Moving On

He couldn't believe she was gone. It had been only yesterday Armand had been sitting with her, laughing in the warm summer afternoon over an outdoors lunch. Only yesterday Armand had reached out and touched her soft skin and told her how much he loved her, how happy he was for his sister and her husband. Only yesterday he had promised Marguerite he would stay at the rich Blakeney Manor until Percy returned from latest excursion in France. Only yesterday...or seemed like it. In truth it had been nearly a week now. A week since the child of Percival and Marguerite Blakeney had arrived ahead of what was expected. A week since Armand had held his sister's clenching hand as she gave birth. A week since that fateful night when she died.

It was the longest week of Armand's life. He hadn't wanted to believe it at first, that those breathless words would be her last, that her eyes closed upon looking at her daughter. Armand hadn't wanted to believe that his sister, famed French actress and his forever guiding light, had died result of the childbirth that had gone wrong. He hadn't wanted to believe the child would live and Marguerite would not. That first night had been a constant denial, Armand telling himself it was not true. It was a horrible nightmare that he would wake from to find Marguerite happy and well, watching over him as he slept. But no...it was cold reality. The second night had been the worst. Realizing she was gone, Armand could only find the solitude of his room and weep. Shed his tears for Marguerite when it finally took hold of his mind that he would never hear her laugh again, never see her smile, never feel her presence. He wept because he didn't know what else to do. Percy was gone, not due to return for at least another day, and this was what could only greet him. His wife was gone. His child was motherless. Armand could only weep.

Even now as he stood here the young Frenchman remained in mourning. Dressed in the blackest attire he possessed, Armand's hands were folded in front of him as he stared blankly down at the block of stone, reading it over and over without cease, and without realization. Carved into the stone was her name in beautiful flowing letters, beneath it the dates of her birth and death. Bordering the flat surface were the trailing designs of small flowers: marguerites, and at the bottom an inscription chosen by Armand himself. Probably the one intelligent thing he had ever done for her. Marguerite Blakeney...1767-1793...She loved and was loved.

She was only twenty-six. She and Percy had been married just barely two years.

Armand sniffed, though it was not from tears. No, his tears had all been spent by this time. He had nothing left to cry from; simply this dead sorrow that weighed upon his heart. Even the weather hanging over the English countryside that day seemed in mourning: its gray overcast clouds allowing no sunlight to touch the ground that day, the air moist and heavy with an impending rain. There was no wind to stir movement into the trees and grasses, nor the men and women who stood in silent gathering around Marguerite's grave. No birds sang. No insects chirped. It was silent. The entire countryside knew of Marguerite's passing and mourned with those she knew and loved, for everyone loved her. None so much as Percy.

It was Percy who still suffered the greatest of all from this tragedy, Armand knew. Never in his life would the young man forget that expression on his brother-in-law's face when the news was finally broken to him. As though he died himself... He had come riding back as joyful as could be from France upon a single horse, alone. He had promised Marguerite this would be his last outing until the child arrived, and for a time there after. He had no way of knowing the child would come too soon. Armand remembered Percy climbing off his horse, parading into the house and calling his wife's name in rapture. Armand had approached with the servants, their silence and radiating sorrow an obvious aura as a shadow fell over Percy's face as well. He asked Armand, specifically, where his wife was. And Armand had to tell him...in those few short words Percy had been crushed. He would not believe it, either.

He had stormed past them and into Marguerite's room, throwing the doors open wide in a fury. But what he saw, rather than his wife resting peacefully in bed, was Marguerite's personal maid nursing the newly born infant. That was when Percy had died as well, in all senses and meanings of the word. Percy would not see her body. He would not come to her funeral. He would not even name the child before the maid took it away to care for as long as Percy deemed necessary, to which he gave no amount of time. He would not speak to Armand nor anyone else. He made straight for his bedroom, closing the doors behind him with an aching, painful slowness, and did not emerge again until late the next day. Armand had only watched it all, because there was nothing else he could do. He helped make the proper arrangements with Dewhurst, Andrew, and the others to have Marguerite buried on the manor's land.

It was a place Marguerite had often described to her brother. A small field, clear of trees and yet not used for cultivation, the field grew with wild grasses and flowers. At the far end, furthest from the mansion, was an enormous grove of dogwood trees. Marguerite had told him how much she had enjoyed lying there, letting the velvety petals drift down onto her face in the warm spring afternoons. Now she could lie there in peace forever, covered in the soft petals every spring. That was where Armand stood now, gazing down on this dreary day of mourning. It seemed only right.

Percy himself did not stay in solitude for long. He emerged and moved about the house, wandering from room to room as though in a daze, or other times standing in one single room for hours at a time to stare out a window, or at a portrait, or simply sit in a chair and stare into space. He ate regularly, if mechanical, food and wine alike going unsavored. He spoke, yet there was no feeling, and then it was brief. Armand could not begin to understand what agony Percy must have been put through the last week though the story could be read in his eyes. Once so full of life and merriment they were now empty and lost, having died along with the rest of them upon hearing of Marguerite. His fancy outfits were exchanged for black, his voice for silence, his child for solitude. All Armand could do was watch.

Finally he moved, his body jerking irregularly for having been still so long. Unheeding of any pain in his joints, his insides, Armand leaned down, placing a single flower upon the cold stone. A scarlet-red rose: a spot of color among the dull lifelessness, just as Marguerite had been. He remained kneeling there for a moment, drawing shuddering breaths, before he found the strength to speak. He could not hear himself, his voice was so quiet, rasping, dry, before he stood again and turned back to the house.

"Goodbye, Margot."

When Armand reached the house again it remained the same: still and quiet despite the crowd of people who had gathered in the main hall. Any rising conversation was quiet and checked, any movement restricted as a veil of sorrow hung over them all, binding together casual acquaintances into the closest of supports for this time of need. No one acknowledged Armand's presence as he stepped inside, removing his heavy black overcoat to lay over a chair. He wanted it that way. Without recognition he could move freely along the edge of the crowd, towards the stairs and climb them up to the second floor. The air was unbearably heavy as he climbed, throbbing with the erratic beat of broken hearts. When he paused and gazed back down the length of the stairs he could see them all: black forms on a golden dance floor that were still and quiet as statues upon a winter day. Among them Armand could see Percy's devoted League Members, those who had known Marguerite once Percy's secret was out, and the Prince, and among a scattered select others various ranges of rich widows or their young daughters. Armand would have not been so disgusted if Chauvelin himself had shown his face here. Marguerite barely settled into her final resting place and already the women of high English society viewed Percy as an available target. Had they no sympathy? No one would ever take Marguerite's place, Armand knew, and the notion of Percy being remarried--ever--seemed unlikely. He had loved Marguerite so much...there was hardly a man left for any woman to pursue now. There was the image of Percy, a shell, with a rich name and title. That was all.

Turning away from such vile thoughts Armand climbed on to the second floor and headed towards Percy's room, his footsteps long and echoing down the empty hallway with a grin tone. As though the mood was not dire enough, Percy had once again shut himself away for this day. He wanted to see no one, Armand included. He didn't want people to tell him how sorry they were for his loss, to which Armand could understand. Still he went on, reaching the door and tentatively opening it to slip inside with barely a sound. "Percy?"

Armand saw him as he slid inside: standing as he had for the past entire week. Clad in a simple outfit of black, the Scarlet Pimpernel stared out his bedroom window into a blank gray sky, sipping a glass of wine as though it were tasteless water. Armand closed the door behind him when Percy did not answer, approaching slowly, carefully, until he stood at Percy's side, dwarfed in height, and gazed out the same window. From this angle he could see the field where Marguerite lay, the white dogwood trees hovering over her like guardians. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Armand wanted so desperately to talk to the man he idolized above all things, wanted to know what Percy was feeling and what he could do to help. But where could he start? What he said, that one simple phrase, was one that had been anchored down in his mind after so long. A phrase that symbolized his blind devotion and loyalty to Percy, his absolute trust, in times such as this when Armand knew not what to do.

"Tell me what to do, Percy."

It was a moment before Percy would answer, taking a sip of his wine, swallowing with difficulty. "Respect my wishes and leave me."

"No. I have already lost my sister. I will not lose you as well."

With a sigh-not of irritation at Armand's defiance, but rather a sort of disappointment-Percy turned away from the window, crossing to his bedside to sit upon it and lean his arms onto his knees, wine glass discarded as he stared at the floor. Armand moved only once to follow him, his expression of sorrow searching into Percy's for the same feelings there. Perhaps it would help... "I know I've known you for less time than your other friends," he said meekly, sniffing again. "But I'm here for you, Percy. I want to help, even though I know this will be difficult to get through." He moved forward, his own hope and concern for Percy driving on his eagerness to rouse the Englishman back to his normal self. He couldn't bear to see Percy waste away like this, as he undoubtedly knew would happen. Percy at best was stubborn, for when he set his mind to do something, he followed through to the end.

"This isn't the end," Armand went on to say, having convinced himself of such things through his own thought process some nights ago. "Percy...life will go on. You have plenty to live for even now...the League?"

"The League is dead, Armand," Percy said suddenly, turning his face down so that even when he knelt at Percy's feet Armand could not see his eyes. "The Scarlet Pimpernel is a lost hero, a work of fiction and imagination...or didn't you know that?"

"What about your daughter?" Armand reached for Percy's hand.

At the slightest contact Percy jerked back, rising up but refusing to look Armand's way. "I have no daughter."

For a moment Armand watched Percy's face very carefully, the changes in his expression. Having never been as bright or witty as his renowned intellectual sister, the younger St. Just sibling nevertheless contained a remarkable talent for reading people in the worst of times. Gazing now at Percy's face, Armand could not believe what he saw. Among the sorrow, among the grief and despair, there was hate. Hatred for himself, perhaps, and a loathing for something else. It took a moment for Armand to grasp, but once realization flooded his mind the younger Frenchman reeled back to his feet, stepping away from Percy in absolute shock. Percy blamed the child for this. He blamed his own daughter for killing the woman he loved. Shaking his head in indescribable disgust, Armand couldn't express himself otherwise. "No, Percy. Your daughter has no father."

It was a devastating blow, and showed when Percy visibly flinched. The Englishman, so sturdy and strong in times before and now reduced to a mere boy, clenched his eyes shut briefly as well as his hands: a strenuous effort to contain his feelings, his emotions, deep inside him so they would not show. Even then his voice shook and trembled. "Please, Armand, I'm begging you...leave me alone for now."

"I won't," Armand said again, feeling much more certain of himself than he sounded. "You can't keep everything inside of you. It will be your destruction. You are not the only one who lost a person they loved. I share many of your feelings..."

"How could you possibly know what I'm feeling?"

Armand drew a slow breath and knelt beside Percy again, folding his hands over Percy's knee without resistance. "I loved Marguerite too, Percy. She was my sister, and it is speaking as the one who has accompanied her all his life I can tell you this: Marguerite would not approve of what you are doing now. She taught us all to embrace life, to live for the day and live it happily no matter what. I may not be very intelligent, Percy, but I know what I see. She wouldn't want you wasting away like this for her sake." He watched Percy's face as he spoke, the relaxing effect it seemed to have. "Do you know what her last words were?" When Percy opened his eyes, but did not answer, Armand bit his tongue to keep his voice from trembling, doing a poor job of it. "She saw your daughter, and she smiled. Then she said she didn't want you to be sad. Not forever. She knew you would do this, Percy, and she doesn't want you to. Not forever..."

Something remarkable happened then. Percival Blakeney, the courageous hero whom had devoted his life to the rescue of others, could stand it no longer and fell forward against Armand, gripping his brother-in-law's shoulders tight and burying his face into the black material of his vest. "I should have been there..." He was met without restraint as he broke down into a sorrowful release, pouring out his soul as the tears came quickly and the youth's arms circled back around his trembling shoulders. "I miss her so much, Armand..."