic.”
* * * * *
Percy lifted his head from his hands, the world around him suddenly changing.
I walked these steps. Slowly, quite cautiously. With roses in my hands. I was so excited. The very thought of seeing her act, even if I had memorized all the lines already. The very sight of her. ‘Twas like... magic.
* * * * *
“Tomorrow, then?” Mary asked as she slipped to the door.
“Yes,” Jack said, a smile still on his face. “I shall look forward to seeing my mother’s garden... Thank you, Mary.”
Mary smiled and slipped from the room, just in time to miss Dr. Chauvelin, who arrived with a scowl on his face from the departure of the young girl.
“So, master Jack, how are you feeling this evening?”
“I should wish to go outside tomorrow,” Jack said in his most authoritative voice. Chauvelin turned him to him, quite amazed.
“Outside?”
“Yes. Mary and Dickon shall give me a tour of the gardens. If fresh air agrees with me, I shall wish to go out of doors every day.”
“Certainly not every day, master Jack!” Chauvelin cried. “I do not think it healthy!”
Jack gave Chauvelin his most kingly glare.
“I shall go outside, whether you prepare me or not.”
Chauvelin, seeing himself cornered, acquiesced most bitterly.
* * * * *
Josephine de Laurent shrunk back in fear. Necessity had forced her outside in hopes of finding passage to England, but she had put it off until dark, in the hopes of safe passage to the shipyards. Yet, she learned a lesson the hard way: when lost in the fog of revolution, even a post-revolution haze, there is no time when it is not dark. And now she found herself cornered by a small mob of drunken men and harlot women. Shrinking against the wall against their insults, she shriveled to the ground.
“Lookee here, citizens, Mam’zelle is getting her dress dirty!” a woman exclaimed, her voice simply one of the many insulting the poor girl whose only crime was her parentage and her dress. However, this woman’s comments found her shoulder receiving a tapping hand. As she turned, expecting acquaintance or customer, she found naught but one who had wriggled in front of her to the front of the crowd.
“Citizens, if you wish a conflict with this woman, you must meet with me first.”
The words, in heavily broken French, would normally have little effect upon the drunken Frenchmen. However, the sudden appearance of a knife in the man’s hand caused them to back up. Apparently, the wine had not yet been abundant for the men to challenge such a threat. Once they had turned and stumbled away, the sable-clad figure offered his hand to the woman and helped to her to feet.
“Do not speak,” he said, his voice low and with a soft lilt of Austrian to it. “Simply go about your business and hurry. These streets are not safe now.”
Before she could stop him, even to thank him, the man had fled. She turned to “go about her business”, yet turned for a last look. The man had stopped for a moment beneath a street lamp, then turned to go. The last she saw of him was a black cloak, and the last she heard was the thump of a wooden leg against the cobblestone street.
* * * * *
Spring appeared almost as if by magic overnight. As though the fairies brought it with them in their moonlight revels. As though spring was as impatient as the children for things to grow.
Jack was moved into a rolling chair and escorted out of doors by Dickon and Mary, who led him to the garden of his mother. Once there, a transformation come upon Jack.
“This is my mother’s garden. It is!” he cried, smiling and breathing in all he could see. Nearly immediately, he begged Dickon to help him onto the ground: he wished to help pull weeds.
With this time of freedom, Mary snuck away to the stone terrace and opened the journal of her dead aunt.
* * * * *
Percy raised himself from the ornate bed, setting aside the tray of uneaten food. He forced his feet to the window, forced his hands to open the heavy drapes. The city of Paris lay before him, and all he could do was stare.
Margot, where are you? Why can you not be beside me? Why can I not even be myself, without you beside me?
* * * * *
We have arrived at Blakeney Manor. Paris is far behind, yet I feel home here. Percy is so wonderful, I love him so. Who would have thought je, Marguerite St. Just, should ever marry a man of title? None would have thought it, least of all moi. Yet, there is so much more to this man. He wears his honor and kindness so lightly, as though all men have such courage within them. If given all of my life, I should never find words enough to tell him how much j’adore him.
* * * * *
Percy sat at his desk, quill in one hand, head in the other. His blonde hair, untied, fell in wisps before his eyes, yet he wrote anyway.
I dreamed of you again last night. I dreamed you were alive. That we were here together in Paris. I dreamed of the old days. The days in which I could hold you in my arms. The days in which I believed I had all the time in the world to bask in your light. Did I ever tell you that I loved you? I cannot recall now. But, should I have, it should not have been enough. My life was yours. And yet, I could not give it to you. My heart is yours. Did I ever tell you that? There was so much I did not tell you. So much I could not tell you. So much my heart had to say that my lips could not.
* * * * *
Crouched in bed, Mary flipped though the journal once more. The fairy hour was upon them, and Mary was indeed tired from the day’s exertions, but she wanted to read more. A familiar name caught her eye, and she paused to read.
Percy’s brother approached me today. I had barely noticed the poor man’s existence, yet he stood before me and told me he loved me. Une married woman! I was scared, I ran from his side. I told Percy not, I do not wish to cause a quarrel. But he frightens me. His eyes light up with a deadly light. He is not like Percy. I hope he should leave.
* * * * *
The black cloak of night hid Sir Philip well; he darted between houses and street-lamps with the ease of a magician. Once upon la rue de Libertie, he cautiously approached number 7, a hovel of an inn with gloomy spirits hanging about it; the aura pulling the atmosphere back many years, as though the great revolution had never entirely freed these people of their squalid living conditions.
Pulling his cloak a little tighter around him, Sir Philip approached the door and knocked upon it. A light mist began to fall when a small flicker of light rounded the window and a deep-throated voice whispered hoarsely from beyond the door.
“W’o goes there?” the citizeness called out, the weather becoming even more miserable by the minute. Philip spoke back to the door, seeing that it opened naught.
“I come for those in your keeping, citizeness.”
A pause as the woman considered her options.
“I ain’t hiding no one,” she called back. Philip, smiling, slid his note beneath the door, along with a few francs in the likely chance that the woman could not read. Another pause as the woman looked them over and Philip shivered. As Philip was to give up all hope, the door opened slowly, the hinges creaking and the woman giving him a furtive eye.
* * * * *
From the journal of Marguerite Blakeney:
Chauvelin shall leave for Paris tonight. I cannot say the joy his leaving brings me. Since we arrivé, he has been bringing me gifts, speaking evilly of Percy, telling me he loves me. Moi! Une married woman! I may be from France, the “center of evil in this world of ours”, I may be a French “prostitute”, (The word was writ upon the page with such sarcasm and anger, the reader could not help but hear her sneer) and I may be guilty of eavesdropping upon the gossipy old women à les fêtes who refer to moi as that heathen who knows naught of God, but I know what is right and what is wrong. Ask ma dear Suzanne, she will tell you I was a good girl in convent school. The women who see all beyond them as pagan may view me as Sátan, but I know le bon Dieu smiles à moi for I have done nothing wrong. And I will not begin now by running away with this man! It would not be immoral only, but also would break my heart as well as Percy’s. We made a vow that I intend to keep. Through richer or poorer. Through sickness and health. ‘Til death do us... non! Pour death will not end my love for him! Le bon Dieu could never take from me that which is such a precious gift from him to moi! I will love mon amour forever. Though death do us part, forever.
* * * * *
Chauvelin sat back in his chair, the room quickly growing dark as the dusk was chased from the earth by the vengeful night. A single lone candle flickered and smoked on his desk, lighting the portrait that usually remained hidden in his desk. As his eyes remained locked upon her, his mind wandered in fury to the girl who had come to take her place.
The girl is sent by Sàtan himself! She seems bent to ruin all plans! The child, Jack, goes outside, eats, reads! What more may I expect? Shall she send my correspondence to Percy? Chauvelin snorted under his breath. Non, my plans are nearly complete, they shall not fail. God himself, whomever that may be, could not stop me now!
An evil snicker formed on his lips and, realizing the lateness of the hour, he locked Marguerite back into her drawer and snuffed the candle between his fingers.
* * * * *
Jack’s room also sat lit by candlelight and, ironically enough, his eyes watched the same figure that Chauvelin had previously been enamored with. His mother’s painting hung on the wall, unmolested by the heavy curtain that usually covered it. His eyes went up to hers occasionally, smiling as he wrote upon the parchment smuggled in by his cousin.
“Lift me up, and lead me to the garden
Where love grows deep and true
Where I’ll tell you, where I’ll show you
My new life, I will live for you
I shall see you in your garden
And spring will come and stay
Lift me up, and lead me to the garden
Come, sweet day...”
As he looked back to his mother, he once more felt the familiar pang of regret. His hand slowly crept over and grasped the small hand mirror. Pulling it up, he looked slowly but steadily into its reflective glass. He begged the glass once again for a revelation into his father’s image.
Placing the mirror once more upon the bed, he sadly looked down at his pale legs, lying still and lifeless upon the sheets. Mist began to form around his eyes.
How can one love a person one does not know? Yet, he will not even look at me... I wonder what should bring him to me? Just for one simple look. Perhaps if I could learn to walk, perhaps if I could be normal. Perhaps? I... I should like that very much...
He turned his mind from such thoughts and once more devoted himself to poetry. However, he could not keep his father far from his thoughts.
“Lift me up, and lead me to the garden
Where life begins anew
Where I’ll find you
And I’ll find you love me, too...”
* * * * *
The door creaked open quickly, revealing the dingy and nearly deserted room to Sir Philip’s visage. Nearly deserted, for the woman remained with turned head and a few rats scurried across the planks of the floor.
“Top o’ the stairs, citizen,” she said, then disappeared. Her candlelight followed her a moment, then was either snuffed out or hidden from view. Sir Philip looked towards the stairs, now illuminated by the yellowish glean of the street-lamps outside, filtering in through the filthy windows. By this dingy light, the stairs looked even more treacherous than they had before. Yet, despite the holes and broken planks of the stairs, he made his way up the broken and creaking steps, kicking the rats from his path as he did so.
He worried a moment at the finding of the room, and was relieved to find a single door facing him. Walking up to it, he rapped softly.
“Monsieur?” he asked, his voice not louder than a breeze. A sound came from within, one of shuffling feet.
“Who goes there?”
“I am of the League of the Pimpernel, monsieur. Will you permit me enter?”
The door opened slowly, showing Philip the view of a family of aristocrats: Father, mother, daughter. All were trembling in fear; Philip smiled.
“Come, come! The witching hour is upon us and we must flee soon. But, have no fear. This escape I could perform in my sleep, ‘tis so easy! Not a second should be spent worrying in your minds.”
* * * * *
Percy strolled slowly to the window, gazing outside at the darkened night, sipping some tea.
My Margot, I must leave you here. I know I must. I shall go mad if I hold you within me as I do. Yet, I shall go mad if you remain not near me. You cannot leave me, yet you must. What am I to do, Margot? What?
* * * * *
The family, disguised as sickly invalids heading for England by order of the head of what was left of the republic, passed easily through Paris’ gates. Once safely in the anonymity of the countryside, the family began to speak, starting with the little girl who burst forth.
“Your leader has a wooden leg?”
“Anne!” The mother said, dismayed at her child’s lack of manners. Philip smiled.
“’Tis nothing I mind, Madame Frank.” Turning curiously to the child, he inquired, “But I entreat you to continue, for my leader does not in fact have a wooden leg. Both are perfectly intact, as far as my knowledge permits.”
M. Frank gave Philip a quizzical expression.
“Really? For, the only thing I remember of l’homme who rescued us was the leg of wood. Is this not right?”
Philip smiled once more, hoping to instill confidence.
“Apparently, it is perfectly fine, for you all are here, heading safely to England, are you not? Yet... you are sure you remember nothing else?”
Anne Frank, needless to say, felt the need to speak.
“I do! His accent was Austrian! Do you remember, maman?”
“Ah, oui! I thought it strange to hear an Austrian in Paris just now.”
Philip turned back to the reins.
An Austrian in Paris? Rescuing aristocrats? Wooden leg? Stranger by the moment...
* * * * * The Next Day * * * * *
The sun glistened through the trees, causing playful shadows to dance about the lush green of the garden. They were accompanied by various creatures that joined the children who, at this moment, were reveling in the joys of childhood in the beauty of a newly blooming English garden.
Jack, from his seated position of weeding near the roses, looked to find Dickon.
“Dickon, the roses have not yet bloomed. Shouldn’t they have?”
Dickon smiled. “Give ‘em time, Master Jack. Sometimes it takes a bit longer for some to bloom than others.”
Jack blushed. “I dreamed I was walking again last night. I dreamed I was strong and brave, yet I work up weak and scared.”
Dickon patted his head encouragingly. “Jus’ wait...”
Mary snuck away, wishing to once more visit the swing. Sitting on the wooden seat, swaying softly to the sounds of nature, and basking in the sunlight that warmly peered down through cracks in the stone, Mary flipped through the journal. As she did so, an old parchment fell out, folded and smelling still of cologne. Curious, she opened it and began to read the masculine handwriting.
My dear, sweet Margot,
Last night, I returned to my house in shock and wonderment. Upon waking this morning, I fell deathly scared that all I recalled was but a dream. I feared that my ears had heard wrong when you did agree to marry me and grant me the happiness I fear I should never deserve. And perhaps I dream still, though I find your letter to me lying beside my pillow, clutched to my heart as my own precious treasure. You perchance wonder the point of this missive. I wonder myself. Mayhap I am annoying you with my words. Yet I can find no other occupation for my humble self, as I cannot engage in my most beloved of tasks: adoring you. I cannot be near you, for this I despise the theatre. Yet you love it, so I find myself loving it as well! Have I told you yet that I love you? Were I Shakespeare, I would write you a sonnet. Were I Galileo, I would name a star for you. Yet words and stars can do no justice for you; one is writ by mortal hand, the other shines not nearly bright enough. I do most dearly love you. The idea of seeing you the rest of my life near brings tears of joy and disbelief to my eyes. I shake my head in wonderment at those who claim no God. How could there be no God, when gifts of such happiness can be presented to one. I simply love you. I see your face here now and I smile. I was thinking of you this morning and, think you what I thought? I simply adore you. No other words can say such truth, yet I repeat them often. Do I annoy you with such confessions of faith? Perhaps I do. I know not what I say, I simply write. My love, I should return you to your life. ‘Tis not fair of me to steal you from the world, dear to my heart as the motion is. I shall leave you until I have the delightful pleasure of seeing you again.
Yours Entirely,
Percy Blakeney
Post-Script: I love you.
Post-Script Two: I was not sure I had told you.
* * * * *
Mary surfaced from the note, deep in confusion. This was not the note of a recluse in a manor, a disturbed and elusive man. It was the note of Prince Charming, the tall and handsome man who swept his love off her feet.
She contemplated these things a moment, before being pulled from the garden by the sound of Marie’s voice calling her name.
* * * * *
“Oh, your uncle’s in another of his tempers, mon amie,” Marie said, smoothing the child’s bangs and brushing the soil from her apron. Mary looked up curiously.
“My uncle? Is uncle Percy home?”
“Dieu nous preservé! Non, child. Your uncle Chauvelin. He wishes to speak at you. Now, be good.”
And, with that, Mary was thrown into the study of Armand Blakeney Chauvelin: doctor, revolutionary, and momentarily quite annoyed.
“Ah, here you are, child.”
“Yes, sir. You wished to speak with me?”
“Yes,” he said, turning from the child to pick up a piece of paper. “I have found an excellent school for you...”
“But I can’t go to school!” she exclaimed impassioned, forgetting Marie’s advice, “Jack needs me!”
“The last thing the boy (“or I,” thought Chauvelin) needs is you around the manor. You know not how truly ill he is. Do you wish him to die?”
“To die?” she asked, hesitantly. “I didn’t do anything! You locked him up in his room!”
“You may go!”
“You don’t want Jack to get better at all! You want him to die, so you can have this house!”
“Enough!” Chauvelin screamed in fury, silencing the terrified girl. He turned to the window and the comfort of his snuff-box. After calming himself a moment, he spoke softly. “You will leave Saturday week. You are dismissed.”
* * * * *
Mary went running to her room, crying both tears of anguish and anger. Arriving there, she threw herself upon the bed to weep and thrash about. Marie entered hesitantly, having heard the news through the door’s keyhole. Sitting upon the bed next to her ward, she smoothed Mary’s hair as she cried.
“Hush now, ma cherie. You will not be sent away...”
“Of course I will!” Mary said bitterly between sobs. “Only uncle Percy could keep me here, and he’s not here!” She began to sob again while Marie began to plot.
“Ma enfant, I can find Sir Percy’s address in Paris. Perhaps we can write to him.”
Mary stopped sobbing a moment, long enough to realize the ray of hope filtering through this small chance.
* * * * *
Sir Philip slowed the cart as they neared the church that skirted the city of Calais. A short, pudgy bishop with a friendly smile stepped outside the door-frame and waved a greeting to his friend, which Philip returned.
“More lost sheep?” the man asked, panting for breath as he skipped along the flowery path. Philip pulled the small girl into his arms as the bishop helped the father and mother from the cart.
“Indeed, and apparently by the arms of the same shepherd.”
“Monsieur Faux-Jambe?” the bishop asked, to which Philip nodded. The bishop whistled. “Monsieur has been busy.”
As the five entered the church, Philip passed the child into the bishop’s arms. This done, he turned to the parents.
“Monsieur et Madame, this kind man will escort you to the arms of one who will bring you to Dover. He is as wonderful a man as you shall ever find and shall attend to any need you may have. I leave you now in his capable hands.”
And, with a low, but stiff, bow, Philip returned to his cart and back to Paris.
* * * * *
Dear Uncle Percy,
How are you? I am fine. Everybody else is as well, to the best of my knowledge. How is Paris? Is it as I remember it? Uncle Percy, will you please come home? We miss you here, and I do so wish to see you again. Will you not please return home? Please?
Yours truly,
Mary St. Just
* * * * *
The small room was dark and squalid, as few candles were lit and the hovel was to be found in one of the less-reputable districts of Paris. What of the League was in Paris at the moment was there, awaiting the arrival of Sir Philip Gynde, who presently graced them with his presence dressed as a laborer.
“I do know I am late, there is no need to speak of it.”
The rest smiled; Philip flopped exhaustedly upon a horsehair couch, horrid with fatigue. As an effort of great willpower, Philip pulled the letters from an inner pocket and threw them to the table.
“Pray tell, find me a difference between those and,” he pulled the latest letter from a pocket, “this one.” This letter he threw to Sir Andrew. The League looked over them a few minutes, then turned their attention back to Sir Andrew, the unspoken leader since Sir Percy’s departure from the League. Philip, seeing their confusion, spoke.
“Location. The difference, my dear fellows, is the location. Previous to this last letter, the notes spoke of a location where we were to find the aristocrats before they were hurt or captured. I’truth, it was as though he had access to the planning books of those who are attempting to restore the Reign of Terror. We arrived to, as it is said, save the day.”
“All this we know, Gynde,” Andrew said.
“Ah, but do you realize this? The last missive spoke of a location where we might recover the previously rescued aristocrats!” He sat back in his chair, smugly smiling, while the others attempted to understand what had just been said.
“What theory have you to explain this?” Andrew asked. “Or, have you one at all, I should ask.”
“An explanation of sorts is at hand, fear not good gentlemen,” Philip said smiling. “Whether ‘tis true or not remains to be seen. However, this is my thinking. Mayhap this man is but now in Paris.”
“Pardon?”
“I believe the previous missives were sent from elsewhere, by some hired hand. However, this last note was sent from Paris, for the one-legged author now abides here, and thus can rescue the man himself. This also explains how rumors of a one-legged man started just recently.”
The room sat in the silence contemplation of Philip’s words who, in satisfaction, took a sip of brandy.
“But, pray tell, where did this man find his information elsewhere? ‘Tis difficult enough to procure it here in Paris!”
“That I do not know. I did speak, after all, that my theory was not entirely complete.”
* * * * *
An hour later, the League retired. All ideas had been broached to the identity of this unknown man, yet nothing had been decided upon. Every man was exhausted and the meeting was concluded.
As Lord Tony moved to blow out a few of the candles, a knock was heard at the door. Every man instantly stiffened, their eyes riveted to the door. Andrew bravely, yet nonetheless worriedly, opened the door. Behind it stood the owner of the seedy inn, clutching in his hand a small note.
“What is it you wish, citizen?” Andrew asked impatiently, to which the man flinched.
“Message for you, cit’zen. Arrived just now. Man w’o delivered it asked I wait to give it to you, but it looked somethin’ important, so I thought to myself to bring it up now.”
The man held out the dirty paper, which Andrew grabbed excitedly, ripped open, and read instantly. His eyes wild, he turned back to the innkeeper.
“You said this arrived just now?”
“Not two seconds ago, citizen. I s‘pect the man is still on the road. ‘Specially with that game leg o’ his.”
The League perked up and, not but a second later, was down the stairs and peering out the front door onto the street dusted with an eerie looking fog. A clattering of wood on cobblestone, a false leg joining a true one in a run, sounded to the right.
“After him!” Tony shrieked, racing forward.
* * * * *
The fog grew dense and swirled about them, impairing their vision and worrying some of the men. All stood with their ears strained for any noise. Not a sound came to ear, but Hastings, upon turning, noticed a movement beneath a streetlamp.
“Over there!” he said, pointing to the shadow just yonder. The group gave chase.
* * * * *
They cannot find me! I do not wish them to see me! Quick, this way... Why are they so difficult to lose? Curse the swiftness of their feet!
* * * * *
Once more they froze in puzzlement. The dense fog had receded slightly, leaving them naught but an empty street holding but a single house with not a single light lit. Andrew took charge.
“You five,” he said, as the night was yet dense enough to keep visages hidden well, “search the back. Make certain he hides not around the home. And Tony,” he said to the last remaining member, “Follow me. We’ll search the house.”
* * * * *
“Excuse me, citizeness...”
The tiny woman seemed frightened of every shadow she saw upon the floor, how then could she tolerate these men keeping late hours at her door? She attempted to close the door.
“I’m a good girl, I am. Please, leave me alone.”
Tony thrust his foot into the door.
“Milady, we beg but a moment of your time. We believe a friend of ours may have entered your home. If you will but render us a moment of your time, we shall remove him and all shall be right again. May we enter?”
The woman hesitated a moment, then firmly said, “No.”
Tony muttered a curse beneath his breath.
“Please, it would but take a moment. I understand the awkwardness this presents, but we do implore...”
A shuffling noise came from within. Both perked up.
“What was that?” Andrew asked.
Had the woman responded with “rats”, or perchance “my husband”, the two would have gone on their way. However, the woman blanched and attempted to shut the door. Andrew and Tony, however, being far bigger and stronger, pushed the dark-as-pitch room into their possession.
“Please, citizen,” she cried, running into a corner. “I didn’t know a thing about ‘im. He offered me money just so he could hide in a corner. I wasn’t hiding ‘im, I’m a good little citizeness!”
The two dismissed her ramblings as further proof that the one-legged man resided therein. Grabbing a candle from the table, Andrew lit it quickly, casting a small light on the room and, upon further searching, upon the tall, wooden-legged man who was attempting to reach the door.
“Freeze!” Tony called, forcing the man to his feet with his words. Tony, as well as Andrew, gasped heartily and turned quite white. The woman, sure her head would be gone by morning, ran sobbing to her room.
The wooden-legged rescuer stared at the two members of the League a moment, causing them a further loss of words than their present state. Finally, he took a deep sigh and sank into a horsehair couch sitting nearby. Andrew was the first to stutter out words.
“P...P.... P....”
“Sink me, Ffoulkes, I did not think you had forgotten my name in so short a time!”
The blonde rescuer yawned a rather droll yawn, then smiled gently.
“Sir Percy! What... I do not understand!”
“Then let us begin at the beginning, shall we not? But, while I hope to not cause too much inconvenience, may we return to my abode? I fear this dear lady shall be insane with fear should we remain any longer.”
* * * * *
To prevent any outbursts on the streets at so late an hour, the League was told where to meet and when while Percy remained cloaked against their sight. Andrew and Tony accompanied him to his hotel. Upon arrival, Percy threw himself down upon a couch.
“Zounds, I had very nearly forgot the stamina which you men have! I daresay, you may feel a little sympathy for me, lazing about Blakeney Manor doing naught but secretarial work and espionage and then, upon returning to Paris, you chase me up and down streets like some demned criminal! ‘Tis simply fatiguing!”
Sir Percy propped his legs up on a footstool, which Tony noticed and spoke up first about.
“I hope you do not mind me asking, Percy, but how did you befall to lose your leg?”
“My leg?” Percy asked, most dumbfounded.
“Yes. The leg that is missing.”
“What the deuce are you speaking of, Tony? My legs are perfectly... Oh,” he said, looking down at a leg of flesh and a leg of wood. A quaint smile sprung to his lips. “Really, you should have warned me earlier.” With a twist of a latch and a creaking of hinges, the wooden leg opened up around Sir Percy’s real, and perfectly intact, right leg, showing the wooden leg to be naught but a carrying case for the true limb. Both sat dumbfounded as Percy tossed it aside and stretched.
“Demned uncomfortable thing, eh wot? I suppose I shan’t need it now.”
“Most clever, Sir Percy! But, why where you wearing it?”
“To prevent you from finding out,” he answered, not a little bitterly. Andrew looked stunned. “Oh, pray forgive the way I said that. I have nothing but admiration for the League and, under different circumstances, I should have loved to reunite with the band. However...” he fingered his glass, his eyes downcast and melancholy, “it was not the time...”
“But, now that we have found you, you shall remain, will you not?” Tony asked excitedly.
Percy smiled gently, pushing back the tear that had threatened to show. “I suppose I have little say in the matter now. And, to tell all truth, I was getting quite tired of sending missives around my dear brother.”
“Around?”
Percy’s eyes twinkled. “Why yes, indeed! Where did you think I was getting all this juicy gossip? Dreadful man leaves me alone in his study with all his personal correspondence and expects me not to pass along the news I hear? Really, the bloke does not understand English society a whit!”
Tony and Andrew laughed at the news, only to hear the joyous cries as Hastings arrived to the room and found his beloved leader there within.
* * * * *
Chauvelin, tiding up his young charge’s room as he slept soundly, noticed Jack’s medicine lying, once more, untouched beside his bed. He growled.
If he continues not taking it, it will never work. The boy will not die as planned, but rather shall live and all plans will indeed be ruined! Perhaps tomorrow, he should be given enough to finish him off once and for all. It would make all quite easier. My plan for a slow poisoning shall be put aside. He shall be dead quickly. That will be the only change.
* * * * *
Amidst the joyousness of the evening, Percy felt a contentment he had not felt in a long time. His heart once more felt happiness and, should the pain of Margot’s death still not have been haunting him, he would have been quite blissful. However, the happiness with friends made the sting even bitterer. Until Andrew drew him aside...
“Sir Percy, I must speak with you.”
“Really, Ffoulkes? You have been all night.” However, noticing the somber attitude that Andrew had donned, Percy grew serious. “What is it, Ffoulkes?”
“After Armand died, Tony and I went to their house to gather all items we thought you might want.” He paused, deep in thought. “I found there a letter for you.”
“For me?” Percy asked, taking the letter which Andrew held out for him. His smile disappeared when he recognized the handwriting. He whispered the name hoarsely. “Margot.”
Andrew nodded. “I am not entirely sure, but I believe that she may have told him to give it to you some time before... before...”
“Before she died,” Percy said quite bitterly.
“Yes, that. And, after all, we both know... knew Armand. He quite easily could have forgotten all about it. However, I thought that you might want it.”
Percy looked away, obviously quite unsettled by the mere sight of that fancy hand, which spelled out the letters of his name. .
“We really should be going, Percy, and shall leave you alone now. Shall we see you tomorrow?”
Percy paced away, too deep in thought to give answer. Andrew nodded.
“I see.” Turning back to the League, he spoke. “Well, gentlemen, we must leave our newfound leader to his rest, as I am sure he shall have need of more of it now!”
With a large cheer, the group slowly made their way from Percy’s room to their own hiding places, leaving him alone with the written words of his beloved.
* * * * *
Mary kneeled down beside her bed to say her evening prayers. In addition to her normal requests of blessings on her family, a lovely day tomorrow, and for the roses to bloom, she added a request. Please, let Uncle Percy come home.
* * * * *
Percy sat for a time upon the couch, his chin in hand, simply staring at the letter sitting crumpled and stained upon the table opposite him. His eyes traced every elegant curve in the name, every blot of ink, every last trace that his wife had left him when she wrote his name upon the paper. His eyes grew misty; otherwise, he remained motionless. Silently he sat, concentrating on the handwriting he knew so well and imagining her at her desk, reveling in a memory of so long ago.
Slowly, he leaned forward, his breaths deeper as the letter grew closer. His lower lip began to tremble in bittersweet anticipation. He was forced to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and clench his jaw before continuing, afeared of a fainting spell. The letter sat just within his fingertips now, and a flutter grew in his stomach. Bracing himself, he closed his fingers around the paper and drew it up to his sight. The folded paper held upon its cover his name: Sir Percy Blakeney; this he knew. He turned it over and, quite gently, kissed its seal. His eyes closed, he recalled watching Margot do the same thing to a letter, long ago, as he returned from a mission...
He watched from the doorway, dripping wet from head to toe. A storm had arisen and all had been urged to wait upon the boat until the storm cleared. However, he would not be so dissuaded from returning home. “A little rain never hurt a soul,” he thought to himself the entire, miserable horseback ride home. “A broken heart has...”
The house was warm against his wet skin and his heart burst at the thrill of being home. Being so near Marguerite, it was what he had dreamed of all these past few weeks. He could not stop his hand from shaking. Yet, at the threshold of her room, he paused.
She sat at her desk, holding a letter in her pale hands. Her chin trembled and eyes watered, betraying her feelings for the recipient of the missive. As she noticed the drying of the wax, she pressed her lips against it, offering up a prayer for the name upon the front. A small tear broke free of her eyes, and made its way down her cheek. Percy’s heart broke at this simple gesture.
Sensing a presence at the door, Marguerite brushed the tear from her cheek, stood from the desk, and turned quickly to the window.
“Suzette, will you see this mailed?” she asked, a small tremor in her voice betraying her hidden feelings. When no sound came to her ears, she turned slowly to reprimand her maid. Her husband stood there instead. She instantly grew quite pale.
“Percy?” she whispered, the tremor growing larger.
Seeing that she was close to fainting, he bounded across the room in a few steps and pulled her into his arms in worry. She began to sob.
“I was so worried...” she whispered, her words muffled beneath her tears. He shushed her, clutching her tightly.
“I am home now, darling. Fear no longer. Safe and entirely sound.”
She smiled gently as she looked up at him.
“Safe and sound, and home to me at last.”
He gently brushed the tears from her face, then kissed her nose.
“Although I fear society would consider it tres faux-pas, I must confess that I missed you, my love. And I am quite happy to be home.”
She smiled, and cuddled up to him.
“If you promise not to tell anybody, I shall confess that I missed you as well.”
“Madam!” he cried in mock alarm. “If a soul knew, I fear we should be thrown from all good society for the remainder of our lives!”
“Let them throw us,” she cried, laughingly. “You have come home to me. For that, I should suffer anything.”
“And I am home,” he said gently. “For that, I should give anything.”
A tear broke free of Percy’s closed eyes and rolled down his cheek. Looking at the missive once more, he carefully broke the seal and unfolded the note. He was forced to blink back tears at the sudden apparition of his beloved’s handwriting. Gulping back a tear, he began to read.
Mon amour,
What is it that has taken you from my side? A noble cause, I understand, and I did promise not to cry. Yet such promises are made when one is strong of heart, when one is by their love’s side. When you left, I must admit to tears. I miss you so, my love. Absence does not in fact make the heart grow stronger, as these dreadful Englishwomen say, it causes the heart to break. Le bon Dieu has intended you for good. Thus, I must accept this decision without regret, without anger. Le bon Dieu knows what is it he does, whether we believe so or not. He gives us such people to know, but can take them away. But I will not mourn you, for you will come back. When my hurt is too great, I know that I will see you again, be it this world of the next. I know every moment the love I have for you, it grows with every second. You must surely feel it there where you are. Mon amour, do you know, this morning I dreamed I saw you near me. I smiled as I remembered your smile. I love you so. Je t’aime. I cry when I miss you, you perhaps see the tears upon this note, but I know you shall return. For this, I survive. I know you will come back to me, and because of this, I will wait. I will always be here, waiting for you. I will be dreaming of your return always. I shall be here in my garden, loving you. Toujours.
~ Marguerite
Percy’s eyes remained on the letter long after his mind had derived all possible meaning from the words; his eyes glazed over with tears and his mind reeling from the blow.
I left you all alone, my Margot. If I had only known. If I had but known you would leave me...
Emotion overtaking him, he fell into the couch sobbing, crying aloud in utter agony.
“I love you, Margot! I love you! Why did you leave me? Why? I need you! I love you...”
* * * * *
The fire was warm, causing Andrew to grow quite sleepy. The book he had been reading had slipped lower in his lap, fatigue and contentment causing sleep to border his eyelids. As he began to slip away, a loud, insistent knock resounded from the door. He started at the noise, then slowly rose to his feet. The knock sounded again.
“Do calm yourself, citizen!” Andrew called, irritated at being disturbed. “I shall be there in but a moment!”
True to his word, he arrived at the door a moment later and opened it slowly. He was, needless to say, quite surprised to see Sir Percy standing there, looking disheveled and pale.
“Sir Percy! I am most surprised! Will you not come in, sir?”
“No, thank you,” he said, looking more and more unlike himself by the moment. “I simply wanted to know...”
With a rollback of the eyes, Sir Percy would have collapsed, had Andrew not caught him.
“Sir Percy, I simply implore you to come in! You do not look in the least well!”
“No,” he said, pulling himself up and concentrating hard to remain standing. “I shall not, thank you. I have to come simply to ask if you should accompany me to England tomorrow. I am returning home to set my affairs in order and I should... I should desire some company.”
Andrew looked warily at his friend, but nodded nonetheless.
“I should be pleased to, Sir Percy.”
Percy began to go, then turned back.
“Would you be so helpful as to invite Tony as well?” he smiled softly. “I have not spoken to my good friends in far too long a time.”
“I shall pass the invitation along, Sir Percy.”
“Thank you, Ffoulkes,” he said, turning now to wander Paris.
Sir Percy Blakeney, bart. no longer shall exist. I shall have Chauvelin put Jack into a hospital, the estate shall go to Chauvelin, and I shall quit England forever. I shall turn my back on all that reminds me of her. ‘Tis the only way I can go on. I shall be the Pimpernel for now forth. My past shall haunt me no longer.
* * * * * The Next Morning * * * * *
The salt sea spray whipped at Percy’s face, and he closed his eyes to breathe in the sweet smell of the frigid channel wind. He clutched the splintery rail of the ship, part for steadiness as the boat pitched and rocked in the wind and sea, and part for steadiness of mind as the boat neared Dover.
Come home to me... Marguerite seemed to call, echoed in the voice of the gulls and the gales about him.
“To what?” Percy cried aloud. “To a house that ‘tis a home no longer? To memories I cannot hold? To a child I cannot see? No, that part of my life is gone forever.”
It is not. Your son...
He shook his head and tried to walk away, only to feel a jolt of the ship and to watch himself fall to the floor.
As he attempted to stand, his eyes beheld his son. His dear, beloved son. A tear rose to his eyes unbidden. Turning his visage to the heavens that began to overcast, he screamed out, “Why do you do this to me? Why?”
He rose to his feet and grabbed the railing once more, spitting his words out to the howling wind.
“You called him ‘le bon Dieu’! The good God! But you didn’t know! You didn’t know what he would do to us!”
A wave crashed against the ship, sending spray upon Percy, who brushed it away and continued.
“My life is ruined, do you hear that? It cannot be revived! How can you call he who separated us ‘le bon Dieu’?”
Another wave, this time larger as the dark clouds circled round, crashed against the ship. Percy paid no heed, but simply screamed louder.
“Why, God? Why? Why did you abandon me? Why did you destroy my life beyond mending? Why do you leave me with no future? Why?”
The storm suddenly pushed him from his feet, throwing him once more to the desk and holding him there with the weight of the water seeped into his clothes. As he laid there, concentrating only on breathing and crying, the storm subsided. The sun returned from behind the dark clouds that blocked it and began to warm the earth. Percy, still sobbing, began to feel a warmth upon his back: a warmth that, with its rays of heat and comfort, brought a small sense of peace to the wounded soul.
Return to me. Come home. The voice said in a soft voice. Percy, too exhausted to fight anymore, nodded his weary head, then rested it upon the deck and went to sleep.
* * * * *
Chauvelin’s hand shook as he measured out the liquid. He cursed aloud when the bottle shook and sent droplets onto his desk. Shaking his head and breathing deeply, he went to fetch a rag to clean it up. Zut! Why should I be so nervous? Why? I have sent unworthy swine to their deaths before, why should I hesitate now?
But he knew why. Because Jack’s shining eyes smiled up at him from behind his repressed memories. Because Marguerite had begged to see her child before she died, and had smiled as she held him. Because, while hidden quite deeply, there perhaps was a conscience still existing there, not entirely repressed by the revolution. He shook his head to try to rid his mind of the thoughts.
Ce n’est rien! This is for the Republic! France must be free of the rot that eats at its heart!
A new resolve within, he took the glass and left the room, leaving behind a desk with a small hole growing in the wood of the desk where a drop had fallen.
* * * * *
Chauvelin smiled genially as he entered Jack’s room, but frowned immediately therein. Jack sat in his wheeled chair, already dressed, with Mary near ready to wheel him from the room.
“Master Jack! You have no inclination to go out of doors, I hope!”
“Indeed I do, Dr. Chauvelin!” he said, smiling and look up at the windows of his room. “I say, the sun is shining quite splendidly, don’t you think? Perhaps the roses shall bloom today! I should very much be angry if I miss that!”
He tapped his cousin’s hand. Mary steered him towards the door standing next to Chauvelin, who stood agape and frantically moving his mind for an excuse.
“Oh,” Jack added before disappearing from the room. “I shall take my medicine this evening, Dr. Chauvelin. I think little harm should come from such a short delay. After all, I have not had it for a few days and I feel quite fine.”
Before Chauvelin could respond, Jack was gone from the room, the wheels squeaking further and further down the hall.
Taking the file from his hands, he threw it down upon the bed with an angered cry. The papers scattered across the wide bed, writ across with “patient ill”, “patient experienced bad dream”, and, upon the last sheet, “patient died this morn after an over-administration of his medicine.”
Chauvelin sat upon a nearby chair, holding his downcast face in his hands, trying to calm himself. This is no end, Chauvelin. The plan shall work. Just a little bit longer...
His thoughts, and last nerves, were cut short by a loud crack as the glass broke under the powerful destruction power of the poison. Glass shards and poison intertwined with medicine spilled all over the floor, desk, and bed. Fearing a bad omen, and in terror, Chauvelin ran back to his study and retrieved all files dealing with Percy, Jack, and his ties to the Republic.
I shall burn them! He thought in a half-crazed manner. I shall rid myself of the evidence!
Realizing one was left in Jack’s room, that which he had entered with, he returned to the room with flint, tinder, and personal documents. He kneeled on the floor to start a fire, only to hear a noise from without. Carriage wheels. Again, he cursed aloud, this time louder. Leaving the files strewn about the room, he made his way to the front door.
* * * * *
The garden was brimming with life. Mary had found a butterfly net in the house, labeled by someone named Elton, and she gathered large, brightly speckled butterflies for Jack, who grinned in delight. Ladybugs flew about in streaks of red, ants crawled across any bare leg, and the birds warbled spring’s song in the trees newly blossoming. Flowers burst open, setting the garden aflame with vivid colors of every hue. Everything about them radiated life, joy, and happiness.
Jack sat in the warmth of the sunlight, smiling in happiness at all about him. As he took it all in, he noticed the small lambs rambling about, one getting lost among the roses which, although the buds looked well nigh bursting, still remained closed. Thinking about the flowers and what Dickon had said, he looked once more at his still legs.
* * * * *
“Sir Percy!” Chauvelin exclaimed, startled to see his brother standing before him, with a rather serious look upon his face. “To what do I owe this surprise?”
Percy pushed past his brother and stormed down the hallway, leaving a stunned Chauvelin and two confused friends to follow.
“Percy? Percy, where are you going?”
“I am going to see my own son,” he called back, causing Chauvelin much alarm.
“Your son? Now? Percy, I have told you...”
“Yes,” Percy said, turning on his brother. “You have told me that I am not to hold my own son. You have told me, in no few words, that years of medicine will keep him healthier than a little love could. But, in all truth, sir, I believe this to be entirely false. No medicine could ever cure me of the loss of my beloved, whereas but a moment with her right now should cure me of any disease that should dare to cross my path. I know the hurt caused by the loss of one you love, I should not wish that upon my son for all the world. A moment to let him know that I shall always love him is all I shall require of you, Monsieur Chauvelin, nothing more.”
Percy turned angrily upon his heels, back in the direction of his son’s room. Chauvelin began to sweat in fear as he chased behind.
* * * * *
What shall I say? What can I say? ‘Hullo, I am your father!’ I am afeared he should throw me out right then and there. What if he does not recognize me? What if he does not want to know me? What if... he’s not in his bed?
Percy had to stop to stare at the empty bed in confusion, startled at the lack of his son. He turned to question Chauvelin, but found that the sable-clad figure had not as yet caught up with him, his strides, after all, being quite longer. Consoling himself with the idea that Chauvelin had perhaps moved Jack into another room, he sat upon the bed to wait. While he did so, he began to read...
“Percy, you must allow me to explain,” Chauvelin panted as he entered the room. He paused quickly, noticing the stiffness of Percy’s body as he read over a document in his hand.
“Yes,” Percy replied coldly. “I do believe you should explain why you have been consorting with those who killed my brother-in-law. I believe you should explain why you have planned to purposely turn me insane. But, most of all,” Percy said, deathly quiet, while standing and walking slowly to reach Chauvelin’s side, paper still in hand, “I think you should explain why you have killed my son!”
“No, Percy!” Chauvelin cried in vain. “I have not! If you would but listen!”
“These papers seem to say otherwise,” Percy said, throwing the papers into Chauvelin’s face, then turning in disgust. “As does the poison (Percy spat the word out) I find here on the floor!” Percy’s resolve began to fade, and his knees gave out, forcing him to sit upon the bed.
Turning to his friends, he growled, “Tony, Ffoulkes!” The friends stepped forward. “Lock him up in my study.”
“But I did nothing!” Chauvelin cried. “The blood of your son is not on my hands! No court in England shall convict me!”
Percy glared at him mockingly, then retrieved a few letters and various pieces of paper from the floor.
“Oh, then I am most grateful to you for keeping record of your involvement with France. I’m sure those in charge shall be more than delighted to have you locked away. In the meantime, you are most welcome to remain in the charge of my study.”
“But...”
“You are dismissed, monsieur.”
He threw Ffoulkes the key and, most happily, they did as they were told, Chauvelin being pulled away kicking and screaming.
* * * * *
Chauvelin was most ungraciously thrown into his brother’s study. While picking himself from off the floor, he heard the key turn in the lock and Tony comment from outside, “I’ve waited long and hard for that moment.”
Go ahead and laugh, you fools. I don’t know how, but the war is not over! Never! Oh, who upon the earth am I kidding? For, ‘tis certain not I!
With a sigh of dejection, he flopped into Percy’s desk chair.
I daresay, I could use some snuff at this moment...
With nothing else to do and an addiction to crave, Chauvelin began to search the drawers of the desk.
Pen, ink, and paper... receipts for cravats, (Chauvelin shuddered in annoyance at this entry) maps of Paris... addresses... passports... false beard?
This last entry of his thoughts forced him to actually look at that which he had previously pushed aside. Passports for men and women alike, all under assumed names. Addresses of various homes scattered in nondescript areas. Maps of the streets around the prisons. And, as he dug deeper, Chauvelin found that which would plague him for near the remainder of his life. A tiny little thing which he pulled from the drawer and held between his thumb and index finger, which he stared at for quite some time. A tiny little thing that caused him to go quite pale with anger.
The ring of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
His scream of fury could be heard in all corners of the house.
* * * * *
Percy had pushed the papers from the bed, and now sat upon it alone, staring up at the painting of Marguerite that hung on the wall. He stared at her transfixed, for he could not move. His eyes, red-rimmed and sore from the amount of tears he had shed in the past few hours, would not cry another tear. Instead, they turned to anger.
“Why did you call me back here?” he asked the picture. “Why? You are not here, and now Jack is neither. You both are where I cannot be. Have you called me back simply to injure me further? To cause more pain to an oppressed man? Is that it? Have you grown cruel?” When no answer came, he rose to his feet and called angrily to the painting, “Answer me!”
In annoyance, he flopped back down to the bed and crossed his arms across his chest, pouting.
“And stop laughing at me. Did you call me back here solely to torment me, then? To make me wonder if, by going but a second faster, I should have saved his life? To wonder, forever, if I was the cause of his death as I was the cause of yours? Why did you call me back?”
As he leaned forward, he heard a rustling in his pocket and, upon investigating the sound, drew forth Marguerite’s letter. He looked over it a moment, smiling tenderly at the sweet words, then looked back to the painting.
“You told me you should ever be waiting for me in the garden. You promised me. So tell me, once and for all, where you are now? Awaiting my arrival in the garden? Standing among the roses with a soft smile upon your countenance? No, you are not there. I should never find you there again. There is no use to look.” He paused to stare at the face he knew so well.
“You want me to go, do you not? Ah, I see your cutting jest! One last hope, one last chance. One last time to dare believe that it all ‘twas but a bad dream. Is that the way your game goes now? Well, I simply shan’t. Easy enough as that. I shall leave this dreaded house and never return. My back shall be turned, my mind far away. You shall not hurt me again!”
And, with these strong words, he stormed from the room and slammed the door.
Not thirty seconds later, the open opened once more, and he poked his head in the door.
“I shall go to the garden, but ‘tis not because you told me! I go simply to see... how it has faired... that is all. Not because you told me.”
* * * * *
Jack sat upon the grass, looking up at the wide sky and trying to urge bravery into his soul. When at last he felt ready, he turned unsteadily to look up at his cousin and Dickon, who stood nearby. “Mary...”
* * * * *
These gardens... I had nearly forgotten them... I can almost hear her laughing. Or singing. I can almost see her smiling at me from behind the hedges...
* * * * *
“You can do it, Jack!” Mary called, beckoning him from a few feet away. Dickon held him up, smiling at Mary from behind a nervous Jack’s back.
“Just a wee little step,” Dickon said, urging the boy forward and out of his arms.
“Please,” Jack said, “let me do it myself.”
Dickon smiled in agreement and stepped back, leaving Jack standing alone, save leaning slightly against a large tree nearby. The three children, however, heard a noise at the wall and all turned quite pale.
“I shall go check the door!” Mary cried in alarm, racing off without a moment’s warning. Dickon attempted to stay calm then, in youthful exuberance, raced after her.
“We shall return in but a moment, Jack. Jus’ wait there!”
Jack nodded, then bit his lip in a slight fear that placed its icy fingers upon him. He shivered, despite himself, and concentrated heavily on the small joy of feeling lush, moist grass curling between his toes. He allowed himself a small smile for this. While thinking about this grass beneath his feet, a pastime I am sad to report few participate in anymore, he heard a noise from behind him. Although one could think of it as but a small breeze in the leaves, Jack knew better. It was the sound of a small gasp. He smiled.
“Mary, is that you? Who was at the gate?”
He turned towards the sound, exhilarated at the feel of moving his legs, admittedly in a rather jerky manner and still anxiously clutching hold of the tree. However, upon seeing the personage standing there, he was forced to gasp as well. He needed nobody to tell him who it was that stood before him.
* * * * *
Mary and Dickon reunited as they returned to Jack, having found nothing at the gate to suggest a presence there, other than the wind had most likely pushed it open. However, Dickon held Mary back before she was to step into the clearing where they had left Jack. Another stood there with Jack, one who would need a moment alone.
Dickon and Mary looked at each other in awe, then began to smile.
* * * * *
Jack said nothing. He simply stared at this man who stood before him, a giant of a man with blonde hair and striking blue eyes which, at the moment, were beginning to brim over with tears. “Father?” he whispered, his voice low and his eyes glaring in astonishment.
Without realizing what he was doing, his feet began to move.
* * * * *
Jack... alive? Walking, talking? Right here, in Marguerite’s garden? Alive?
Percy dropped to his knees and held out his arms, which drew his child into a strong embrace, holding him tight.
“Father, is it really you? I had so hoped you would come home.”
Percy only held him tighter.
“Oh, Jack. My dear, dear boy.” He pulled back from the embrace, smoothing the boy’s hair. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“For what, father?” Jack asked, looking at him curiously. Shaking this aside, the boy grinned in excitement. “Do you know, those were my first steps. I say, I didn’t even think about them! Father, you’re crying!”
Percy chuckled beneath his tears. “I fear English society would never tolerate me again if they heard of my doing such a scandalously emotional thing, now would they?”
Jack smiled and solemnly said, “I shan’t tell a soul.”
Percy laughed aloud, a motion he had not done in such a long time, and drew his son up into his arms, twirling the two about several times as they laughed aloud in joy. However, when they stopped, Jack grew quite serious.
“Father, Dr. Chauvelin said that he was going to send Mary away. You won’t let him, will you? She’s the one that got me better!”
Having heard her name, Mary shyly stepped forward from the greenery. Percy watched her a moment, nearly crying again at her likelihood to Marguerite. Finally, he stepped forward and offered her his hand, down on one knee.
“Mary St. Just, for as long as you shall have us, we are yours. Jack and I. And this is your home. And this, my lovely child,” he said while gathering her into his arms, “is your garden.”
As the three lost souls held each other in their arms, birds sang even sweeter, the sun shone warmer, and to no one’s great surprise, the first red rose bloomed.
Come to my garden
Nestled in the hill
There I’ll keep you safe
Beside me
Come to my garden
Rest there in my arms
There I’ll see you safely grown
And on your way...
Stay here in the garden
As days grow long and wild
Come to the garden
Come, sweet child...