Percy’s voice became choked with emotion. “There had been a time . . . long before I met Marguerite . . . when she was little more than a girl, that an idealistic young firebrand, a member of the sans-culottes, had turned her head. Emile LeFevre was thoroughly smitten with her, and his Gallic charm was nearly enough to persuade her to abandon her own family and to follow the principles of the new Republic. Marguerite went so far in accepting the merits of LeFevre’s beliefs as to flout the aristocratic Feuillide pedigree and pursue her ambition to enter the theatre. Her suitor was pleased with her apparent conversion from aristo to citizeness, but soon his zealotry for the Republican ideals—which were blossoming into a bloodthirsty form of misplaced revenge against the nobility—caused Marguerite to fear LeFevre, and she attempted to bring a halt to the attentions he was paying her.”
Darlington anxiously ran a hand through his thick dark hair. Reliving the devastating events of his past was understandably an arduous task. “Marguerite and I met soon after she had requested LeFevre to leave her be. The Frenchman mistakenly believed I had come between them, and he detested me for being an Englishman, for being an aristocrat, and for the alleged theft of his true love. From that time forth, he did everything in his power to destroy Marguerite and me—and by extension, any of her family. When Marguerite returned to Paris to perform at the Comédie-Française, it was Emile LeFevre who gave the names of his former amour and her entire aristocratic family, including her brother—Eliza’s husband—to Robespierre’s Committee for Public Safety.”
“Good God,” C.J. whispered, horrified.
“Marguerite and her brother had been taken to the Bastille by the time I arrived in Paris. In 1794, the Terror had reached fever pitch. My efforts to negotiate with—even bribe—every Frenchman from the penurious jailers to the petty officers to Robespierre himself were jeered at. If attempts to secure their release failed, I had plotted an escape for them, but—to the misfortune of all—it was detected. One could not even trust the priests then. On the morning of the execution, I was escorted by armed citizens of the Republic to the Place de la Concorde, where I was forced, at point of bayonet, to watch my beautiful, talented wife and her brother, the Comte de Feuillide, beheaded by Madame la Guillotine, ‘guilty’ of nothing other than having been born into the aristocracy. Perhaps now, Miss Welles, you can more fully apprehend my revulsion for the French and for the fatal influence of the American rebels.” Darlington angrily scuffed a rut into the pebbled ground with the toe of his boot. He found himself unable to look into C.J.’s eyes.
There was a gulf of silence between them.
“I’m so sorry,” C.J. said softly. This was not the time to embark on a political diatribe or another impassioned defense of democracy.
“I have not grown so fond of you, Cassandra, simply because your aunt favors the match. The woman who I feel will give me the utmost happiness has the right to know my past. To embark upon anything more than a friendship with storm clouds of mystery between us is, to my mind, dishonest.”
“Why should you have feared that I would find defects in your character owing to what you have just imparted?”
“Perhaps you feel that I should have compelled my wife to remain by my side in England. It would have saved her life,” he said bitterly.
“No woman can be truly happy married to a tyrant who keeps her under lock and key, regardless of whether he claims it is for her own good. Trust me, Percy. You did do the only proper thing. Marguerite knew the risks, and took them regardless . . . and although I never had the privilege to know her, or to see her on the stage, I am sorry for you both.”
The earl took her hands in his. “Thank you,” he murmured. As he had hoped, Miss Welles did ease some of his burden. Perhaps it was a form of forgiveness he sought from her, as she was not his first love. Or perhaps it was the freedom to unburden his soul without the fear of her judging him. After he returned to England, it had not been in his plans to ever remarry. His solitude, he felt, was a deserved penance for being unable to prevent the murders of Marguerite and her family. Then Lady Dalrymple introduced him to the remarkable Miss Welles, and he began to reconsider his promise to himself.
The earl continued his discourse, recognizing, as he spoke, how parallel were some of the branches on his family tree. “Miss Austen’s cousin, born Eliza Hancock, who is presently married to Jane’s favorite brother, Frank, was Eliza de Feuillide, the count’s wife, until his execution. She was spared from the blade because she was an Englishwoman. So you see, we mourn, but we move on. If one were only capable of a single great love, it would be a tragedy. For think how many people experience that love when they are very young and, suffering disappointment, spend the remainder of their years alone, grieving or bitter. Take my aunt Augusta, for instance.”
Or take Jane, who never moved on after losing Tom Lefroy. She is a tragic heroine such as you have just described. But C.J. could not say the words. It was one story she would never tell. Would that she did have the power to alter Jane’s romantic history. One of the worst things about her nineteenth-century existence was the possession of knowledge she would be happier not to own. “Lady Dalrymple
