by Simon Hawke
“Ah, well,” said Marguerite, sitting on her bed and gazing down upon the floor, “I fear that I was such a passing fancy.”
“Oh, surely not,” said Andre. “Anyone can see that Sir Percy’s most devoted to you and that—”
“As you said yourself, Andre,” said Marguerite, glancing up at her and smiling a bit sadly, “Percy seems most concerned about appearances. Oh, it’s true, he was always so, a scrupulous follower of fashion, always attempting to decry affectation while he himself was so vulnerable to whatever was in style, always striving to be the bon vivant and the witty conversationalist when his attempts at repartee were so pathetic and amusing. You should have seen him at my salon in Paris with the likes of Beaumarchais and Saint-Pierre, valiantly trying to hold his own and floundering in water leagues over his head! None of my friends could understand what I saw in such a fool, but he seemed to worship me with a curious intensity of concentrated passion which went straight to my heart. He waited on me hand and foot and followed me about like an adoring puppy. But all that is over now. I suppose that I was just another of his whims, a passing fancy, a victim of his changeability. He wanted a pretty, clever wife, someone he could show off to his friends and, having attained his goal, now he has lost interest in all save those appearances of which we speak. I am like that chicken. He has grown bored of the taste and all that I can do is wait and hope that one day he will crave it once again. He seems so different now in so many little ways….” Her voice trailed off as she stared out the window at the setting sun.
“Sir Percy is a very busy man,” said Andre, feebly. “If it appears that he has little time for you these days—”
“He has no time for me these days,” said Marguerite. “You are right to defend him, Andre, it is loyal and admirable of you, but the truth is that Percy no longer loves me. How else can I explain the distance which has grown between us, a distance even greater than that which separates his bed from mine? I can think of nothing I have done to deserve such treatment except, perhaps….”
“Except?” said Andre in an attempt to prompt her, knowing that she was on the verge of bringing up St. Cyr.
Marguerite shook her head. “I’m tired, Andre, and I weary you with my self-pity. Go now and let me sleep. I must be at my best tomorrow so that I may charm the Prince of Wales and make my husband the envy of his peers for having such a wife. Be off to bed, now. It will be a busy day for all of us tomorrow.”
Andre said good night to her and left the room. She did not completely close the door, but left it open just a crack to listen for a moment. She heard what she expected, the soft sounds of Marguerite Blakeney weeping.
Chapter 5
The Blakeney estate looked like a scene from an historical romance. All day, starting shortly after ten in the morning, guests had been arriving for the festivities. Most came in three main shifts. The earliest arrivals came for the shoot, attired in their finest sporting clothes and bringing with them their guns and servants, as well as a full change of clothing for the evening. Others came in time for high tea in the afternoon, following the shoot. The greatest number came for dinner, which was served promptly at seven.
The grooms were kept busy by the constant stream of coaches and carriages as the cream of London society arrived with their liveried footmen. A parade of richly enameled coaches with gilt trim and coats of arms kept the stablemaster and his charges working throughout the day to see to the comfort and feeding of the horses.
By midafternoon, the grounds of the estate were full of strolling couples, women in silk dresses and velvet robes, their hair elaborately arranged and topped with stylish hats with plumes, which they wore at rakish angles; men in suits of velvet and brocade and silk, richly embroidered and trimmed with lace and gold. Jewelry flashed in the sun, adorning throats and bosoms; in some secluded wooded spots, a few daring couples sported with no clothes at all, the women biting down on hand-kerchiefs to avoid crying out and drawing attention to their scandalous behavior. A large group stood on the upper terrace, looking down into the maze and laughing and shouting encouragement to those attempting to puzzle out the pathways through the hedges and those few who knew the secret of the urns kept it to themselves, enjoying the befuddlement of their unenlightened friends.
Lord Grenville was in attendance, as was William Pitt.
Edmund Burke was one of the late arrivals, coming in time for dinner. His rival in Parliament, Charles James Fox, followed closely on his heels. The Prince of Wales was one of the earlier arrivals and, though he shot poorly that day, he enjoyed himself immensely, taking a liking to the fashionable Sir Percy Blakeney from the start. Sheridan, the playwright and politician, arrived shortly after teatime and began to drink at once. A number of the gentlemen started to take bets to see how long he would remain standing.
The Blakeney staff left nothing to be desired as they worked tirelessly all day. The cooks outdid themselves with basted chicken, roast pheasant, steak and kidney pies, boiled vegetables, small sandwiches, scones, biscuits and plum puddings, fruits and tarts, and gallons upon gallons of wine and stout. There was an orchestra of strings to accompany the dancing after dinner and those much too full for such activity retired to the sitting rooms, where the women and the men congregated separately on either side of the ballroom in their respective parlors, the women chatting, sipping cordials, and playing card games while the men enjoyed their pipes and port.
Beneath a haze of smoke, they puffed on their long clay churchwardens and short clay pocket pipes filled with shag and Latakia. Several of the wealthier guests proudly showed off their meerschaums, which were in great demand, but could only be procured by those rich enough to hire skilled carvers to create them. Intricately carved from deposits of hydrous silicate of magnesia, a mineral substance formed by nature from the remains of prehistoric sea creatures, these exquisite pipes were treasured by their owners, who were fond of comparing their abilities to season them. Several of the gentlemen actually had their servants instructed in the proper art of smoking them, so that the pipes could be smoked constantly throughout the day until, after some two hundred bowlfuls or more, they had colored from an alabaster white to a light rosy pink, to a golden yellow and finally to a rich, dark brown. These pipes were as ostentatious as Sir Percy’s guests and they represented the wealth, stature, and fancies of the men who smoked them. Some were artfully carved into the shapes of stags being attacked by wolves, others bore the aspect of hunters and their dogs, nude women and the heads of 17th-century noblemen. Everywhere there was evidence of pampered luxury and rich indulgence and, in such surroundings, it was hard to believe that just across the Channel, there were people starving in the streets of Paris.
Marguerite Blakeney was the instant center of attention, attired elegantly, yet simply in a dress of ivory-colored silk, which set off her auburn hair and fair complexion to their best advantage. Her easy manner, her sweet, musical voice, and her delightful, carefree laugh immediately captivated all the men, and her graceful charm and open friendliness held off the envy of the women who had not been so richly blessed by nature. Everyone admired Sir Percy Blakeney’s clever, witty wife and although they found Sir Percy to be a charming, outrageously stylish, and generally decent fellow, they wondered at the pairing of this bright, elegant French actress and the vague, inane, and dull-witted peacock who was all plumage and no substance. The women smiled knowing smiles and said that Marguerite had married Blakeney for his money, though not one of them faulted her for making a good match. The men, especially the younger ones, paid careful attention to the exaggerated, incroyable fashion of his Parisian suit, his droll, insouciant manner, and his fatuous laugh. In Blakeney, they saw a proper model to emulate: a man of studied elegance, good grace, and vapid wit; someone socially companionable, yet non-threatening; rich, yet unambitious; gregarious, yet unprepossessing; politic, yet apolitical. In short, a man perfectly suited to climb to the highest rung of the social ladder and remain there, comfortably perched.
The highlight of the evening, however, occurred when Andrew Ffoulkes arrived, along with Tony Dewhurst, just as dessert was being served, the timing of their arrival having been agreed upon between the three of them and prearranged. They brought with them, of course, the distinguished Duc de Chalis.
There had been, since the beginning of the French Revolution, a steady stream of French emigrés arriving on the shores of England. It began, for the most part, in 1790, in the month of February, when the National Assembly introduced a new military constitution allowing for conscription and abolishing the purchase of commissions. When, in 1791, the Legislative Assembly replaced the oath of allegiance to the king with a new military oath, the aim being to prevent an army of Royalists that would be in opposition to the Revolution, military officers, most of them noblemen, left France in droves. They were soon followed by civilian aristocrats, who saw the writing on the wall; it thereafter became quite commonplace to hear the king’s English being mutilated in drawing rooms throughout all of London and its environs. However, in recent months, when the blood of the ci-devant oppressors was needed to fuel revolutionary fervor, the steady stream had become an almost nonexistent trickle and, as a result, the sudden appearance of the Duc de Chalis was an occasion for surprise and speculation.
A murmuring went through the crowd when de Chalis was announced. With all seated at the dining tables, Ffoulkes, Dewhurst and de Chalis at once became the focus of everyone’s attention. Surprising as the French aristocrat’s arrival was, even more surprising was his announcement that he had only narrowly escaped the guillotine, having received the death sentence from the Committee of Public Safety, and that he and his sons would have been headless corpses had they not been rescued by a daring Englishman.
“Who was this splendid fellow to whose courage we owe the pleasure of your company, good sir?” the Prince of Wales asked.
“I regret to say,” said the elderly de Chalis, in perfect although accented English, “that I cannot tell you his name, Your Highness.”
“What?” said the prince. “But see here, my dear fellow, we must know the name of this brave chap, so that we may single him out for the accolades which are justly his. This is no time for modesty. England needs her heroes. Tell the fellow to come forth!”
“I am afraid that I have been misunderstood, Your Highness,” said the duke. “I did not mean that I will not tell you his name, but that I cannot tell you his name. It is unknown to me. What is more, I can no more describe him to you and this fine assemblage than I can tell you his name. I have learned that I have never seen his true face.”
At this remark, another wave of murmuring swept through the crowd, but it was brought to a quick halt by the Prince of Wales rapping his hand upon the table for silence.
“But how is this possible, Monsieur le Duc? How can this man have rescued you from certain death and you have never seen his face?”
“I have never seen his true face, Your Highness,” replied de Chalis. “This Englishman is a consummate actor and a master of disguise. I know him only by a curious appellation imparted to me by certain individuals who are in league with him. This man prefers to do his work in secret and it seems that he has set himself the task of saving as many innocent lives from the guillotine as possible. Would that I knew his name and face so I could thank him, for I owe him everything, but all I know of this gallant gentleman is that he calls himself ‘the Scarlet Pimpernel.’ ”
“Say what?” slurred Sheridan, leaning forward drunkenly and fixing his bleary eyes upon the duke. “The Scarlet Pimple, did you say?”
“Oh, hush, Richard!” said his dinner partner, an aspiring actress well out of her depth in this society, whose knees had been tightly clamped together throughout all of dinner in order to frustrate Sheridan’s groping fingers. She gave him a shove with her elbow, not very hard, but hard enough, considering his state, to topple him from his chair and send him to the floor, where he remained.
A gentleman seated across from him turned to face a friend of his across the table and, indicating the seat vacated by the dramatist, quickly said, “That’s five pounds you owe me.”
“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” said Dewhurst, at the same time motioning the servants to prepare a place for the old Frenchman at the table. “A small, star-shaped red flower, I believe.”
“How very fascinating!” said Lord Grenville. “I say, Dewhurst, can you shed any light upon this situation?”
“Only a little, I’m afraid, milord. For the most part, I am as much in the dark about this singular gentleman as are the rest of you. As some of you may know, Percy and I are old acquaintances, having met abroad and spent much pleasurable time together on numerous occasions. Percy was the proud owner of an absolutely splendid yacht, a beauty of a schooner called the Day Dream. We had sojourned in the Bay of Biscay aboard that lovely craft and I had determined that I had to have her.”
“The Pimpernel, Dewhurst!” said the Prince of Wales. “What of this Scarlet Pimpernel?”
“I’m getting to that, Your Highness,” Dewhurst said, beginning to saunter round the table slowly, enjoying his role immensely. He came to the spot where Sheridan had fallen, stepped over him and paused a moment, then picked up the playwright’s glass, which was still three-quarters full. “Faith and I believe ole Richard’s finished with this glass. Well, waste not, want not.” He took a sip, then glanced down at the floor. “I say, Burke, I’ve heard that Sheridan could really hold the floor in Parliament and now I see that he’s adept at holding the floor here, as well.”
This sally was greeted with uproarious laughter and Edmund Burke, especially, laughed heartily, pounding on the table and shouting, “Well said, well said!”
“Tony, stop with this nonsense and get on with it!” said William Pitt. “What does Percy’s boat have to do with this mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel?”
“A great deal, Bill, a very great deal,” said Dewhurst, “and I might add that it is my boat, now.”
“What?” said Marguerite. “Percy, you sold the Day Dream to Tony Dewhurst?”
“Odd’s life, m’dear,” said Finn, “what do I need with such a boat in London? Sail her upon the Thames? Better employ a racing horse to pull a plough, I say.”
“Yes, well, Percy sold the Day Dream to me,” Dewhurst went on, “and I might add that he was very generous, doubtless anxious to stop my constant pestering of him on that account. Well, gentlemen and ladies, much as I am loath to admit it, I am not much of a sailor, I’m afraid. In fact, I’m not a sailor at all, being quite content to leave such matters in the very capable hands of the Day Dream’s Captain Briggs, who had agreed, with Percy’s urging, to stay on with his entire crew. However, I suddenly found myself in the situation of a child whose eyes were bigger than his mouth, for when I sat down with Briggs and became acquainted with the amount needed for the upkeep of the Day Dream, I was somewhat taken aback. I mean, what do I know of such things as hauling, painting, scraping, caulking, and so on? Though I am not known for being frugal, I could see that I had acquired a most expensive toy. Therefore, when Briggs informed me that he had been approached by an agent acting for some gentleman with regard to hiring the Day Dream for the purpose of bringing some goods over from France, I was quite agreeable. After all, a toy that pays for its own upkeep is considerably more attractive than one which slowly bleeds its owner dry.” He chuckled. “As Ffoulkes here, an experienced sailor, told me, a boat is nothing more than a hole in the water into which money is poured.”
There was some laughter at this, but clearly, the audience was growing impatient to hear about this Scarlet Pimpernel.
“And so I agreed to hire out the Day Dream, so long as I was not using her,” said Dewhurst. “Well, imagine my surprise when I discovered that the goods brought over from France were the Duc de Chalis and his family! Briggs passed on a note to me, signed with this star-shaped flower, begging me, as a man of some position, to use my influence to help the Duc de Chalis and his sons begin anew in Engla
nd and to pardon the slight deception in the name of freedom and humanity! What is more, I have learned that the moment that our new arrivals here set foot on English soil, a note, signed with that very star-shaped flower, had been delivered to Citizen Fouquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor, informing him that the guillotine had been cheated of three victims and that this was only the beginning!”
There was spontaneous applause at this and it took some time for the tumult to die down before Dewhurst could continue.
“Well, needless to say, my friends, not only was I astounded at the daring of this adventurer who is unknown to me, but I was humbled by his dedication to the principles that we all, as Englishmen, hold to be so dear. This Scarlet Pimpernel, as he calls himself, is a sterling example to us all. I know not who he is, nor do I know why he has chosen to cloak himself in secrecy, but I do know this: I am proud that, in some small measure, I was able to assist him. I have instructed Briggs that in the event he should be approached once more in a similar regard, he is to return in full the fee paid for the hiring of the Day Dream and make the boat available at any time for this Scarlet Pimpernel, to use as he sees fit, with my most sincere compliments, for further daring rescues! Ffoulkes, here, has consented to join me in doing everything in my power to make those rescued by this gallant at home in England and I urge all of you here this night to join me in a toast to this courageous man and to lend him your support! Gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass high, “I give you the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
They all rose as one, with their glasses held aloft, and echoed the toast.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel!”
God damn, thought Finn. Too bad we can’t recruit this character into the corps. He’d be a natural. They all drank the toast and sat back down to engage in animated discussion and interrogation of the Duc de Chalis. The remainder of the evening was taken up with speculation concerning the Scarlet Pimpernel. Dewhurst and de Chalis could not have played their roles any better. The unknown Englishman had instantly captured everyone’s imagination.