A/N I know some of you must be thinking - a songfic with Sir Percy Blakeney and the Kingston Trio? What IS this madness? Well, all I can say is, if you don't know by now, this fic should prove to you that I am nuts. . .

And for those of you who enjoy my more cerebral offerings - This is fic is Fluff. Completely sappy, relentlessly sweet, totally and irredeemably sentimental fluff. It's plot content is dangerously low. Don't say you weren't warned.

(^_^)

I've set this fic in the early 1800's, after both of the Blakeney's children are born. George is about seven or eight, and Violet is about five. The only source material there is for this is "The Life and Exploits of the Scarlet Pimpernel" which can be found on BlakeneyManor(dot)com.

As for the song "Scarlet Ribbons", well. . . . . . . .

If you wish, my dear,

With all your heart, to hear,

The song sung by those who,

In truth, have the right to,

Then with all your airs and graces,

Please do remove the spaces,

And then look here -

http: //www. youtube. com/watch?v=-QT8J_-pAtA

Enjoy!

Scarlet Ribbons

I peeked in to say goodnight. . . and I heard my child in prayer.

Blakeney Manor had not been so quiet for many a month. Marguerite was gone for a fortnight's holiday at the seaside with Lady Ffoulkes, for the poor woman was ill, and had need of a companion in her hopefully restorative journey. Sir Andrew had suggested that Lady Blakeney be this companion, and who was Sir Percy to refuse such a request from his family and dearest friends?

Young George had gone to stay with friends in London for a few weeks - with Lord Hastings and his two young sons, in fact - and for a boy's first venture into the world he had faced it like a man, save for a wistful sigh when his mother had kissed him goodbye.

Sir Percy smiled to himself; George had written them nearly every day since then, and Blakeney had had much time to reflect on how it was that, to a parent's eyes, the ill spelt and much blotted sheets were more precious than leaves of gold.

There was only Violet here now, and a quiet, thoughtful child she was, though quite bold, and more than bright, in her father's modest opinion. The girl had seemed to inherit the best and most noble aspects of both parents, and so it was that she would often play near her father's writing desk, as quiet as a mouse, yet as observant and round eyed as an owl, and truth be told, Sir Percy was far from displeased with this arrangement.

Yet, it made for a quiet household, when one was used to a boisterous young son and a very social wife, to be reduced for a time to a single baby daughter whose very laugh was nearly silent, and who almost never cried.

Sir Percy stood at the door of his rooms, about to retire for the evening, and hoping he would be able to sleep without the comforting presence of his wife - which he had swiftly become more than used to - when "Papa?" came the sweet, childish voice down the hall - nearly echoing in the quietness, yet not being loud of itself at all, "Papa? Please come!" But the little white-garbed creature did not wait, and ran bare-foot into the hall and to her father's knees, taking his hand and pulling at him while she softly chattered, "Maman is not here - you must hear my prayers tonight, Papa - Annette is sick with toothache and cannot come, and I do not want to say my prayers to anyone else - come Papa, you must come!"

All the while she pulled on his hand, and a weaker yet more irresistible force could not be imagined.

"Very well, Little One," said Blakeney, with a laugh and a smile that had never been seen on him until George and Violet had been born, "I will come. It wouldn't do to break with tradition, eh?" And he scooped the small, white, nightgowned figure up into his arms with no more effort (and more than as much care) as if he were picking a spray of clover.

"I must ask for a miracle tonight Papa," Violet said, with as much solemnity as would have befitted a judge, "My very own miracle."

"Must you really?" said Sir Percy, interested and amused at this unexpected turn of phrase, "Well then, you must tell me all about it in a minute."

When they re-entered the nursery, it was for Blakeney like entering another world - the world of his children, happy and carefree. . . innocent. . . and it was a place where he was not only welcomed, but more than once needed. It was unlike any other place on earth to him, and he was sure it was truly a rare relationship he shared with his family.

With a pang of care well mixed with an oddly gentle jealousy, he set Violet down next to her bed, and knelt with her on the satin coverlet.

"Now, then, ma petite, you must pray," and he watched her carefully fold her hands and begin the short catechism verse she had been taught, and then a verse of the Psalms, and then she was allowed to make her own small petitions in her own words.

~*~

"Please bring me some scarlet ribbons. . . scarlet ribbons for my hair."

That night, Violet took a deep breath before asking for the things dearest to her.

"Dear God, please bring Maman and George home safely, and let Aunt Suzanne be well from her fever, and thank you that Papa is here with me, and please make it rain on Tuesday. Dear Saint Apollonia, please cure Annette of her toothache, and Dear Scarlet Pimpernel, please let me have red ribbon for my Sunday dress, Amen."

Sir Percy was stunned for a moment, and could not say a single word in reproach of such a supplication. Then, as Violet began to climb beneath the covers of her little bed, he ventured a question.

"Violetta mia - who taught you to pray to the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

She smiled up at him, "No one - it's my own idea, Papa, I am sure it is all right! It is only a small miracle I asked for - no one could find any red ribbons for me today, and all the shops had none." She scrunched her small face as though she were thinking hard, "I don't know if the Scarlet Pimpernel makes red ribbon, but it sounds like he does, and I do so want to wear my new dress tomorrow, and I haven't got anything matching to tie my hair up. . ." she ran out of breath, and snuggled down into the warmed sheets.

Blakeney leaned over to tuck her in, "No. . . no, sweetest, you must not pray to him. I do not think it is right, and he does not make ribbons, that I know for certain."

"But Papa," she said, shocked, "He is a saint, and we can pray to saints, can't we?"

He sat down beside her, a bit in awe of this small morsel of a child, "Who told you he was a saint?", he managed.

"Maman said he was a martar, and made miracles, and only saints can do that, I know they can. And she also said that. . ." all at once the baby face became sad, and she hung her head.

"Yes, what else did she say?"

"She said that he was dead, and I know that all the saints are dead, so he must be one." Still, she sounded sad at this fact.

"You cannot pray to him, ma trésor. . ." he insisted, "It is not right - he is not a saint."

Violet sat up, frustrated, "But why isn't he, Papa?"

"Because. . ." Sir Percy searched for words, "Because he is not dead."

"But maman said. . ."

"I know, sweet one, I know. . ." he soothed her golden curls - so like his own! - and looked right into her round blue eyes - so like her mother's! - and said gently, "She must have meant that he does not do miracles any more, that he stopped being a martyr."

She pouted, "How does one stop?"

"Perhaps he went home to his own little girl, ma cherie."

"Do. . . do you think he still can make a little miracle?" The innocent pleading in her voice was very hard for Sir Percy to take.

"Maybe," he sighed, "Perhaps he is still doing small miracles all the time. But it would be better for you to ask God for your miracle, Little One. . . He is the best one to ask."

"But God is so big," she made wide gesture with a worried look, "Will he be too busy for someone as little as me?"

Sir Percy smiled - this question he could answer - "I am sure God always has time for good little girls who say their prayers before bed. He is your Father just as much as I am, and don't I always have time?"

"Yes Papa."

"Well then, God is much bigger and better than I am, and so He will always have time for you." He kissed her forehead, and then rose to leave.

"Maybe so, Papa," her whispered words followed him out, "But I don't want any Father but you. . . "

~*~

Searched all night. . . my heart was achin'. . .

What words could describe how Sir Percy felt just then? He retreated to his rooms in the most indescribably sweet turmoil of mind. There was only one thing clear to him - Violet must have her ribbon, whatever the cost.

With a firm but reverent hand, he searched his wife's belonging's, then his own. He contemplated waking the servants, but no doubt they had already done their searches - for Violet was the favourite of the household, and so seldom asked for more than was given to her that no doubt, no doubt at all - they had searched, and had found nothing of the kind.

Blakeney wanted to curse his ridiculousness, and even more he wanted to curse his failure.

But he did not.

A saint does not curse.

~*~

Just before the dawn was breaking. . .

All too commonly these days, he could not sleep without Marguerite's presence beside him. Her sound, her scent, the warm curve of her fitting into his arms - it was so right that sleeping without her simply felt wrong - and tonight was no exception.

The light began to grow behind the curtains, and at last he played his final throw in his battle with sleep.

He rose and lit the lamp, wrapping a dressing gown around himself, and settling down to his writing desk. Then, he delicately touched a spring, and there opened a secret drawer that contained his most precious physical possessions.

He closed his eyes and for a long minute simply breathed in the scent of Marguerite's love letters.

Then he opened his eyes, and slid them out from a tied satin ribbon. . . . . .

A bright scarlet satin ribbon.

He threw back his head and laughed one hearty laugh, the joy and perfection of the whole situation demanding that he express to the world how wonderful it all was, and jumping to his feet, he padded as noiselessly as a cat into the hallway, and down the corridor.

~*~

I peeked in, and on her bed. . . in gay profusion, lying there. . . scarlet ribbons. . . lovely ribbons. . . scarlet ribbons for her hair.

The long curled streamer looked black in the shades of dawn, but Blakeney set the softly shining thing on his daughter's pillow, and knew that her waking would be made ten times happier with this tiny gift.

He paused at the door as he tiptoed out, and thought for a second that perhaps now there was one more scent that would help him sleep. . .

~*~

If I live to be a hundred. . . I will never know from where came those ribbons. . . lovely ribbons. . . scarlet ribbons for her hair.

Sunday morning's breakfast was a far more jovial affair than it had been for many weeks. The absence of both the Lady of the House, and the Heir of the Blakeney Estates, was no matter in the slightest, for the littlest maiden of Blakeney Manor was wearing her new dress to church that day.

She had run into the dining room waving the red ribbon she had found on her pillow.

"You see Papa?" she had said ecstatically, "There are miracles, and there is a Scarlet Pimpernel who makes ribbons!"

Sir Percy kept his own counsel, and merely smiled proudly at her, and told her to eat her breakfast neatly, so as not to damage the ribbon with spatters of cream.

Perhaps it would be best to let her have her little miracle. . .

"What shall I pray for tonight?" she asked, when they left the door of Blakeney Manor.

"Ah, my little blanc-a-monté," he sighed as he lifted her into the carriage, "It is you, I think, that is doing the miracles these days. . ."