As Love is
Reborn
Part
Five
Silver moonlight came in through the window, spreading across
Marguerite Blakeney's bed. Her lonely bed. She sighed and rolled
over, wrapping her arms around one of her pillows. The ball had been
an unqualified success, with the majority of Percy's society opening
its arms wide to her. She wondered how much was genuine acceptance,
and how much was simply bored society people looking for an exotic
new sensation to gossip about.
Oh, there had been a few sour moments. Mostly caused by the women
scowling at the commoner who had dared capture a fine matrimonial
prize that by rights should have gone to one of them, or their
daughters. Worse, a French commoner, an actress! How insulting!
Portia Harris, a petulant young girl of eighteen, had actually
tried to match wits with Marguerite. Talk about walking into combat
unarmed, Marguerite thought. Four years in a convent school as the
local "charity case" had taught her all the tricks of these highbred
ladies. Charity case! Her tuition had been paid in full, by her
father's small savings, and the kindness of a parishioner from their
church that had taken an interest in the St. Just children.
"Why, Lady Blakeney," the Honorable Portia Harris had pouted, "I
hear that you are a Republican! How did you come to marry a
title?"
Marguerite simply smiled. Who taught you how to pout? I did better
at sixteen! "One doesn't marry a title, child," she cooed, watching
the girl turn red with suppressed rage. "One marries a man. Perhaps
you'll learn that someday. And while I am a Republican, I don't agree
with the direction that my country has gone in the last few
years."
"I should hope not!" the girl exclaimed. "How could people turn on
their Sovereign that way?" Portia asked with the superficial
understanding of a spoiled eighteen-year-old who had never been
denied anything in her short life.
Marguerite looked at her with faint contempt. "Hunger, little
girl. People were starving in the streets, while their King and Queen
spent millions on amusements. That tends to make the common people
angry."
"Starving?" Portia laughed scornfully. "I'm certain you
exaggerate, Lady Blakeney. I went to Paris as a little girl, and I
never saw any starving people." She stated. The unspoken words rang
in Marguerite's ears. Let them eat cake.
Marguerite smiled savagely. "No", she said lightly, looking up and
down at Portia's well-fed figure, "Anyone can see that you have never
missed a meal in your life." With that parting shot, she had strolled
off the field of combat, the undisputed victor of a game she had no
taste for.
No, she had no worries about those harpies. It was an innocent
question from Lady Digby later that evening, which rang in her ears
tonight.
"Why didn't you leave France earlier, Lady Blakeney?" Lady Digby
had queried. Marguerite sighed. "Because…it is easy to risk
everything only when you have nothing."
She lay curled up in her huge bed. Why had she stayed in France
for so long? Moreover, why did part of her still long for her
homeland? France. Dieu, how she missed it! Her native land called to
her every day. Remember the bloodshed, she admonished herself.
Remember the Terror, the slow destruction of the Republican ideals.
The Revolution that started with such hope has turned into blind
revenge. How many of your former comrades are dead or hiding from the
government that they helped put into power?
Knowing that she would not sleep tonight, she rose and pulled on a
robe. Walking out on her balcony, she felt the cool air caress her.
The memories flooded her mind, refusing to be held back.
Paris. 1786. She had been sixteen years old, terrified and trying
to hide it. Armed with only a letter of introduction to a woman named
Marie Gronet, she kissed her eleven-year old brother goodbye,
promising to write at least once a week. Knowing that there was only
enough money left for one more year of school. Only one year to make
and save enough to keep him in the seminary long enough to study a
profession, not just a trade. One year to give him the future that
she had promised him.
1789. The Comedie Fransais. She was fast gaining fame as an
actress. The clean, comfortable apartment in the Rue Richilieu, with
just enough room for her and Armand. The daily maid. The Republican
meetings, with her new friends. Her own salon. The revolution. The
Bastille. Chauvelin. She shook her head, pushing the thought
away.
The Terror. The ideals, the hopes of a people drowning in
bloodshed and revenge, while she became the brightest star in the
Parisian Theater. She could have immigrated. Most likely she would
have found another position which paid as well. She had saved money,
enough to create an income that she and Armand would be able to live
on, if she could find a comparable position.
If she could find a comparable position. In the end, she could not
risk leaving France for an uncertain life in another country. After
all, in Paris she was a beloved actress, adored, cherished, and very
nearly worshipped. There was no danger to her, as long as she did not
outwardly attack the Republic. She could not risk Armand's future by
leaving France. Or so she had told herself.
She sighed. That was something those people she had met last night
would never understand. The fear of poverty and hunger was completely
outside their experience. She had known that fear.
How could she have remained in France? Habit, she supposed. One of
her teachers had told her that humans could adapt to almost anything.
After a time, living with the Terror had become…familiar.
"Margot? Darling?" The voice startled her, and she whirled to face
her husband standing behind her. Dieu! The man walked like a cat!
"Are you all right? Did someone upset you last night? I knew that we
shouldn't have let the Prince talk us into this reception."
"No, Sir Percy. No one upset me. Not on purpose. I-was just
thinking of something that Lady Digby asked me last night.
About…why Armand and I stayed in Paris when everything went so
insane." She walked back into her rooms. "I suppose that everyone,
including you, wonders about that."
She looked at this stranger she was married to. The words came to
her lips: I doubt you would understand. But gazing into his eyes, she
suddenly realized that she had to try.
"Sir Percy, I can only say that living in fear was a customary
state for me, as it was for most people, even before the revolution.
You may not be able to grasp this, living as you do," she said,
glancing around the beautiful room. "But for so many years, Armand
and I existed one step away from poverty and homelessness. An
accident, an illness, or even an angry critic could have cost me my
job and wiped out our savings. Then where would we have been?"
Seeing the stricken expression in his kind eyes, she was suddenly
overcome with contrition. Not for her words, but for her behavior.
What was she waiting for? Why was she protecting herself? He had
shown her nothing but gentleness and love since the day she awoke on
board the Day Dream. For the first time, she put herself in his
place. How would she feel if the person she loved withdrew from her,
felt that he needed to protect himself from her? How would it feel to
have the man she loved look at her as though she was a stranger? And
she was in love with her husband, had been falling in love with him
since the day she woke on his yacht. She stepped forward and embraced
him.
He responded almost hesitantly, wrapping his arms around her
gently. He buried his face in her soft hair, inhaling the scent of
roses that drifted around her. His lips moved to her temple, then her
cheek. Part of him realized that he was treading on dangerous ground.
It was one thing to kiss her goodnight, to hold her in his arms in
Paris, standing outside her apartment. Even then, the fact that her
brother waited upstairs was all that had kept him from carrying her
off.
It was quite another thing to hold her like this while standing in
her bedroom, the knowledge that she was legally his resounding in his
thoughts. Even as he tried to hold onto his judgement, his mouth
sought hers. Half expecting a slap in the face, he felt her hands
slide into his thick hair, her soft, warm body pressing closer to
his. Gasping, he lifted his head, staring down at his wife's flushed
face. "Marguerite…" He trailed off as she leaned forward and
pressed her mouth to the hollow of his throat. Years of British
training and propriety battled with the basic, primitive man inside
him.
Training and propriety lost.
Part 4 | Part
6