Masquerade

Marguerite sat in her room for she knew not how long. Sitting out on the stone balcony beyond the large open bay windows, she gazed down serenely at the garden and lawn, listening to the gentle tinkling, merry sounds of the party below. The light from the enormous ball room of the Blakeney mansion spilled out into the night, coating the grassy lawn in a beautiful golden glow, extending the small shrubs and flower patches into long, dark shadows. It was a warm summer night, and despite the comfort that lay beneath her feet in the masquerade party, the gentle feel of the night breeze that tickled the loose curls across her cheek, she felt no peace.

All Marguerite could think about was Paul*, the things he'd told her in the garden. Everything that he had told her, lies, threats, promises, and yet she had flung her arms around him, kissed him as passionately as when they were still young and together in France. How could she have done such a thing? After all he had done to her, she could find it within her traitorous self to forsake the marriage vows she'd exchanged with Percy and rekindle the flames for the man she used to...the man she thought she'd loved. Percival, so simple and yet so tempting in his innocence, would expect nothing, of course. He worshipped her. In his eyes Marguerite was a goddess, a being of divinity who could do nothing wrong. How could he think so highly of her? Steadily realizing all of this with a sinking heart, Marguerite leaned forward onto the support of the stone railing on the balcony, covering her face with her hands as she fought back the threatening tears.

It was as though she could feel him now, watching her in her guilt. She pitied the poor fool that was her husband. It would kill him if he should ever find out what his wife really was. A traitor. A deceitful spy who bent like a sapling in the hands of those who had the slightest influence over her. Why couldn't she resist Chauvelin? She could tell Percy everything. What had she to lose other than her pride? Her dignity and self respect had long since gone, leaving only this fragment of a woman holding on to the last strands of her life that grew more and more miserable with each passing day. If this had taken place before her marriage to Percy she could have told him everything and he would have understood. He would have known what to do. But no...like the disease that struck down most of his ancestors he had gone entirely inane towards her. Cold and unfeeling as Chauvelin. It seemed so long ago that the men Marguerite cared for were kind to her, loving and soft and gentle. Now they were only brutes, brutes that she was quickly growing to despise.

Any further thoughts that may have pulled Marguerite further into despair were interrupted by the soft knock of a hand at her door. Standing quickly to straighten herself, smoothing down the folds of her dress and brushing back her elaborate hairstyle, she swept majestically across the room, in the time it took her to do so she cleared her face of any previous traces of sorrow to make presentable for the caller: ability only a fine actress could ascertain.

She opened the dark wooden door, gazing down into the wide, open face and admiring eyes of the servant girl Madeline who stood beyond the entranceway, clasping her hands in polite manner. "Lady Blakeney," she said breathlessly, result of some combination of her hurrying to fetch her mistress and the astonishing sight she was. "They're asking for you downstairs, Milady."

Marguerite nodded with a thin smile. "Thankyou, Madeline. I'll be down shortly."

The young servant girl smiled and turned to pad back downstairs, her white and black skirt bustling. Marguerite Blakeney was always a spectacle among her guests at the parties they hosted. Her mistress was so clever...Madeline found it a wonderful pastime to linger among the guests serving drinks and listen to the remarks Lady Blakeney made in endless supply. Impeccably witty and comical, the servant girl would whisper them back to the other servants until the entire household was bustling in laughter. Even more delightful were the gentlemen guests. Madeline reached into her dress pocket once she was heading down the stairs, feeling for security the weight of the solid gold coin that strange man in red had given her to fetch the lady of the house.

Marguerite turned back into her room for one last look at herself before heading down into the welcoming crowd of her guests. In all accordance with aristocratic customs, as hostess of the masquerade she really should have been down there entertaining her guests already. With Percy gone, it was up to her to play hostess. She didn't despise the role which being the wife of a rich Englishman thrust her into entirely; she thoroughly enjoyed some of the company of the more intellectual people downstairs, but with the thoughts hanging over her head, of Chauvelin and her husband, she could scarcely concentrate now. Perhaps if she found it too overwhelming she could feign sickness and leave early. Just one last look in the mirror...

Not a man in all of Europe could deny the beauty of Marguerite Blakeney that night. Dressed in a full, flowering gown of pure silk, the color of spotless cerulean blue was the perfect offset for her sparkling eyes, the lamplights beside her bed playing in tiny pinpoints of gold off the diamond and sapphire jewelry encircling the neck, wrists, and waist of her flowering costume. Having not planned to be anything in particular, Marguerite had designed the gown to fit her elaborate tastes: the skirt of the gown thin and easy to move in, patterned in an intricate design of flowers and folds, the rest of the dress followed her small but shapely form up to end in a sloping cut just below her shoulders and pale white throat, dipping in a small V over her back. Her petite, lithe hands were covered in opera gloves of the same silky material and only a few shades lighter of that dazzling blue, a matching-colored sash tied around her waist and feathering down in liquid swirls over the back of her skirt. The same cerulean ribbons and ties kept her auburn hair up in its stylish curls, displaying openly her porcelain throat and the proud jewels there. The powdery makeup lightly applied over her face only emphasized that childlike quality about her features: her ruby red lips and sapphire eyes that held an innocence that betrayed her sharp wit. Indeed, she was beautiful.

But what Marguerite saw as she gazed at herself in the full-length mirror set along the wall was an echo of what she'd been feeling for so many nights now. An ugly, traitorous, deceitful creature who belonged in the darkness where she could skulk with the other evildoers. Where she belonged. Not among these fancy jewels and fine materials of luxury, but in the swamp with the slimy frogs and serpents: the creatures of the deepest sin. The French woman sighed, letting her eyes fall in shame even as she reached for the small crystal bottle adorning the top of her dresser.

"The greatest role you have ever been handed," she said to herself as she tossed back the few loose curls about her face and gently brushed the violet perfume over her skin. "Was that of a loving wife." She set the perfume bottle down, in turn taking up the feathery mask, sleek and angled in its design, that would finish off her cerulean blue masquerade outfit. Slipping the clasps for the mask up under her hair, pinning it to a secure hold, she turned to head out.

"And you've failed miserably."

The warmth and gaiety of the masquerade party below were more than enough to banish any and all thoughts of sorrow from Marguerite's mind, even if only a moment. She came into view of the ballroom as she stepped gracefully down the stairs, one blue-gloved hand touching the rail, her feet taking small, lady-like steps that carried her petite form majestically. From behind the porcelain outline of the mask, her eyes swept over the guests as they waltzed in couples over the floor. The bright chandeliers cast an illuminating brightness over them, bringing out the rainbow of colors in their coats and dresses, their masks hiding all of their identities to most. In a way, Marguerite thought, she liked that. Behind this mask, no one could see her guilt.

Taking a deep breath to ready herself, Marguerite swept down among them, the lower part of her face that remained uncovered smiling merrily as she met face after face of elaborate design, moving along the edge of the dance floor with the lively swaying music playing in her ears. The variety of costumes spread out over the floor were endless. Most of the guests she could recognize by their gait and height, and pausing for a moment to survey the area she couldn't help but giggle. There was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes dancing with his lady friend, his two left feet when it came to dancing continually having to quickly double-step to keep up in time with the waltz. Sir Tony Dewhurst was a prominent figure towards the center, his refined and elegant taste displayed in the shower of gold his coat spread over the area. And Ozzy, farther on down, was outright comical in his jester's attire, making a spectacle of himself as he twirled about with his jingling hat and coat bells to the waltz. Paul was nowhere to be seen. All the better. Like the panther he had arrived as, let him slink away. Marguerite clasped her hands and covered her mouth to stifle her giggle at the sight of Ozzy.

"Lady Blakeney?" came a voice, quiet and smooth that remained so despite being projected over the sound of the music. It drew Marguerite's attention over her shoulder, back towards the stairs, where she saw among the guests who milled about on the edge of the dance floor a man she didn't recognize. He was tall, taller than most of the other guests around him, though as he remained a few paces from her she could not quite peer into his concealing mask to determine who he was. His costume was an unusually bright shade of red, almost the color of blood, lined in fine gold lace and trim over his entire coat design that was relatively simple but beautiful all the same. His trousers were that same bright red, his boots stark black, and covering everything above his strong jaw was a satin-covered mask of the same red. Concealed any further identity was a large-brimmed hat that covered most of his hair, plumed with full, downy feathers. Even as Marguerite gazed at him with that curious yet detached aristocratic gaze he extended his hand, both covered in soft leather gloves.

"Yes?" she asked lightly.

"May I have the honor of this dance?" came his voice again, having not changed in its flowing evenness or its rumbling baritone. Marguerite's lips parted a moment as she sought words, the greater part of her mind striving to identify the stranger who obviously knew her, and without her thinking her own supple hand reached out to take his.

"Of course, kind sir."

Marguerite pranced gracefully after this man in scarlet as he turned and silently led her out onto the dance floor, taking up the proper position to begin a waltz, then allowing Marguerite to fall in accordance before he took the lead and fell in with the other couples, spinning the French woman across the floor with the trained grace of a gentleman. Marguerite at first could only laugh delightedly as she felt herself swept up in the flowing movements of her partner, the colors and sounds of the masquerade around them blurring away into a collage of abstract art.

"I must commend you on your choice of outfit, Monsieur," she said at length, smiling daintily. "It is of lovely design."

"I thank you, Madame," he returned with the same courtly manner, nodding his head slightly. "Though mine is nothing to speak of when compared to the beauty of yourself."

Having been paid compliments such as this since her intellectual days in France, Marguerite surprised herself when she blushed, turning her eyes down from that satin red mask. Barely having to think to keep up with the three-step waltz, it was a fortunate thing as she timidly turned her gaze back up to study his features, as intrigued as she was by his voice to find out who the man was. His voice was the defining indicator that he was English, a rich and educated one by the looks of it, with the trained enunciation of an aristocrat. But beyond that he was an utter mystery. That scarlet red mask that covered all but his jaw did well to conceal his eyes, as well. Gazing up into their depths she could just barely make out their blue color, and yet even though they stared back at her they seemed to not see her. There was an intensity behind them, one she couldn't quite describe. But it wasn't an intensity that frightened her. Rather, it was delightfully mysterious, enticing. What little bit of the tied-back hair she could see beneath the plumed hat was some shade of light brown, evidently powered to taint whatever color it truly was. More than that, Marguerite noticed as she thought less and less about the party around her and more about the man she danced with, was his touch. His hands, though gloved and just barely holding their place about her waist and palm, seemed so familiar. They conformed to the curves of her hand and waist with an intimate knowledge that at first surprised then intrigued her. Who was this man? Why did he seem so familiar?

"I know you," she finally said, her voice a hushed whisper as though driven by the excitement of mystery. "Don't I? I can't help but feel as though I know you from somewhere."

At first the man only smiled. That smile...reckless and daring. No woman could ever forget a grin like that. Why couldn't she place it? "I am a friend of Sir Percy," he finally said, his voice still that same deep, rumbling tone that refused to change. "An esteemed friend. I have seen you on occasion, Madame, though have never had the pleasure of conversation until now."

"Then tell me, Monsieur. Surely you have a name?"

"Ah, and should I tell you, Madame, then what fun would there be in tonight when identities are meant to be concealed? I see you not dancing with Sir Andrew, or Sir Antony, whose faces you could tell at a glance."

Now intrigued beyond what seemed bearable, Marguerite returned the grin craftily, willing to play the little game. "Very well. How then, did you chance to know me?"

"Who cannot but recognize the renowned Marguerite Blakeney, whose name is known even in His Majesty's court?"

"Such flattery, Monsieur."

"Nay, Madame. Only the truth."

They were moving closer to the center of the floor now, not a step missed in the endless calculated waltz. The dance floor was becoming scarce as couples broke off to rest, conversation becoming a dull murmur all around, indistinguishable from one another to the hostess. But she was too caught up in her partner's mysteriousness to care.

"Then pray tell, sir, why steal the attention of a hostess all for yourself when she has other guests to attend to?" Marguerite chided.

"I did not think Madame would mind," was his initial answer, following shortly afterwards: "By the by, it has reached my ears that you were the one who wished to see my attentions."

Expression hidden by her mask, somehow even that didn't conceal Marguerite's surprise. "How so, Monsieur?"

"Do you not remember, Madame? As I recall, not two days ago it was your ladyship's wish to have an audience with the Scarlet Pimpernel."

Everything around her seemed to stop, though the constant swish of her skirt was a reminder she still danced, it was forgotten as she stared slack-jawed up into this man's face. It couldn't be...not here...not now...not him. It was very distant, a fuzzy memory through her shock and unhidden astonishment, yet she could recall, distantly, when she had muttered to her brother Armand and Sir Andrew that if Percy were indeed part of the Pimpernel's League, she would wish to speak with that scarlet rogue, demand to know what he was doing with her husband and what dangers he had delved into with his involvement. Her request had been honored, though she never would have expected it.

Marguerite hadn't noticed it before. It had become such a common thing as the Pimpernel's popularity grew, in fact, that she had entirely overlooked it. But now as her gaze fell to the elaborate sparkles of this man's coat, she saw, sewn and imprinted into the design, were a countless number of small red flowers, each one identical. Marguerite felt their dancing carry on with its own life as she withdrew the blue-gloved hand set on his shoulder to gently trace one of the small flowers, her hand then lying flat on his chest as though to sense the truth from the beat of his heart. She gazed back into his face, into that satin mask and those dark eyes beyond it.

"My God," she gasped. "You're him. You're really him...the Pimpernel...!"

Though anyone could have easily bellowed out in laughter at the tremble and wonder in her voice, there was no shift in the man's features, no change in his baritone voice. "I am, Madame." Her lips parted again in search of some kind of reply, trying to find those questions that she had been so ready to ask two days ago, but now her tongue was tied. There was no need for words. Their dance slowed to a stop, and resolutely, with those same, strangely familiar hands, the Scarlet Pimpernel took Marguerite's wrist to guide her gently through the sparse crowd of dancers and party guests, making for the large bay doors that opened up onto the stone veranda.

Marguerite allowed herself to be guided, seeming unable to even think until she felt the cooler air of night sweep around her as she stepped out of the ballroom. Her feet padding on the cobble stones, she continued heading out even after the man had released his hold, stopping only when she felt the cold stone and sat dumbly upon it, gazing back. The man clad in scarlet had his back to her now, working quickly and with an expert knowledge as he unhindered the propped-open doors from the ballroom and closed them gently, latching them securely to ensure their privacy. The light still spilled out from the ballroom onto the cold gray stone of the veranda, providing a hauntingly romantic light as his shoulders fell with a breath, then he turned back to gaze at her serenely. Marguerite had meanwhile removed her mask, letting it fall uselessly to the ground. The Pimpernel, however, kept his in place.

"I apologize for my silence," Marguerite ventured to say as the man slowly approached her, taking a graceful seat beside her on the stone wall, his profile facing out into the garden. "But I'm afraid you quite startled me," she stammered on, attention drawn by his stance. Percy used to sit like that. She used to watch him from her balcony: the way he would watch the lawn and garden so intensely when nothing was there. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen it...

"No apology is needed, Madame," his unchanging voice rumbled. "I couldn't imagine anyone else reacting otherwise."

"You can't stay here, Monsieur," she whispered harshly, leaning forward to gently touch the arm of his coat. It brought his gaze back to her. In the darker shadows of night his eyes were hidden entirely behind that mask. Like a phantom. She drew back hesitantly. "There is a French agent here by the name of Chauvelin. Monsieur, he has vowed to kill you. If he sees you here..."

"Do not worry, Madame," he insisted, drawing his own arm back a little. "I don't intend to stay long."

"But why are you here?"

"Your inquiries, Madame, towards your husband, I believe."

There was a falter in his voice as he said this, barely audible, yet in that rumbling baritone voice that was beginning to seem artificial in its monotonous tone he hesitated. Marguerite watched his face intently even as she remembered, analyzing his reaction to her words.

"My husband...Monsieur...I'm worried about him. He is part of your League, no?"

"Indeed, yes, Madame. He is one of my best men."

This brought a small smile to Marguerite's lips. She turned her face down, smiling at the fond and tender memories, wringing her hands in her lap as she slipped off her cerulean blue silk opera gloves. In the moonlight her hands were pale, ghostly, seeming very small and thin when her eyes made the small transition to the leather gloves of the Pimpernel's. They were folded in his lap as well, rough and leathery. She saw, twinkling like a small red star from the light indoors, a small golden and ruby-stoned ring set over one finger of his right hand glove. It looked exactly like the one Percy had worn so often. If he were part of the League, it seemed a small wonder. She sighed longingly, lowering her eyes back to her own hands.

"I am sure. But...I cannot help but worry. He is gone so often, for so long, and even when he is safe here he seems distant. I can only conclude his mind is back with you and your men, carrying out your heroic deeds in France. I know it would be selfish of me ask, even beg, you to keep him here where he would be out of danger...that would be worse than condemning to the lives you save. But, Monsieur, I ask only your word that you keep him safe and out of harm's way. If anything happens to him...I don't know what I would do." The very thought of Percy being wounded, at worse: killed, at all was a stab of sorrow to the poor woman, but the thought that he might be killed in France, so far away from her, or captured and thrown into prison in Paris whose streets were already soaked in blood was more than she could bear. The burn of tears returned quickly, and in a feeble attempt to save face in front of this hero she brought one glove up to wipe her eyes. "Please, Monsieur, don't let anything happen to my husband."

She heard the rustle of fabric as his hands moved, allowed him to bring her face up to meet his satin red mask as he lifted her chin. She felt her tears retreat, her sorrow diminishing at the sound of his deep, smooth, rumbling voice, her pain eased at the glimmer in his dark eyes. "I give you my word, Madame, upon all of my heart and soul, nothing will ever keep Sir Percy from returning to you. I'll guard his life like my own."

"Better," Marguerite mumbled in instinctive reaction, though immediately she bit back the comment and turned her chin away from his strong gloved hand. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I did not mean to imply... Your life is very important. If it weren't for you and your men many innocent people would have died." Smiling once again, small but noticeable upon her angelic features, Marguerite gazed out into the dark garden. If she hadn't known the Scarlet Pimpernel sat behind her now she could have sworn she was alone, his silence was so absolute. "You have no idea what your very name means to some people."

"I have heard what some people say about me, Madame. The opinions are varied."

"But why?" Marguerite gazed up wistfully at the stars, her voice as childlike as her features. "What makes you do such things as risking your life for strangers?"

"If I did not do it, Madame, who would?"

Marguerite sighed, unable to express her admiration otherwise. How could any one man be so brave? So selfless? So cunning and resourceful yet put those abilities to such a noble purpose? Perhaps not all men were brutes, as Marguerite had thought earlier that evening. Perhaps there was one brave soul among the curs of humanity who was decent, who cared. Yet who was he? Why should such an acclaimed hero wish to keep his identity a secret? Marguerite lowered her eyes, her face turned away from the silent man and thus able to visibly lighten in a sudden overwhelming curiosity. Who was this man? She wanted to know...she had to.

Marguerite turned back to the masked Pimpernel. His face was still turned out into the darkness of the garden, his mouth and jaw the only parts of his face visible seeming relaxed and yet stern with thought. Watching the muscles of his jaw move as he swallowed, she concluded that under that mask he must have been very handsome. "Who are you?" she suddenly rasped, very quiet and mysterious. She saw his entire form become rigid as though given a physical blow, his gloved hands clenching together as he swiveled in his seat, turning back to face the double glass doors and leaning forward onto his knees.

"That I cannot tell you, Madame. For your own safety and mine."

"But I must know..." She reached out, setting her hand gently on his shoulder. He jerked away from her immediately, rising swiftly to his feet to pace a few long strides towards the door, pausing in the center of the stone veranda. One hand remained stiff at his side while the other crossed over his front, out of Marguerite's view as he kept his back to her. His voice was hard, driving, with a strict force, but still did not change in its baritone rumble.

"I have come here as per your request, Madame," the Pimpernel rumbled. "I have promised to protect the husband you hold so dear. If there is nothing more, I shall leave. As you have said, there is a man here who--"

"No!" Marguerite stood up hastily, taking a few padded, tentative steps towards the man's turned back. "No, I did not mean to offend you, Monsieur. I apologize." The man said nothing, did not even move, as Marguerite approached, again gently setting a hand upon his broad shoulder. She could feel him tense beneath the thick cloth of his scarlet coat, but he did not pull away. "I know I do not have the right, Monsieur, but I cannot help but worry about you, as well. I do not know you, this is even the first time I've met such a hero, and yet I cannot help but feel as though I know you. It's silly, I daresay..."

"No," the man shook his head, lowering his face to the ground. "Never doubt your feelings, Madame. Ever moreso the strong ones."

"Then I worry about you. Every time Percy leaves, I fret for him dearly, yet I worry for you, as well. A man as brave as you should not meet a cold end in the Paris streets."

"I thank you for your concern, Madame. Do not worry your pretty little self over me."

Even as she spilled out her confession, Marguerite studied the scarlet red mask concealing the man's face. Clasped into his tied-back hair much in the same way as hers, it was of typical masquerade style, pathetically simple compared to some of the spectacles inside. What lay under that mask? The burning curiosity returned to Marguerite, like a disease eating away at her.

There was no more patience in her. She had to know!

In a flash of blue Marguerite flung her hand out, her lithe fingers catching the edge of that satin red mask and yanking back with a demanding force. With a small cry of surprise at the sudden attack, the Scarlet Pimpernel whirled away as the mask tore from its hold, clattering to the ground a fair distance away. The man ducked away, hunching over with his face turned down, covered by one arm and glove, turning his plumed hat down for extra protection. He looked as though he were a man horribly disfigured just thrust into sunlight, forced to expose his horridness. Marguerite stood frozen, hearing the clatter of the mask fall away, and was unable to move.

She regretted the bold move a fraction of a moment after she had committed it. Hearing his surprised cry, seeing him whirl away as though flung with acid, sent Marguerite whirling back to her initial stabs of endless guilt. She felt suddenly as though she had wronged him in some indescribable way. This mysterious stranger had come here to honor her request to see him. He had come here trusting her to be content not knowing his identity, and like a foolish child she had torn through that trust and tried to expose him. Her face fell in the sudden wave of shame, her hands clasping as though suddenly very cold.

"You lack much conviction in your claims, Madame," the man's voice snapped, still deep, still rumbling, but now pitched in anger. "I should leave now."

Marguerite said nothing. What could she say? Moving very slowly, fearful as though any further action on her part would frighten him away, the woman bent to gently pick up the scarlet red mask in her small hands. She traced her fingers over the satin material, over the ridges of the brow and cheeks, and timidly approached the Pimpernel again to extend the mask to him from behind. He straightened, seeming surprised, and doing likewise he said nothing and took the mask to adorn it once again. With the concealing material back in place, the tension in the air seemed to relax. He even turned back to her. He seemed no longer angry.

"Goodnight, Madame," he rumbled, bowing in a courtly manner to her, and before giving the woman a chance to answer the Scarlet Pimpernel turned and walked into the darkness of the night. He vanished. Marguerite listened, looked, but even after a moment it seemed as though the elusive Pimpernel had never been there.

*Author's note = I like the name Paul better than Armand for Chauvelin. Forgive the change.