Reflections:Marguerite
This is my first attempt at writing in first person for The Scarlet Pimpernel - obviously, I chose Margot! Two of my favourite chapters in the original novel are those initial introductory scenes with Marguerite and Sir Percy at the Fisherman's Rest - five chapters in, but worth waiting for! There is so much tension between the Blakeneys, and then the Comtesse de Tournay strikes poor Marguerite when she is down. The only way I could think to add to the story is by viewing everything from the perspective of Lady Blakeney, but I may have miscalculated. Feedback welcome.
Marguerite Blakeney, commanding yet graceful in the saddle, gently checked her horse at the head of the path. “There!” she sighed, resting her crop on her raised knee. “This is one of my favourite places. On a clear day in summer, it is even possible to see the cathedral of Saint Paul in the city!”
“Has this fog-ridden island ever known fairer climes?” Armand countered wryly, staring out over the tree tops at the uniform blanket of grey now smothering distant London. “I have not seen the sun once since arriving in England.”
“Ah, that is because you are only a visitor,” she told her brother. “The English are patient, and know how to ‘make hay when the sun shines’, as I believe they say!”
He smiled, nudging the impatient bay he had borrowed closer to Persephone, Marguerite’s roan mare. “Do you ride here often, then?”
“Yes, or walk. The Park is so near to Blakeney Manor, and yet once within its gates, I could be in any bois at home - Boulogne or Fontainebleau, perhaps.”
Armand snorted at her fanciful praise. “I would hardly venture such a comparison as that!” he said. “And does Sir Percy accompany you?”
Marguerite shifted her seat, leaning forward to rub Persephone’s neck with her free hand.
“Not often. I have a groom, Lister, who rides with me.”
He detected her reticence, and attempted to rescue the conversation. “I was unaware you were so keen on horses, Margot. In Paris you were quite content to follow behind them in a carriage or fiacre!”
“In Paris, there was little need and fewer opportunities to ride,” she corrected him. “But here I enjoy it - the sense of freedom is intoxicating! And Persephone is a very good companion,” she added, patting the horse’s shoulder.
“But where on earth did you learn to ride so well? It was all I could do to keep up with you!”
Marguerite gave a casual shrug of her shoulders. “I first learned with Suzanne de Tournay, at her parent’s chateau in the country. Do you remember that last summer?” She sighed. “Those lessons must have stayed with me all these years.”
“Évidemment!” Armand laughed.
“It is a pity that I cannot show you the view, frérot,” she sighed, after a moment. “There are some magnificent houses just over the river, and you really can see the city from here.”
“I shall plan my next visit for the summer,” he said, smiling. “You must send word immediately, so that I do not miss it!”
Suddenly Marguerite was on the verge of tears. Blindly she reached out for her brother’s arm. “Oh, do not speak of the future, Armand - I cannot bear that you are returning to Paris so soon!”
“What is it that expression about guests and fish? I must not overstay my welcome, Margot,” he placated, juggling the reins so that he could take his sister’s hand. “Sir Percy will be home tomorrow, so you will not be left alone, I promise.”
Marguerite gave a soft laugh, and closed her tear-dimmed eyes. “No, I will not be alone,” she agreed. “But I shall miss you, Armand. Fool that I am, I have grown attached to your company, and it is not so easy to let you go now.”
He raised her gloved hand to his lips. “Then let me go tomorrow instead,” he said, “and we can enjoy the rest of today together.”
Armand, mon frère, do not leave me here all alone. England is safe and London is amusing, but you are right, the sun so rarely shines here.
‘Madame?’
Dieu, he is speaking to me; I thought him to be sleeping. If he addressed me at all, it can only have been to ask after my health in some fashion. How considerate the English are. Très officieux.
‘I am well, Sir Percy.’ His face is lost in the gloom, but I can sense his eyes upon me. ‘Merci vraiment.’
‘I saw you shiver. Thought you might be cold.’
How true in every sense are those words. A draft from this rattling window is numbing my elbow, the view beyond is grey and miserable, and at the end of this long journey is a leave-taking that must break my heart.
But there, that is unfair to him. I know that he would grant me any wish, at whatever cost, were it within his power to do so. ‘This rug will suffice until we reach Dover,’ say I, smoothing the prickly wool over my lap.
‘As you will, Madame,’ he mumbles, apparently worn out with the effort. Before I can think of anything to say, he settles his large, square head against the upholstery, closes his eyes and is gone, leaving me alone.
Can this stranger be the same man I married? I recognise the fair hair on his head and the strong features of his face. I know that his eyes are the colour of the sea on a dull day, but remember as well the flash of old in them like the glint of sunlight on waves. My husband is at once the sum of those leather riding boots, polished to a high shine and without a splash of mud on the leg, and the Mechlin lace billowing from the cuffs of his coat, yet there is a hidden strength beneath the dainty appearance he presents to the world. The man who would rather ride or drive his own team of horses along this old Roman road, rather than endure the comfort and silence of a post-chaise, is the man I thought I could fall in love with; he who stands head and shoulders above other men, but chooses to disarm their challenges with sure words and a commanding voice; the man of privilege who would risk his fortune lightly with the certainty of the returns being greater. That Sir Percy Blakeney is still there, perhaps, but he has changed. I am that change.
What use of mourning the past? September last I was happy, even excited, to be leaving behind the fleeting fame of Paris for a promise of love. And a mere three days ago I was content in the company of my brother, the two of us reviving our old roles from the rue Richelieu on the grander stage of Blakeney Manor. Now I must sit in a damp carriage, clearing a porthole on the misted pane so that I may stare out at the rain-lashed countryside, whilst looking forward with sorrow to seeing Armand for the last time. Je suis philosophe, so it must be.
Part Two
Marguerite Blakeney, commanding yet graceful in the saddle, gently checked her horse at the head of the path. “There!” she sighed, resting her crop on her raised knee. “This is one of my favourite places. On a clear day in summer, it is even possible to see the cathedral of Saint Paul in the city!”
“Has this fog-ridden island ever known fairer climes?” Armand countered wryly, staring out over the tree tops at the uniform blanket of grey now smothering distant London. “I have not seen the sun once since arriving in England.”
“Ah, that is because you are only a visitor,” she told her brother. “The English are patient, and know how to ‘make hay when the sun shines’, as I believe they say!”
He smiled, nudging the impatient bay he had borrowed closer to Persephone, Marguerite’s roan mare. “Do you ride here often, then?”
“Yes, or walk. The Park is so near to Blakeney Manor, and yet once within its gates, I could be in any bois at home - Boulogne or Fontainebleau, perhaps.”
Armand snorted at her fanciful praise. “I would hardly venture such a comparison as that!” he said. “And does Sir Percy accompany you?”
Marguerite shifted her seat, leaning forward to rub Persephone’s neck with her free hand.
“Not often. I have a groom, Lister, who rides with me.”
He detected her reticence, and attempted to rescue the conversation. “I was unaware you were so keen on horses, Margot. In Paris you were quite content to follow behind them in a carriage or fiacre!”
“In Paris, there was little need and fewer opportunities to ride,” she corrected him. “But here I enjoy it - the sense of freedom is intoxicating! And Persephone is a very good companion,” she added, patting the horse’s shoulder.
“But where on earth did you learn to ride so well? It was all I could do to keep up with you!”
Marguerite gave a casual shrug of her shoulders. “I first learned with Suzanne de Tournay, at her parent’s chateau in the country. Do you remember that last summer?” She sighed. “Those lessons must have stayed with me all these years.”
“Évidemment!” Armand laughed.
“It is a pity that I cannot show you the view, frérot,” she sighed, after a moment. “There are some magnificent houses just over the river, and you really can see the city from here.”
“I shall plan my next visit for the summer,” he said, smiling. “You must send word immediately, so that I do not miss it!”
Suddenly Marguerite was on the verge of tears. Blindly she reached out for her brother’s arm. “Oh, do not speak of the future, Armand - I cannot bear that you are returning to Paris so soon!”
“What is it that expression about guests and fish? I must not overstay my welcome, Margot,” he placated, juggling the reins so that he could take his sister’s hand. “Sir Percy will be home tomorrow, so you will not be left alone, I promise.”
Marguerite gave a soft laugh, and closed her tear-dimmed eyes. “No, I will not be alone,” she agreed. “But I shall miss you, Armand. Fool that I am, I have grown attached to your company, and it is not so easy to let you go now.”
He raised her gloved hand to his lips. “Then let me go tomorrow instead,” he said, “and we can enjoy the rest of today together.”
Armand, mon frère, do not leave me here all alone. England is safe and London is amusing, but you are right, the sun so rarely shines here.
‘Madame?’
Dieu, he is speaking to me; I thought him to be sleeping. If he addressed me at all, it can only have been to ask after my health in some fashion. How considerate the English are. Très officieux.
‘I am well, Sir Percy.’ His face is lost in the gloom, but I can sense his eyes upon me. ‘Merci vraiment.’
‘I saw you shiver. Thought you might be cold.’
How true in every sense are those words. A draft from this rattling window is numbing my elbow, the view beyond is grey and miserable, and at the end of this long journey is a leave-taking that must break my heart.
But there, that is unfair to him. I know that he would grant me any wish, at whatever cost, were it within his power to do so. ‘This rug will suffice until we reach Dover,’ say I, smoothing the prickly wool over my lap.
‘As you will, Madame,’ he mumbles, apparently worn out with the effort. Before I can think of anything to say, he settles his large, square head against the upholstery, closes his eyes and is gone, leaving me alone.
Can this stranger be the same man I married? I recognise the fair hair on his head and the strong features of his face. I know that his eyes are the colour of the sea on a dull day, but remember as well the flash of old in them like the glint of sunlight on waves. My husband is at once the sum of those leather riding boots, polished to a high shine and without a splash of mud on the leg, and the Mechlin lace billowing from the cuffs of his coat, yet there is a hidden strength beneath the dainty appearance he presents to the world. The man who would rather ride or drive his own team of horses along this old Roman road, rather than endure the comfort and silence of a post-chaise, is the man I thought I could fall in love with; he who stands head and shoulders above other men, but chooses to disarm their challenges with sure words and a commanding voice; the man of privilege who would risk his fortune lightly with the certainty of the returns being greater. That Sir Percy Blakeney is still there, perhaps, but he has changed. I am that change.
What use of mourning the past? September last I was happy, even excited, to be leaving behind the fleeting fame of Paris for a promise of love. And a mere three days ago I was content in the company of my brother, the two of us reviving our old roles from the rue Richelieu on the grander stage of Blakeney Manor. Now I must sit in a damp carriage, clearing a porthole on the misted pane so that I may stare out at the rain-lashed countryside, whilst looking forward with sorrow to seeing Armand for the last time. Je suis philosophe, so it must be.
Part Two