tall, and very well-proportioned with an ample bosom, a trim waist and long, slender legs, one of which was briefly visible as she descended from the coach. Her bright blue eyes met Finn’s as she attempted to effect repairs upon her coiffure, the lustrous auburn hair having been disarranged while she was jostled about inside the coach. She was even lovelier in person, for the holographic image of her Finn had seen had not captured her voice and its inflections, her mannerisms, and it had caught only a hint of her earthy sensuality. There was, however, a certain air of hostility about her, testimony to the deteriorating relationship between herself and Blakeney.
She had a bit of the gamin in her, Finn saw, though it did not detract in the least from her beauty. Rather, it enhanced it. Her facial expressions betrayed pride and stubbornness and although she hid it well, Finn could see that she had been hurt by Blakeney. Undoubtedly, she felt rejected, though Finn had no way of knowing whether or not the St. Cyr affair had ever been discussed between them or if Blakeney had simply accepted it as a matter of course and, having been satisfied that it was true, had locked it away inside himself like a guilty secret, never to be spoken of or even referred to. He decided, for the sake of prudence, to adopt the latter attitude, unless Marguerite brought the matter up herself. He also decided to play it very close to the vest, for Marguerite’s eyes were shrewd and observant as she regarded him with a faintly puzzled air.
“Are you quite well, my husband?” she said, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Somehow, you don’t sound quite yourself.”
“I’m as well as could be expected for a man who’s come so near to death,” he said, leaning back against the coach and shutting his eyes as he fanned himself with his handkerchief.
“Faith, my dear, you must have the courage of a lion! That pistol ball could not have passed but a hair’s breadth from your head and there you stand, calm as can be, asking me if I am well! Would that I were made of such stern stuff, my heart would not then be pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil!”
“Well, then when your heart has stopped its fearsome pounding, perhaps we could continue on our journey,” Marguerite said. “We shall not make Calais before tomorrow, even if we drive hard all the way.” She glanced up at the empty box and sighed. “I fear that you will have to play the coachman. It appears that our fainthearted driver was frightened even more than you were.”
“That’s the trouble with these new ‘citizens,’” said Finn. “They put their own petty concerns above their duty. Well, it appears that there’s nothing for it. I shall have to drive, then. With any luck, we will make Amiens tonight and reach Calais tomorrow. Are you quite certain that you’re up to a hard ride? We could travel at an easy pace, but I’m suddenly very anxious to go on with all dispatch. I fear that I shan’t feel safe until we’re on board the Day Dream.”
Marguerite smiled, wryly. “Well, then I shall muster up my lion’s courage and steel myself for the dangers of our journey.” Her voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. “If you would be so kind, Percy, as to assist me back into the coach?” Finn gave her his arm and helped her up, then closed the door and mounted up into the box. He whipped up the horses and drove the coach back onto the road. He drove at a brisk pace and, within fifteen minutes or so, the coach came within sight of the soldiers once again. There were only three of them, the officer and his two men, the others no doubt still beating the brush for the nonexistent ci-devant aristo. Finn saw that the soldiers had caught up to Fitzroy’s decoy wine wagon. They had pulled it off to the side of the road, where the old man stood beside his young “son,” wringing his hands and wailing as the soldiers tore the wagon apart board by board, searching for the Duc de
She had a bit of the gamin in her, Finn saw, though it did not detract in the least from her beauty. Rather, it enhanced it. Her facial expressions betrayed pride and stubbornness and although she hid it well, Finn could see that she had been hurt by Blakeney. Undoubtedly, she felt rejected, though Finn had no way of knowing whether or not the St. Cyr affair had ever been discussed between them or if Blakeney had simply accepted it as a matter of course and, having been satisfied that it was true, had locked it away inside himself like a guilty secret, never to be spoken of or even referred to. He decided, for the sake of prudence, to adopt the latter attitude, unless Marguerite brought the matter up herself. He also decided to play it very close to the vest, for Marguerite’s eyes were shrewd and observant as she regarded him with a faintly puzzled air.
“Are you quite well, my husband?” she said, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Somehow, you don’t sound quite yourself.”
“I’m as well as could be expected for a man who’s come so near to death,” he said, leaning back against the coach and shutting his eyes as he fanned himself with his handkerchief.
“Faith, my dear, you must have the courage of a lion! That pistol ball could not have passed but a hair’s breadth from your head and there you stand, calm as can be, asking me if I am well! Would that I were made of such stern stuff, my heart would not then be pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil!”
“Well, then when your heart has stopped its fearsome pounding, perhaps we could continue on our journey,” Marguerite said. “We shall not make Calais before tomorrow, even if we drive hard all the way.” She glanced up at the empty box and sighed. “I fear that you will have to play the coachman. It appears that our fainthearted driver was frightened even more than you were.”
“That’s the trouble with these new ‘citizens,’” said Finn. “They put their own petty concerns above their duty. Well, it appears that there’s nothing for it. I shall have to drive, then. With any luck, we will make Amiens tonight and reach Calais tomorrow. Are you quite certain that you’re up to a hard ride? We could travel at an easy pace, but I’m suddenly very anxious to go on with all dispatch. I fear that I shan’t feel safe until we’re on board the Day Dream.”
Marguerite smiled, wryly. “Well, then I shall muster up my lion’s courage and steel myself for the dangers of our journey.” Her voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. “If you would be so kind, Percy, as to assist me back into the coach?” Finn gave her his arm and helped her up, then closed the door and mounted up into the box. He whipped up the horses and drove the coach back onto the road. He drove at a brisk pace and, within fifteen minutes or so, the coach came within sight of the soldiers once again. There were only three of them, the officer and his two men, the others no doubt still beating the brush for the nonexistent ci-devant aristo. Finn saw that the soldiers had caught up to Fitzroy’s decoy wine wagon. They had pulled it off to the side of the road, where the old man stood beside his young “son,” wringing his hands and wailing as the soldiers tore the wagon apart board by board, searching for the Duc de
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