Suzanne had finally succeeding in tracking Marguerite down, and found her sitting in a chair, calmly sipping her drink, as though she had not completely disappeared for an hour. As calm an air as she effected, Suzanne could see that she was pale, tired, frazzled. Maybe she was sickly? Maybe she and her husband weren’t really estranged, and she was with child? That might explain the odd mood.

“Where have you been!” exclaimed the girl, flying to her dear friend’s side. Marguerite was quite taken aback, but rose from the chair, smiling.

“My dear Suzanne, what are you talking off?”

“After you danced with the ambassador-” here she was referring to Chauvelin “you became preoccupied with that clock, and you barely spoke two words to me! It struck eleven, I went off to get you something to drink – oh, you really did look frightful, Marguerite! – and when I came back, you were just gone! I searched all over the place, and you were not to be seen!” Earnestly, Suzanne grasped her friend’s hand. “You had me worried sick! Where have you been?” she asked a second time.

Marguerite pretended to be surprised. “Here and there, of course. Caught up in conversations with people; really, Suzanne, I’m quite alright. I haven’t disappeared anywhere! I promise I have not even set a single foot outside the house. Not even for a breath of air!” Well, that was true enough, at least. “You mustn’t worry yourself so.”

Insistently, Suzanne pulled Marguerite away from the chair and spoke with sincerity and concern. “Marguerite, what is the matter? Forgive me for saying it, but you look terrible!”

“Do I?” she asked, placing a delicate hand to her forehead. “Yes, I suppose I haven’t quite been myself tonight lately, have I? I assure you, I’m just tired. Though I do have a frightful headache……”

Suzanne’s grip on her dearest friend’s hand tightened. “Oh, please, Marguerite! You know you can tell me anything, anything at all! I promise I won’t get upset, or angry. No matter what, I swear I won’t!”

Marguerite stared at Suzanne with surprise. “My dear child, what are you talking about? What is it that you want me to tell you? I am quite alright, I assure you!” She now placed a delicate hand on Suzanne’s brow and asked “Now, are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Of course!” the child cried out impatiently, waving the hand away. “I’m only upset because something’s troubling you, and you won’t confide it in me!”

The poor child was trying to drag truth from an actress; not an impossible feat, to be sure, but this was the champion of the stage, and it took quite a bit of skill to extract information from her. And sweet Mademoiselle de Tournay simply did not have that skill.

“Really, Marguerite, can’t you tell me?” she begged.

Guiltily, Marguerite smiled at her friend. Sighing, she patted Suzanne’s hand. “Come to Richmond the day after tomorrow, and – oh, wait, I suppose it is tomorrow now, isn’t it? Alright, come to Richmond tomorrow, then, and I promise we’ll talk about whatever you want.”

“Including what’s troubling you?” Suzanne asked warily. Marguerite bit her lower lip and thought. Could she tell Suzanne? If asked, Suzanne wouldn’t breathe a word, not even to Andrew. Marguerite would simply have to take a chance and trust her.

“Yes, of course,” she promised.

Suzanne relaxed and smiled, sighing. “Alright then. As long as you won’t forget.”

“I won’t,” Marguerite reassured.

“Madame, I am afraid that the hour is late, and we must return,” a voice behind Marguerite said. Surprised, Marguerite turned to see her husband, his eyes lids half closed in his customary lazy expression. But, to Marguerite’s surprise, she did not see hurt and hate in his eyes and on his face. Nay, he was smiling. Marguerite’s brow furrowed in confusion and curiosity, but she was distracted when Percy cried “Ah! ‘Tis Suzanne you’re talking to then, is it? Women’s chatter, no doubt. Sorry to steal her away, Mamzelle, but I must be off to Dover in the morning. There’s a trout in Scotland that’s eluded me these last few trips, but I vow I’ll catch him yet!”

Marguerite’s heart sank; her husband, the king of fishing. That was not who she wanted to see. She wanted to see the real Percy, the man she fell in love with. Did he even really exist?

“Yes, of course, Sir Percy,” Suzanne agreed, releasing her friend’s hand. “Au revior, Marguerite. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, goodbye, Suzanne,” Marguerite sadly agreed, and took her husband’s proffered arm.

Mournfully, Marguerite watched him. “Yes, I suppose it has,” she agreed. “Percy, must you go?”

Percy pretended to be surprised by the question. “Lud, madame, but if I do not go, that blasted fish will laugh in my face about it. That ruddy thing must be brought to heel!”

“Yes, of course,” she sighed.

“Aren’t you glad to see me go?” he thought bitterly. “This way you can be with your lover.” He’d forgiven Marguerite because she’d admitted that she loved him, but that didn’t mean he was any happier with the knowledge that Chauvelin would soon be kissing and holding his lovely wife.

“Will you be back soon this time?” she begged, reaching a hand out to him before quickly drawing it back.

“Can’t tell,” he said truthfully. “Depends if I catch that fish or not, and how the weather is when we ship out.”

“Will you write to me this time?”

“Odd’s fish, m’dear, you act as if you lack company entirely! Isn’t Mademoiselle de Tournay coming to visit tomorrow?” he asked aloud, and privately thought “and Chauvelin tonight?”

“Yes, but you don’t understand how it is when you leave. I’m alone in this large house, with no one to see and no where to go. I miss you when you leave…..”

Percy was tempted to sweep her up into his embrace and promise that he’d return safely; she need only keep some faith in him, and soon everything would be well again, but he did not. Too proud, or too cautious, he wasn’t sure which.

“What sort of present should I fetch on my return trip?” he asked lightly instead. He mustn’t loose sight of things just because Marguerite was standing a few feet behind him.

“Don’t bring me back anything!” she cried. “Especially if it slows your return. Just come back home soon, and stay for a long while!”

Percy stiffened. She made it so hard for him to remember that he needed to leave. Finally satisfied with how everything was packed, he turned and kissed her hand gallantly. “Goodbye, m’dear. I’ll be back in a week or two. Maybe three if the weather is as ghastly there as it has been here.”

She watched him leave, and waited by the window, watching him drive off in the coach. She continued to stare out the window long after he’d completely disappeared, and she sighed with melancholy and sorrow.

She glided out the door and decided to take a walk by the river to try and think of what she would tell Suzanne the next day. She shivered slightly in the cold as she walked by the rocky bank, not knowing what to do. What would she tell Suzanne? The truth, of course, that was the only thing to tell. She knew that Chauvelin quite frightened pretty little Suzanne, and he sometimes frightened Marguerite as well. But she didn’t know him the way Marguerite did. Marguerite had seen him sighing and sorrowing, had seen him quite gentle and sweet. She shivered at the memory of how tenderly he’d held her last night, trying to comfort her; how gently he’d kissed her, promising her that he would go away with her if she only asked.

But Marguerite was determined not to ask. In fact, she’d tell Suzanne that. She’d tell her that she must never let Marguerite even vaguely entertain the idea of running off with Chauvelin, for she was frightened that he might one day wear away her resolve to not go. Yes, Suzanne would help keep Marguerite in England. Thus was her loyalty to her dearest friend.

Before Marguerite had the faintest idea of what had just happened, a pair of strong arms had encircled her and drew her back to their owner. She gasped, stiffened, would have screamed, had she not heard the low, soft, amused chuckle in her ear.

“Bonjour, madame. Did I frighten you? I promise that that was not the intended effect.”

Instantly she relaxed, breathed a sigh of relief. Chauvelin.

“Surprised me was all,” she responded, but did not turn around to see her lover’s face.

“I hope it was a pleasant surprise,” he purred in her ear, drawing her very close; close enough to smell her perfume, feel the curve of her body against his own.

“Of course,” she sighed. “You merely caught me in the middle of thought.”

He delicately kissed her soft cheek before asking “And what was it that you were thinking about?” He paused to kiss her again before questioning “Was it me?”

“No, though that may have been a better thought. I was thinking about what I shall tell Suzanne tomorrow.”

Now it was Chauvelin’s turn to stiffen, and he slowly asked “De Tournay?”

“Oui,” Marguerite responded. “Suzanne de Tournay will visit me tomorrow, and I promised her I’d tell her what was the matter.”

“And what do you plan to tell her?”

Now she turned in his embrace so that she could lay her tired, heavy head upon her lover’s strong chest. “I do not know!” she cried. “But I will tell her of you and I, that is certain.”

“Are you sure she can be trusted?” he asked carefully.

Marguerite pulled slightly away, realizing what he was getting at. “I would trust Mademoiselle Suzanne de Tournay with my life. Why?”

Weighing the situation and trying to go with whatever judgment he saw best, Chauvelin swayed from foot to foot. “Nothing. It’s just she’s….”

“An aristocrat?” Marguerite demanded angrily.

Chauvelin looked Marguerite coldly in the eye, and responded “You said it, not I. All the same, yes, that is correct.”

Angrily, Marguerite tore out of her lover’s embrace. “Sometimes I really hate the things you say!” she spat, turning her back to him, glowering.

He glared at the back of her red-gold hair and responded “That girl and her entire family were under Republican watch, which means she’s guilty of something, if that means anything to you.”

“It seems we are all now guilty of something in this terrible age!”

“She would have been fodder for the guillotine were it not for that blasted Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“Then God bless the Scarlet Pimpernel!” Marguerite impetuously cried, paling as she realized she might soon regret those words while in Chauvelin’s company.

Chauvelin’s jaw had tightened, and he was clenching his fists, keeping his anger in check. He ground his teeth while he glared daggers, carefully weighing out what his next sentence – his next move – should be. “I did not come here,” he finally spoke “to engage in pointless arguing over Revolutionary acts and ideas, nor to be scolded like a child because I may have insulted an aristo, as guilty as all aristos. You’ve gone soft!”

“If you mean I’m not blood thirsty enough for this Revolution, then you’re right!”

“I came here,” he began again, “so that I might spend some pleasurable time and company with the most beautiful star in the sky; the woman I prize above all other women.” Slowly, softly, carefully, he stepped closer to her and, very gently, drew her into his embrace, which she could not find the strength to fight. “I came here to be with you, Marguerite. Heaven knows I’m not in England to sight see, nor do I drive miles out of my way to visit your idiot husband!”

Percy! Marguerite had quite forgotten! Oh, but he’d only left moments ago. Chauvelin might have passed him on the road, Percy might have seen him! What if-

She stopped her terrified train of thought, drawing away from him once more, and asked “What time is it?”

Surprised, Chauvelin drew his watch from his pocket and responded “It is a quarter till two, why?”

“So long? It seemed that Percy left mere moments ago.”

“When did he leave?”

“A full three quarters of an hour ago, at least. I suppose time flew while I was thinking.”

A thought struck Chauvelin, and he asked “Have you been by this river bank the entire time? In this cold?”

“Yes,” she responded, lightly brushing it aside.

Quickly, without a moment of protest from Marguerite’s red lips, Chauvelin drew her back into his arms, warming her delicate hands in his. “No wonder you are like ice! You must be careful, otherwise you might catch your death of chill! And then what am I to do?”

“You’d manage somehow,” she sighed. “We all would.” Percy, no doubt, would run to his mistress’ embrace, maybe even wed her. Good. Let him be happy. That was all Marguerite had ever wanted, was for the two of them to be happy.

Chauvelin had removed his coat, and was trying to drape it across the shivering girl’s shoulders, but Marguerite waved it away. “I’m fine, I really am!”

“Come into the house,” Chauvelin insisted. “I’m sure it’s much warmer in there. If you wish to remain out here so badly, then at least go in an fetch a shall; then we shall return.”

“No, it’s fine, we can just go inside.”

Reluctantly, he took the coat back, and, Marguerite in arm, he led her away from the river, swollen with winter rain, and back to the warm, dry house.

“Let’s go in the Drawing Room,” she insisted, once inside. “We can have some wine, and we can talk in there. Besides, it has such a wonderful view of the garden…..”

“You are very fond of your rose garden, Lady Blakeney?” he asked, bemused as he handed a servant the black coat that they were impatiently waiting for.

“It just reminds me of things. Of the past…..”

“Of Paris?”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye as she led him down the hall and to the room, pausing to request a bottle of wine from a servant. “Yes, sometimes. Times were simpler then. They were happy.”

“Do you remember when we met?”

She sighed, laughed. “That was so very long ago. I do not often think of it now.”

“I do,” he responded, gazing at her adoringly as she waited for the maid to bring the wine. She did so presently, and Marguerite shut the door after she had gone, so that they might talk in peace. Most of the servants did not speak French, or so she was lead to believe, but they were ever so curious as to what the mistress told the ambassador, probably guessed at words and made up the rest.

She poured them both a glass, taking hers with her, sitting down in a chair, notably not the love seat that Chauvelin had been trying to drop hints for her to sit in. He smirked, bemused. Thus was Citoyenne St. Just; she always required wooing. Instead, he stood near the mantle, by the fire, the glass in his hand.

“Do you remember the summer we spent together? All those cafes we sat in, the speeches we heard…..”

“Yes, in the summer of 1790, I remember.”

“What glorious days those were! We were caught in the swelling tide of ideals and freedoms. Caught in a storm of a people. We were drunk on the best kind of dreams then…..”

Uncomfortable at the mention of the past, Marguerite shifted in her seat. “I was such a foolish child then!”

He watched her carefully, coming over and taking her small hand in his. He delicately kissed the tips of her fingers, running his thumb over the palm. “I was there to guide you in your youth. I was always there for you. And I’m still here, Marguerite.”

“It was so easy to fall in love with you then; the dark, mysterious man, so hidden, so passionate. I was just barely an adult, caught up in the mad frenzy of a revolution. To be loved and adored by such a man…You were exciting! Thrilling!”

“Knowing what we do of each other now, do you think you made the right choice?”

“It’s a ridiculous question,” she replied, drawing her hand away. “What we know of each other now we didn’t know then. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe we were happier in our ignorance, our blind passion.”

“People do not like to remain blind. They want to see, to know.”

“To their discredit, that is true. People are far too curious for their good.”

“But those were good days, weren’t they?”

“We were so alive then. Bloodied hands and troubled minds have slowly sapped us of the life that was pulsing then. A day was forever, and damn tomorrow!”

He stared down at her lovely, care worn features, and knelt down so that their eyes were level. His wanting gaze matched her desperately unhappy one, and he silently promised the same thing he’d promised the night before: He would make all well, he would make her forget. If only for a little while.

If only for a few short moments, he silently promised to help remind her of the wonderful, passion filled days and nights when Marguerite St. Just was at the height of her glory, the goddess of the stage! When the Republic was still a dream, not a nightmare. When fiery life pulsed through their veins. His strong arms drew her to him, and he kissed her as he pulled her near, sighing into her ear in satisfaction.

“To bed now, I think, my love,” he instructed softly. “Let us relax for a little while, and dream. All things will look better in the morning. I promise.”

“How can you promise such a thing?” she asked, though she did not pull away from him.

“Have a little faith in me, for I have so much in you.”

She relaxed in his arms, content to forget her troubles, her unhappiness, Suzanne’s visit on the morrow, her husband – whom she doubted would return soon. It might even be a month before she saw him.

Until his return, Chauvelin was more than willing to keep her company. She’d have to be satisfied with that.