Chapter 4: Pimpernel and Roses

All who attended that glorious garden party remembered for years afterward that summer of 1793, when the grounds of Blakeney Manor were opened to general admittance, and a flock of eager socialites descended on the lawn like many birds of assorted plumage, all preening and twittering in their finery.

The cosseted gentry and common gawkers alike marvelled to see pretty Sally on the arm of the Vicomte de Tournay; for though Sally, daughter of Mr Jellyband of the Fisherman's Rest, had long been amorously pursued by local lads, she wasn't half considered a bird of a high enough perch to consort with the likes of the Vicomte, who whilst he had flown from his native land without his family's fortune, was nevertheless one of the noblesse. Many of those who kept up with the gossip wondered that the Tournays had attended the party at all, since there seemed to be some unspoken animosity betwixt them and the Blakeneys (excepting of course little Suzanne de Tournay, the newly-married Lady Ffoulkes, who had been readily accepted into the upper archons of society and was in attendance with her husband, a fast friend of Sir Percy's).

Though beady eyes watched carefully, waiting to see past sparks ignite into flame, the afternoon passed without incident; the Vicomte was even seen talking quite civilly with his host and hostess, pretty Sally hanging on his arm all the while. The scandal-mongers turned away dismissively. There was no predicting these flighty French temperaments; just when one expected them to flare up heatedly, they remained as disappointingly damp as the English climate. Perhaps the hot-blooded young Vicomte was becoming as imperturbable as Sir Percy himself.

After all, he too had married a wife from the opposite side of the channel.

As the shadows were falling across the lawn and the Prince of Wales had long since departed, the party-goers began reluctantly to disperse. Waiting for his carriage and horses to be brought round to the front drive, the Vicomte found his host loitering close by, and being out of earshot of any others, he went to him with an air of boyish shyness, very different from his manner an hour previous.

"However am I to repay you, Monseigneur," he asked meekly, "for all you have done for me, and to make amends for zis outrage I committed this evening?"

Sir Percy laughed his impudent, lazy laugh and said, with infinite good-humour: "By keeping the strictest secrecy, you young reprobate, since you forced me to reveal my hand!" The Vicomte had noticed that after the incident, as they had strolled to rejoin the company on the eastern lawn, the slim hand wearing the signet ring had slipped into the pocket of the shimmering evening coat, and had re-emerged unadorned. "If a single person learns of my other identity from your lips," Blakeney added, with much joviality, "I shall be forced to continue this afternoon's bout of swordplay, this time without mercy!" The Vicomte remembered how close he had come to personal harm earlier that afternoon, and the threat would have been sufficient enough to induce his silence, if he hadn't already pledged loyalty to his great benefactor.

"Also, my friend," the other said, a tad more seriously, "you can set my mind at ease by taking good care of pretty Sally; if you should again feel inclined to take up your sword against someone, please point it at Mr. Harry Waite, or some other of the lady's many beaus, rather than my innocent self."

They were both watching the dainty form of Sally herself, who was upon the terrace and in the midst of performing a charming curtsey before her hostess. The Vicomte watched her with an altogether different sort of flame now burning in his proud, dark eyes; and clasping Blakeney's hand with all the eagerness of friendship and the solemnity of promise, he said simply:

"Bien sûr, Monseigneur."

As the Vicomte's carriage rattled away down the drive, carrying both he and pretty Sally away towards their respective homes, a pair of hot, insolent eyes followed its path with a vengeful gaze.

A heavy hand came down upon Harry Waite's shoulder, interrupting his wrathful vigilance; he turned in a trice, ready with a meaty fist and a harsh oath, until he saw the lazy blue eyes which looked indolently down upon him, and hastily swallowed his words.

"M-Milor'," he said instead, bending his broad back in a clumsy bow.

Blakeney waved his eyeglass at him warningly. "Have a care, my good Mr. Waite," he said, with apparent urbane carelessness. "Know when thine pride should seek repose, and let well enough alone before you do more damage than dignity to your fine public image. I do believe you were contemplating aiming your fist at the young Vicomte de Tournay's head – no, don't deny it, my dear fellow, for thy fiery gaze all but set the side of his carriage smoking just now! I assure you it would not be prudent, not for your sake, nor for the lady's. A man's heart is a relatively easy thing to skewer upon the tip of a sword in the heat of a single bout; however, to capture, without injury, a thing as delicate as a lady's heart… well, sir, it's a feat that should be applauded by one's fellow man, and left well enough alone to the honourable victor. Take thine conquests elsewhere, my good Mr. Waite; and worship as your most esteemed comrade-in-arms the hero who succeeds in winning the heart of a lady. Such specimens are a rare enough sort, I can tell you."

And with a wink and a hearty peal of laughter, he strolled back up the drive, to bid the last of his guests farewell.

It wasn't until later that evening that this hero among heroes had his turn to be worshipped, and to worship his own heroine.

With the beautiful gardens to themselves once again, the lord and lady of the house strolled the yew-lined avenue in the balmy air of the summer evening, arriving back at the rose arbour. There they stood in habitual silence, as though engrossed in silent benediction, watching the other's eyes and there seeing plainly the all-encompassing flames of passion which smouldered there.

At last, Marguerite spoke of what she had seen that afternoon.

"I did think me," she said, with a dazzling, mildly-mocking smile upon her full red lips, "that you once did refuse a duel with an angry young Frenchman, despite mine honour being slandered by that self same youth."

A slight frown creased Sir Percy's brow. "Sink me, m'dear! But my memory always was the slightest. I cannot recall a single male who would dare call anything about your bewitching self into question."

"I do wonder at your remarkable ability to forget," said Marguerite softly, with a hint of sadness in her smile.

She was recalling to herself the very real reason for which she had incurred the Vicomte's rage; a fatal error which she herself had committed, and which for many long, dreary months had caused this very man, who now could fain tear his eyes away from her enchanting loveliness, to become so estranged from her that he had been loath to even glance in her direction. As though divining her thoughts, that man now took her hand and gave it a comforting pressure, staring deep into her eyes. It was a look shared by two souls so closely bonded that they needed no words to communicate; to silently seek forgiveness, and to wordlessly grant it. To speak these things aloud was less than unnecessary; there was only silence between them, and only love.

Marguerite's senses were still thrilling from having seen her lazy, oafish husband so effortlessly best another with the sword, and with such graceful finesse. Though his duel with the Vicomte had been thrilling indeed, there had been yet another battle taking place beneath the yew trees, and a victory far harder won. Once during that terrible estrangement, despite the accusations slung at Marguerite's good name, Sir Percy had declined to fight a duel, for the sake of concealing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. That very afternoon, Marguerite had seen two terrific combatants – the daring hero who put others first, and the gallant husband who cared foremost for his wife – doing battle between themselves, and for once, the adventurer's heart had yielded, allowing the devoted lover to defend his wife's honour. In the duel between the Pimpernel and Sir Percy, Marguerite was the true victor.

Remembering that long-ago conversation in the coffee room of the Fisherman's Rest, she now said: "I do also believe you once told me that you had occasion to put up fists with Red Sam, the butcher's son…" In light of the afternoon's events, she was intrigued by the untold story despite herself.

Sir Percy laughed and said, with only half an attempt at remaining modest: "La, but the insolent fellow was more than red in name after that match – with a great deal of black and blue to boot! The coal-carrier was obliged to wheel him home in his barrow, for he had quite lost coordination of his own two feet, and didn't feel up to standing for almost a week after. Red Sam was no lad of nineteen, either, though at the time I myself was scarce older than young Tournay is now."

He chuckled again, and draped one powerful arm around his wife's slender waist. In response, Marguerite smiled proudly, and kissed the pale, slender hand which had that afternoon wielded the sword so masterfully, and which bore upon the second-to-last finger the effigy of the infamous Scarlet Pimpernel.

It was then his turn to kiss those sweet, rose-hued lips, which had once uttered such traitorous words of betrayal, but which now only whispered to his ear tender murmurings of love.

In good time, the young French bantam wedded his pretty little English hen. One might have expected the Tournay mère et pere to resent the betrothal of their only son to a commoner; however, the only objections to speak of were from the bride's own father. Mr. Jellyband had long had to swot away scores of lowly fisherman from around his daughter, like so many noisome flies around a pot of honey; in stark contrast, her proposed husband now appeared too affluent to marry a mere kitchen wench. Mr. Jellyband despaired to see his reputable establishment becoming the inheritance of a demned foreigner, after generations of good, patriotic Englishmen had served as its landlord for more than a century. However, the Prince of Wales himself had taken a liking to the young Vicomte, and so Jellyband had no choice, since the noble future-in-laws had already offered their blessings, but to reluctantly give his own.

It was a gorgeous ceremony, the magnificently-clad French bantam strutting proudly down the aisle with his new wife upon his wing, looking a vision of loveliness in her demure gown of white lace flounces, a bouquet of roses clutched in her little hand. However, it was generally agreed that the most handsome couple in attendance was the sublime peacock-and-peahen vision of Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney, who stood ready to congratulate their friends on their happy union. Lady Ffoulkes was there as well, her own English lover having served as the groom's best man; she was all too eager to kiss pretty Sally's cheek and welcome her into the family. As the bells of the church were rung, competing with the loud peals of laughter which Sir Percy let echo around the chapel's great vaulted dome, brother and sister shared a knowing glance, and looked with glittering gaze upon that most gallant of gentlemen, to whom each of them owed their present happiness.

They were both safe and well-loved, here in the Pimpernel's merry England; just as their daring rescuer had promised.

Eventually, Tournay indeed became landlord of the Fisherman's Rest.

Fortunately, his tenure as such was far less disastrous than Mr. Jellyband had foreseen. It is true that the Vicomte did not have his predecessor's loud, overbearing brand of charisma; however, he was a man of courteous manners and scholarly wisdom, which traits themselves presented limitless charm to a more discerning clientele. The Vicomte was seen as a rather romantic character, standing with dignified bearing by the fireside, or folded elegantly into a chair, always rising to bow before every lady who entered the coffee room, no matter her social standing. Whereas previously the only deep discussion in the coffee room had been generated by Jellyband himself and the ponderous Mr. Hempseed, each raving about foreign policy and the sermons respectively; now a truly intellectual conversation could take place before the hearth, the young Vicomte now and again making an astute comment which displayed his excellent learning. Furthermore, the man cut a dashing figure amongst the laymen in their smocks and corduroys, himself outfitted in delicately embroidered waistcoats and culottes, filmy lace spilling from his collar and shirt cuffs. Then, with welcome frequency, pretty Sally would emerge from the kitchen, herself a contrasting picture of good British homeliness and modest beauty in her simple muslin gown and lace cap. Together, they made a surprisingly complimentary, and very attractive pair.

Some new fixtures were brought to the ancient dining room beneath the hostelry. Besides old Jemima, still grumbling persistently as she stirred the heavy stockpot, there was now a remarkably efficient French chef, who could serve out steaming plates of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, just as easily as he could produce a subtly-savoury bouillabaisse or a rich fricassee steeped in good burgundy. Whilst the maids still twittered like sprightly birds about the hallways, a refined young cockerel of a maitre d' now stood attentively at the head of the room, and the ladies did enjoy being doted upon by him, with his smooth accent and continental manners.

Even during those years of war, the Fisherman's Rest did not suffer from having a Frenchman at its head. Should anyone enter the establishment muttering about the 'demned foreigners' having already invaded their shores, he would calmly be given a seat in the corner and a full glass of the finest French port; after another few pourings, he would feel much less inclined to speak with hostility against his generous host. The Vicomte was also, like his ambassador father before him, an astute diplomat, always keeping his own political views to himself, whilst allowing others to divulge their own as loudly as they wished. The local Britons did not fear being labelled traitorous as they supped upon the finest delicacies the kitchen could offer; just as Frenchmen posting on their way to Calais did not feel that they slept beneath the roof of the enemy.

Harmony held sway within the cosy coffee room. Often, the Vicomte and his wife would hold court here, entertaining a glittering circle of London's finest. Lovely exquisites of the age, such as Suzanne Ffoulkes, the landlord's own sister, and her friend Yvonne Dewhurst, the wife of dashing Sir Anthony, would sit perched upon damask couches, absorbed in animated conversation. They were ever accompanied by their bosom companion and society figurehead, the dazzling Marguerite Blakeney, whose renowned intellect would oftentimes lead the merry talks which wended their way about the hearth, discussing every topic imaginable with the insightful sagacity of the goddess Artemis herself.

And always, in every corner of the crowded hall, ringing high amongst the rafters, could be heard that inane, infectious laughter, booming loudly like the voice of mighty Thor, yet belonging instead to the foremost of mortals, that most dandified of dandies, Sir Percy Blakeney.

Though there had been a shift in regime at the Fisherman's Rest, little else had changed. The polished brass and pewter still glistened in the lamplight like gold and silver. The regulars still dropped in for a pint after work, including Mr. Harry Waite, who would always pause between gulps of ale to swap a clever witticism with fair Sally, before leaving a coin on the table and returning home to his own pretty little wife.

No, very little had changed about the place; save that, if a careful observer took note of the lush window boxes, filled to overflowing with vibrant blooms, one might mark that whilst the bright geraniums and blue larkspur still grew there as always, there was now also the plentiful addition of a five-petalled flower; the humble scarlet pimpernel, which there had pride of place.

Author's note: gah. I'm so, so sorry. I have no idea why it took me so long to complete this story. I had the last chapter, all ready written, for ages. I would open it, edit it a little, think 'great, it's ready to post', then not post it. I think I entertained the thought of adding in a vignette about how the Vicomte and Sally first got together; but the last chapter would have been completely the wrong place to do so. I think it is far better to let that bit happen in the reader's imagination. I eventually dropped the idea, telling myself I' could now publish the chapter soon.

Sorry, it's well past 'soon'. But I hope it was worth the wait.

Now that it's done, I should mention that this isn't my only Pimpernel story. I have two more - a poem and a song - which might interest readers who are new to my work.

I also have a few more ideas for Pimpernel stories, both crossovers - one with 'Beauty and the Beast' (the fairytale, not the Disney film) and one with the Frances Hodgeson Burnett novel 'A Little Princess'. I have so many other ideas for new stories, and other stories I need to finish, that I don't know when either of those ideas could come to fruition; but please keep a look out for them, and enjoy some of my other works in the meantime.

Thank you for reading, thanks for all your kind reviews, it's been a fun story to write - and sorry again that it took so very long!

~ W.J.