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.