Confrontation

Percival Blakeney was planning what he was going to say even before he'd left the house; before he'd started the long, slow walk across the manor grounds towards the dogwood grove that covered the vast acres before giving way to the blue of a quiet stream; before he would ever set eyes upon her and when he knew he would lose his nerve. But how did one say something like that, exactly? When one's heart and mind were in such conflict with not only each other but themselves, what was one supposed to do, let alone say? So many things had happened since that last spring. So many things... Percy himself didn't know how he had gotten through it all, let alone come out as he had. There was the guilt, most of all. Then the sorrow. The anguish. The despair. The monotonous uncaring. But somehow he'd prevailed. Only now he faced a new challenge, much more dreadful and risky than any feat ever taken on by the League. He would have to tell Marguerite.

It didn't help his situation that by the time he reached the dogwood grove he had not thought up the slightest idea of how to begin. Even if he had, it could have very well been forgotten by the sight of her. Marguerite, the wife he so loved, was indeed where he could always find her: resting beneath her dogwood tree, gazing out to the rolling English countryside that was so beautiful in the springtime. Soft white petals filtered down onto her still form, hardly inciting a flinch to disrupt that delicate beauty immortalized forever upon her features, beauty Percy had seen nowhere else. The sight of her never ceased to steal his breath. A smile, small and serene, came to his features without his realization or care. He came up behind her to lean against the tree, following her gaze out into the distance. Around the two of them the air was still and calm, only a slight rustle of the dogwood blossoms and the chirp of birds providing a lulling tune for their usual intimate afternoon talk. As was usual with these meetings, Percy began.

"Lovely to see you, my dear," he said with utmost warmth and tenderness. "I'm sure of it now. The years show their wear upon myself but only make you ever more radiant." He moved around the tree to sit beside her, always finding a comfort in their closeness. Once settling himself down, he drew a nervous breath, folding his hands over one knee. Again, words eluded him. "Lovely day, isn't it, my dear? I had so feared it was going to rain. I suppose Ozzy's shoulder pains acting up isn't such a reliable indicator at all."

He laughed, of course, but she did not laugh with him. Naturally, she wouldn't. She could see right through his efforts to stall and knew undoubtedly that something unbearably heavy was weighing upon his mind. He could feel it in the way she stared at him, stone faced, not having to say a word to let her thoughts be known. "Alright," he confessed, lowering his gaze in shame. "Alright...there is something I wanted to discuss with you. Something very important. Marguerite, my love...I don't know how to say it. Yet I know I can tell you anything. Sink me, I've told you so many things before." He felt like a foolish child sitting there, stuttering along with his own wife whom he knew shared no more secrets with him. They had been through so much together. Why should he fear her so much now? Percy didn't want her to hate him, that was all. He feared her wrath, that she would be angry. He could only hope she was as understanding now as he'd always found her to be. The woman he loved...always had...always would...

"Marguerite, I'm in love."

Once the words were out Percy didn't want to stop. He knew she would object, interrupt, demand to know what the meaning of such a thing was. But how could he explain it to her? How does one explain raw emotion? So Percy went on quickly, not wanting to stop, not looking up to see her eyes which he knew were already aimed right at him.

"Her name is Fairlith. Marguerite, I promise you, I did not intend for it to happen. I would never hurt you, you must know that. I would rather die myself than bring harm to you, my love. But I couldn't help it. It happened...she's a remarkable woman, Marguerite. I find myself thinking that I couldn't possibly survive without her. I don't know why it happened. I don't question it. All I want to know is...perhaps...that you approve." A sudden wave of fright overtaking him, Percy leaned down, reaching out for her though he expected nothing less than a slap. "Please, Margot, understand. I will never, upon my life, love anyone as I love you. You see I still do. To me you are more than life itself: my one reason for living. I see our daughter now growing up before us as beautiful as could be. I want her to be happy...I want you to be happy... Which is why I've come for permission. Oh God, Marguerite, I feel as though I can't do anything now that might displease you. Armand and Adelie are still in Paris...I'm still awaiting their most recent news. But here I am asking you. Thy will be done, Marguerite, whatever your decision I will follow through with. I love Fairlith. Differently than I love you, much differently, but it is love nonetheless. But I can't move forward with anything until I know your thoughts. Please, tell me..."

But Marguerite was silent for a long while. A deathly, stony silence that stabbed at Percy's mind and heart without mercy. He could feel the tears of sorrow already welling up inside him. She didn't have to say anything. Of course Marguerite wouldn't approve. She was his wife, after all, and would allow no other room for women in his sight even when he had desired it. Let alone would she allow for another marriage. As Percy felt himself crumbling under the weight of his own thoughts which he was sure paralleled hers he turned away to face back towards the house: the open ground not covered by tree or shrub until the manor itself was reached. Perhaps he would go to the stream now, hurl himself in and end all this torture of his mind and emotions. He didn't blame Marguerite for any of it, not at all, but himself. It was his own troublesome emotions that had ventured him to feel for Fairlith as he did now. On the verge of doing that very thing, or simply storming back to the house to lock himself in solitude once more, Percy remembered something.

Mary. Mary had been there last night. Genevieve had been trying on her mother's dresses, bless the little girl, she barely fit into any of them. Mary who had wounded his heart in such a way that he felt resolved never to love...until he met Marguerite. Yes, she had been there last night while Genevieve admired her angelic self in front of a mirror, Percy gazing on with much applause and smiles, Fairlith likewise only a chair away from him. Mary had asked him what Percy planned to do with Marguerite's dresses. Genevieve obviously couldn't wear them for many years, and it would be a shame to let such gorgeous materials go to waste. As furious as Percy had felt when Mary proposed she take some of the clothing for herself, he had kept his gentleman's demeanor in front of his child. He had been determined to let the matter go, or at least until Genevieve had gone off to bed, before giving Mary a rightful telling off. But it had been Fairlith who stood up, in her own gentle voice expressing what Percy could not in such tones. It had astounded him to see that Fairlith understood...even after she had declared her love for him and had it returned, she understood that a great deal of Percy's heart still belonged to Marguerite. It would never be any other way. That in mind, Percy turned back around to his wife.

"Marguerite?"

She said nothing, but he went on, his voice low and soft.

"I can't deny how shameful I feel to ask this of you after all you have been through. It has indeed been a long time, my dear. So long. We have all had quite the ordeal. You are not speaking to me, I know, but please understand just one thing." He reached out to touch her face, like flower petals itself. "No one will ever take your place. Just knowing you, Marguerite, seeing you upon that stage, was an experience that altered my life. You never had to love me in return, but eternal thanks to God for that blessing. The things you taught me, love, and showed me are priceless. You showed me how to love, and I tried to return it as best I could. I only hope I did you justice. But now..." Percy never finished. A simple gust of wind against his cheek as soft as Marguerite's caress, the whisper of dogwood petals as gentle as her voice, the swaying of grass like her silken hair in the breeze, and the Englishman felt an eternal weight lifted from his heart. Like her kiss when he was troubled, her warm embrace on cold winter nights, such a feeling swept through him that couldn't be down in words except as love itself. A feeling of love, devotion, of utter understanding and forgiveness.

"You approve," he gasped without having breath to draw it from. Marguerite hadn't the need to say a word. These feelings, these expressions from her crystal eyes, said more than her musical voice could have ever accomplished. She approved of his feelings. She understood. She wanted him to be happy, just as he wanted for her, and they both wanted for their daughter. "Oh, Marguerite..." Unable to contain such overwhelming bliss, Percy leaned down, his eyes closed, to touch his lips to hers in utter thankfulness. He could have lain there with her forever to hear her laugh, feel her close warmth, revel in their happiness. But that was all gone now. Now he had to be moving on. Yet his feelings for her would never change.

Drawing back, Percy gazed down at the ground; at Marguerite's final resting place. The smooth, polished stone that marked her grave beneath the dogwood tree, where she'd always loved to sit, was covered in a light sprinkle of white petals. Wiping them away with one hand Percy gazed down lovingly at the memorial for his wife, having never loved her more than he did now. He whispered her name and leaned down once again, kissing her memory, resting his cheek against her smooth image, the sweet scent of dogwood petals filtered through his senses. Her perfume. Everlasting. Like their love. "I shall never forget you," he vowed, unable to remember ever being so certain. "I love you always, my dear." He left Marguerite's grave that day as peaceful as when he'd found it: a serene and quiet place in the dogwood grove, his wife having found a happier place where Percy would be along to join her soon enough. But for now, he turned back towards the house where Fairlith, Genevieve, and a new life awaited him.

The End?