Author's note: yet another occasion when I have borrowed Baroness Orczy's characters - and readers who know her books well will spot that I have probably expanded timescales a little for the purposes of this "story".

ALL WAS NOT YET COMPLETE

Lying awake, as she often did in the long, lonely watches of the nights when he was away, her mind turned, over and over. She could hear the sea roaring, the pebbles churning in the surf, and she thanked God that Percy would not be trying to make the crossing tonight. But, she thought sadly, when he did return, it would be another homecoming which would not be blessed by the news she was sure he craved: that she was with child. Having begun to think that this time, just possibly, it might really be true, her own hopes had been dashed when her courses had begun during the journey yesterday, and she had wept bitter tears of disappointment that no baby would be coming yet.

She knew that her continuing childlessness must be to do, somehow, with her courses not coming monthly, as she had been told she should expect; but then they never had, and from the first, had caused her great pain and much trouble: perhaps, she thought, she should now seek professional advice, but she had little confidence in doctors and feared some bungling intervention which might make matters worse. There were questions she wished she could ask of Suzanne, but now that her old friend was expecting her second child, perhaps it was sensitivity towards Marguerite's situation, but she seemed to have withdrawn a little – they were not quite so intimate as they had been...

Percy, with his usual delicacy, never asked, never referred to the matter at all, although she knew he wanted a child – indeed, he needed an heir; although she knew that he also greatly feared the consequences of a child arriving, because his own, adored mother had never recovered after his birth – he had once told Marguerite, almost unbearably sadly, that he had been "the innocent bringer of his mother's doom", and he dreaded the same fate befalling her.

Perhaps, she began to wonder, this was some punishment for the way she had treated Percy after their marriage; first leaving him for weeks, and afterwards behaving towards him with absolute coldness, making him the butt of her cruellest jokes, and finally – and here she almost winced – finally betraying him, unwittingly maybe, but betraying him nonetheless to his greatest enemy. Perhaps this was some retribution? Then rational thought overcame her fear: that could not be, because it was punishing him too, and he, of all people, did not deserve it...

A cramp assailed her and she moved the brick closer; it was now losing its heat but still offered some comfort; it made her think, again, of Mrs Phillips' kindness. When they arrived, Frank had seen immediately that there was something badly amiss, and had hastened to fetch the housekeeper, who had bustled out to the coach, her kindly face full of concern – which had deepened to alarm when she looked in, to see her young mistress sitting rigid, white-faced, her small gloved hands clenched in fists at her sides, and biting her lower lip in anguish. After a few moments Marguerite had been able to reassure her a little by saying that it was nothing unusual and that she would be quite well again in a few days; and although Mrs Phillips had immediately understood this code, she had had no choice but to enlist Frank's help and together they had half-carried her into the cottage. Once Frank – who had surmised it was what he called "women's trouble" – had been ushered out, the housekeeper had taken off the heavy travelling-clothes and helped her into bed, putting a hot brick to her back for the pain, and had brought coffee with brandy, and some of her favourite light biscuits, which she said would "lie easy on the stomach".

She made no reference to the source of her mistress' discomfort but tended to her with unspoken sympathy and care; there was a bond between these two women, so unlike in every other way, which had been founded some while back when the housekeeper had confided that she had known the pain of childbirth but that the longed-for baby, a daughter, had been born sleeping, and there had never been another. The older woman had seen Marguerite's eyes fill with tears at this news, and had been touched and surprised: "It's common, Milady, sad to say"; but Marguerite had struck a tender chord when she replied, "Perhaps, but not commonplace, not to you and your husband, Mrs Phillips: I am so sorry." From then on there had grown an unacknowledged fondness and understanding between the two, and Mrs Phillips now loved her young mistress almost as much as she did Sir Percy – whom privately she worshipped.

Marguerite often wondered if perhaps – to use the phrase which she and Percy always did – "when all this was over", meaning when he would no longer need to keep going away, perhaps then, when she would no longer need to fear for his safety, when she might begin to sleep better and be untroubled by the familiar nightmares, perhaps then a baby would come; and sometimes she could not stop herself from thinking that in her husband's selflessness towards those in need of his help in France, he did not realise the effect on her, his own wife, of his unswerving fidelity to the oath he had sworn within the League; but of all things she knew that he would never forswear that bond, not until the Terror was past, France was at peace again, and its people no longer needed him.

She also wondered, sometimes, what would have happened to them both if she had not, literally, stumbled upon his seal in his study that day; if she had never discovered that the daring Scarlet Pimpernel, and that darling of Society, Sir Percy Blakeney, were one and the same. She believed they would have remained on their separate, divergent paths, becoming increasingly unhappy and embittered, he convinced that his wife was capable of great cruelty – was beautiful perhaps but utterly heartless, and absolutely not to be trusted; and she equally convinced that her husband was foolish, stupid and dull, concerned only with the set of his cravat, or the latest fashion in snuff-boxes...

Instead of which, she thanked her stars, she had discovered his secret, double life: the personage she had called "the shadowy king of her heart" was made mortal flesh, hiding behind a character he had created to throw dust in everybody's eyes – including, for many months, her own.

She now thought back, hugging to herself the recollection, to when he had first begun paying court to her; for some while she had paid little or no attention to him, dismissing him as that irritating, dogged Englishman; but then one day he had made some surprisingly perceptive remark and, looking more intently at him than she ever had before, she suddenly suspected that there might be unplumbed depths, not only in those lazy-seeming blue eyes which seemed so often to be fixed on her, but also in what lay behind them, and she began to find him more interesting. When he invited Armand and herself to accompany him on a visit to Lyon, she had been pleased to accept; and although Armand, she knew, had been made of the party as chaperone and protector, he had the tact to leave his sister and the Englishman much alone together; when Percy had spoken with such surprising emotion of some of the things he had seen on his earlier travels, that she had begun to think that in this man, perhaps, she had finally found someone who might match her own intensity of feeling. They had come to know each other better during their time away from Paris, thrown together – sometimes literally – on the long journey; and it had become clear to her that he might propose marriage; once this realisation had dawned it was not long before she had decided that, if asked, she would accept. She now reflected, with some satisfaction, that by that point she had become certain there was much more to this man than met the eye: whereas most of her friends and acquaintances dismissed him, still, as that absurd Englishman, when he allowed his guard to drop she could see a different person, more serious, more intense ―more passionate...

Although his pride would not let him reveal to her at the time how much he admired her, desired her, and wanted her to be his wife, he told her much later that he had been more determined than about anything else he could remember that he would win her hand; and, whilst he was never less than charming and self-deprecating, his determination bore fruit; and so it came to pass, that bright morning in the Bois de Boulogne, that she accepted his suit. Having secured her promise, he would brook no further delay, and urged her to agree to their wedding following only a few days later. Marguerite remembered one or two of her less intimate friends teasing her, saying that perhaps he was afraid she would change her mind if he allowed her more time: but she ignored this unkindness. On the morning of their wedding, with the sun streaming in through the stained-glass and turning the ancient stone floor into a mosaic of vivid hues, at the first sight of him waiting for her in the chapel ― tall and so handsome, elegant in grey silk, more serious than she had expected – her heart had almost missed a beat, but she never wavered for a moment: this man, she was sure, could make her happy. She had no doubts then about her choice ― nor did she until after she returned to him from Armand's house and found him utterly changed, so cold, so formal; and although there had followed that period of great unhappiness for them both, since then they had fulfilled their vows to each other, and would always do so, she knew, until the end of their days together, and she felt blessed.

Yet still there was that pang, that wistful reminder sometimes that all was not yet complete... What was to be done?

She realised that dawn was breaking: there was a soft light creeping in around the heavy curtains at the low window, and she could hear the first birds singing in the garden. Another day nearer his return!

Having lain awake much of the night, she was tired, but at least she felt more comfortable now; she was beginning to be hungry and knew that she would feel better today: she would be able to eat. Perhaps she would ask Mrs Phillips for some of that good beef broth again... and maybe she would ask for help with a bath – it would ease the discomfort further, and she would be quite well again all the quicker... and be ready to welcome him home, at the end of the week ... please God...

She drifted into a light sleep at last.