Disclaimer: I do not own the Sir Percy, Marguerite, or Lord Hastings. I do not even own Frank or Louise. They are property of Baroness Orczy. I own the doorman, the two giggling housemaids, and the French cook with the dirty mind. Everything else (even the event I am describing) belongs to Baroness Orczy. Please do not sue me!

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It was the day after the master's wedding, and Frank felt as if he were in for an easy day. He allowed himself the comfort of lying in bed until it was half past six, before seeing if the cook was up so he could have breakfast.

Sure enough, the cook was up, attempting to cook some extraordinary meal for the lord and lady of the household.

"It iz ze day afzer ze weeding," the cook declared in horribly accented English. "Zey will wan' somezing good, no?"

"Exactly so," Frank agreed, finishing his cup of tea quickly. Truthfully, he couldn't understand anything the cook was saying.

"I expec' zay will be vary tired," the cook continued, beating several eggs into a floury mixture. "I men- ze weeding nigh'..." The cook trailed off, bustling over to another table, where he measured out water.

Frank had understood that, but really did not want to think about it. "Er, yes. Quite right, quite right." As quickly as decorum would allow, he backed out of the kitchen and scurried towards the main hall, as Lord and Lady Blakeney were not up yet and Frank's job usually consisted of doing whatever Lord Blakeney asked him to do. Also, the butler had a terrible head cold, and someone had to take over for him.

He then spent a very dull morning chatting with the doorman and several housemaids, who could not stop giggling and somehow managed to bring the conversation back to the new Lady Blakeney's wedding dress. Frank didn't care one iota about Lady Blakeney's wedding dress, but no one particularly seemed to care; the doorman was smitten with Lady Blakeney and was more then eager to talk about her in any way, shape, or form.

Frank then attempted to set some standard of propriety by walking around the hall, organizing things from where they had been disturbed from the reception last night, but the doorman and housemaids didn't appear to notice his absence from the conversation.

The morning mostly passed by in this manner, except for when the servants who had brought breakfast up to Lord and Lady Blakeney reported the happy couple as 'disgustingly cute'.

It was nearly time for lunch when one of Sir Percy's friends began banging on the door in an agitated fashion.

The maids scurried off, still giggling, and the doorman straightened and opened the door.

"Good morning, sir," Frank greeted him politely, not remembering the name of the Englishman the doorman had just admitted into the house. "Would you like me to take your coat for you?"

"No," he replied distractedly. "I say, is Percy in?"

Frank thought, 'Well, of course he is, you ninny! There's no other logical place for him to be after his wedding night!' but politely murmured, "Indeed, sir. I am not sure he is out of bed yet, though. Would you like me to inform him of your presence, sir?"

The harried- looking English lord nodded. "Tell him Lord Hastings has an important message for him. Make sure he comes down here at once."

'Lord Hastings,' Frank repeated mentally, going up the velvet- carpeted stairs to his master's chambers, feeling somewhat awkward. He tapped nervously on the door and waited several seconds. Apparently, his master had not heard him. He rapped on the door loudly.

"Yes?" Lord Blakeney questioned, sounding slightly irked, but hiding it well. "I'm rather busy at the moment."

Frank nearly flushed with embarrassment. "I'm very sorry sir, but Lord Hastings is here to see you, and says that he has an important message for you."

Frank could hear Lady Blakeney mutter in French and Sir Percy called, "Tell him I'll see him tomorrow. It's bad manners to conduct business the day after a wedding."

Frank briefly reflected over which would be worse: confronting an irate Lord Hastings, or an irate Lady Blakeney. He then decided that if Lord Hastings had come on the day after a wedding, anything he had to say to Percy was obviously of vital importance, most likely pertaining to the League. Frank, being Sir Percy's personal valet, was probably the only servant to know about the League.

"Lord Hastings was most insistent that you come immediately, sir," Frank said.

When Sir Percy spoke again, he sounded slightly reluctant at first, but any emotion he felt faded into his usual, polished, aristocratic drawl. "Tell him I'll be down shortly."

'Must have had the same train of thought as I did,' Frank thought, trotting back down the stairs to the main hall. Lord Hastings was pacing and looking troubled.

"Milord Blakeney said he would be down shortly," Frank repeated. Lord Hastings nodded to convey that he had heard him, and continued pacing.

Frank was at a slight loss of what to do. "Ah- would you care for some refreshment, sir?"

"Tea," Lord Hastings muttered after a few more moments of frantic pacing.

"If you would but wait in the drawing room, sir," Frank advised him, observing, with hidden distaste, the muddy footprints Lord Hastings had generously deposited on the marble floor, "I am sure Sir Percy will be down in moments."

Lord Hastings nodded absently; apparently absorbed in the terrifying thought of having to tell Sir Percy something. Frank gently grasped Lord Hastings's elbow and led him into the drawing room, stifling a sigh as he eyed the mud Lord Hastings had trailed onto the carpet.

Frank ran off to the kitchen and told the cook to prepare a tea-service for Lord Hastings and Sir Percy and have someone take it to the main drawing room on the right.

Then Frank trotted off to the servant's quarter to find someone to mop up the floor, only to find that the giggling housemaids were being reprimanded for shirking their duties, and everyone else was busy trying to get the wine-stains out of the upholstery in the dining room from the wedding reception.

Frank grimaced, but borrowed a mop, a bucket, and a bar of lye soap and dragged it back to the hall. He deposited the mop and soap on the floor and lugged the bucket back to the kitchen, filled it with water, and lugged it back to the main hall. Feeling annoyed- he was Sir Percy's personal valet for goodness' sake and he wasn't supposed to clean up mud- he dropped the soap into the bucket with a 'thunk' and swirled the mop about irritably. The doorman was guffawing to himself and Frank fought the urge to snap at him to mop the floor himself.

When Frank considered the water soapy enough to be suitable for washing away mud, and taken off his gold-trimmed red jacket, folded it, and placed it carefully on a chair, Sir Percy came down the stairs, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. Sir Percy stopped short at the sight of his (normally) dignified valet mopping the floor in his shirtsleeves.

"Benyon?" Sir Percy questioned, looking bemused.

"Sir?" Frank retorted nearly impolitely, letting the mop hit the floor with a wet 'smack'.

"Why are you mopping the floor?"

"Because the floor is muddy, sir." Frank pushed the mop viciously over the marble floor, for the moment, hating his job.

Sir Percy followed the mop's movement with twinkling blue eyes. "I can see that, m'dear fellow. To whom do these muddy footprints belong?"

Frank thought of the muddy footprints on the Persian rug in the sitting room with displeasure. "Lord Hastings, sir."

"And where do the footprints end?"

"The main drawing room, sir. There is a tea service in there as well."

Sir Percy looked as if he was about to laugh. "Thank you." The long limbed English gentleman strolled into the sitting room, where he warmly greeted his worried looking friend. He shut the mahogany wood door behind him, leaving the doorman and the valet out of the conversation.

Frank plunged the mop into the bucket with more force then was necessary, creating a small tidal wave of soapy water that fell over the bucket's edge, onto floor like a warm woolen blanket. Frank worked the mop across the floor viciously, working hard to remember why it was good to work for Sir Percy.

'1. He pays well,' Frank thought, calming down slightly at the thought of lists. He found comfort in their unshaken order. The numbers never changed their order, and what usually followed them was simple and made sense. Lists never assumed to be more then they were, or caused trouble.

'2. My family has worked for the Blakeney family for generations.

3. He is a very kind master- he never demands much, and when he does, it is a rare occasion.

4. If I quit this job, it is doubtful I could find a position elsewhere, as the current unrest in France has not encouraged people to be hiring.

5. The bonuses are always large.

6. His house is always very orderly.

7. I have known Sir Percy since I was ten and he was four. He trusts me, and it is a good feeling to be trusted.

8. The food is always very good.

9. The room he has given me is very comfortable.

10. Usually, the other servants are helpful and kind.'

He was thinking of an eleventh reason when he noted, with relief, that he had mopped most of the mud up. He squeezed out the mop, pleased with himself, and began mopping up the muddy water, when the mahogany door swung open again. Lord Hastings, looking troubled and more then a little depressed, walked out across the hall.

The doorman swung open the door impassively, and Lord Hastings called for his horse. Frank looked at the slightly less muddy footprints and muddy water now splattered about the polished marble floor and wanted to snap his mop in half. Another good thing about working for Sir Percy- Sir Percy was meticulously careful of his stylish clothing, and never dragged mud into the house.

'In fact,' Frank thought as he violently pushed the mop across the floor in nearly exact parallel lines, 'Sir Percy is probably the paragon of an English gentleman. He never loses his temper, he always appears to be in good humor, and he is a good sportsman. His household is run smoothly and efficiently; he is a favorite of drawing rooms across England, and despite all circumstances, he remains reserved, and a gentleman. I may admit he is not the brightest of Englishman at times, but I'm sure he just acts imbecilic to safe-guard his identity as the Scarlet Pimpernel.'

His thoughts were cut off when he noticed a maid lingering in the doorway of the drawing room, looking around in slight bewilderment. Frank, slightly calmer at the reappearance of some of the marble floor, carefully leaned his mop against the wall and pulled on his jacket. He readjusted his powdered wig and tapped the maid lightly on the shoulder.

"Is something detaining you from removing the tea service and bringing it back to the kitchen to be cleaned?" he questioned politely, keeping his voice quiet so he would not disturb Sir Percy.

"Yes," she murmured, nervously plucking at her apron. "It's... oh... if you'd but look inside, Frank..."

He looked inside the elegantly furnished sitting room. Frank was utterly dumbfounded. There, on the fawn- colored leather settee, was Sir Percy, hunched over, his shoulders racked with silent sobs.

"Oh," Frank mumbled, at a loss of anything else to say.

"Exactly," the maid agreed, worried. "Is Sir Percy...?"

Frank examined his master with concern. "I... don't know. Perhaps we should... let him be." Frank was at a lost of what to do. There seemed to be no logical solution to this. Sir Percy was a perfect English gentleman, who almost never showed any emotion but fatigue, amusement, or boredom. And there he was, weeping into his hands so the sound of his sobs was stifled, his broad shoulders shaking with the weight of each tear.

"This doesn't make sense," the harried valet muttered, hand resting on the handle of the door.

The maid bit her lip, obviously worried. "This is not normal for Sir Percy. What should we do? Is there something we can do?" She began plucking at her white apron again. "Frank- you've known the master since you were ten... has milord ever done something like this?" Their voices were hushed, barely audible, as if they were conversing over someone on their deathbed.

Frank wanted to make a list of past incidents to calm his mind but he couldn't think of any. "When milord Blakeney broke his arm when he was twelve... no, he didn't sob like this. When his mother died... no... his father's death... no... I've never seen him cry quite like this before." Frank felt helpless and horribly out of sync. He shut the door softly, feeling deeply guilty for having intruded upon Sir Percy in a moment where his genteel façade had cracked.

The maid, looking close to tears herself, fled back to the kitchen, and Frank mechanically pulled off his coat, folded it, and placed it on a chair. He began mopping the floor again.

"What happened?" the doorman called.

"Absolutely nothing," Frank lied, mopping one spot on the floor over and over again.

The doorman scowled, but said nothing else. After a few moments where Frank felt as if the world was careening wildly out of control, Sir Percy walked out of the sitting room, adjusting the dandelion- colored lapels of his jacket.

"Ah, Benyon!" Sir Percy called in his usual drawl. To the untrained observer, you couldn't tell that anything was wrong- but Frank had known Sir Percy for most of his life and noted the slight tremor in his voice, and the way his red- rimmed eyes refused to look up from his jacket.

"Sir?" Frank murmured.

"Please..." Sir Percy trailed off a moment to control the tremor that was now blatantly obvious, "please inform my wife, Marguerite, that if she has anything to say to me... to tell me, I will be in the garden." He strode off briskly, letting his misery hang wearily on his face for a moment- no longer- before assuming a look of slight fatigue.

"Is summat up with him?" the doorman asked, examining the retreating form of Sir Percy.

"My guess is that he's tired," Frank replied, forcing himself to sound irritable. "Wouldn't you be, after your wedding night? Really, George- don't you have a job to do that does not concern gossip and idle speculation on the master of this household or his new wife?"

The doorman, flushing in slight embarrassment, turned back to the door, standing stiffly straight.

Frank didn't stop mopping, even when he had mopped the floor twice. He felt oddly detached from his body, as if normal feelings, like hunger (he had forgotten to go to lunch) or weariness, no longer bothered him. He barely noticed when Lady Marguerite's personal maid, Louise, flew into the house, looking greatly agitated, her white mob cap askew and nearly falling off her head.

He only asked her to please wipe the bottom of her boots on a rag he had found before entering the house and to deliver the message Sir Percy had entrusted him with. Then he went back to mopping for a while, until several couriers came to the house with sealed letters addressed to Sir Percy. Frank absently had someone deliver them to the garden and went back to mopping.

The only reason he stopped mopping, in fact, was when Lady Blakeney, looking pale, but beautiful as ever, flew down the stairs, clutching her skirts.

"Benyon," she ordered tersely in French-accented English, but looking remarkably calm, "where is the garden?"

Frank propped the mop carefully against the wall and put on his jacket. "The garden is this way, milady."

Feeling confused and curious, Frank led her down the twisting hallways and out into the garden. From there, he marched solemnly on for a few minutes, and pointed at the stationary figure on a stone bench just a few meters away, assuming she was looking for her husband. Lady Blakeney ran over to where her husband was sitting and knelt in the grass beside the bench, heedless of her lavender- trimmed white dress, which was sure to be grass- stained. Frank inwardly winced for the laundry maids.

He thought that he should probably go inside, but was oddly curious as to what Lady Marguerite was softly confessing to Sir Percy, and why Sir Percy looked so distant and emotionless.

He was soon to find out, as Lady Blakeney had paused, and grasped one of her husband's hands in between her two smaller ones. She took a breath, as if to continue, but Sir Percy, looking away and looking immeasurably sad, muttered something to her which caused her to drop his hand as if she had held a snake.

She attempted to say something more, but Sir Percy courteously interrupted her and, looking every bit the proper English gentleman, began informing her of something, pointing to the letters with lay on the bench beside him. Lady Blakeney tried to interrupt several times, but failed, and in the end, she spoke to him in a furious tone of voice, and got up and walked away haughtily.

Frank, who always managed to observe the details, noted how her blue eyes sparkled fiercely in the sunlight from unshed tears and how her knuckles had gone white when she clutched at her skirts. A muscle was working in her cheek and her breathing was ragged and uneven.

Frank was even more confused then before. What was so distressing that it caused the reserved Lord Blakeney to weep and the cheerful and witty Lady Blakeney to yell and storm off looking as if she, too, would cry?

After Lady Blakeney had swept back inside the house, Frank surreptitiously glanced at Lord Blakeney, who had watched his wife's departure impassively, before crumpling into himself, face in his hands, elbows on his knees. His shoulders were trembling again and Frank felt awful for him.

He was at a complete and utter loss of what to do. This had not happened before and was most unlike Sir Percy. He carefully weighed his options and approached Sir Percy with utmost trepidation, and knelt in front of his master.

"Sir?" Frank questioned, almost inaudibly. "Are you all right?"

"No," Sir Percy choked out muffledly, "I don't think I'll... I'll ever be all right again."

Frank, slightly more dumbfounded, waited until his master's shoulders trembled less and his breathing was less ragged.

"Sir," he murmured, "if it is not to bold of me to ask, what happened?"

Sir Percy was silent a moment, then he looked up and over Frank's shoulder at the rosebushes. "Have you ever been in love?"

The question was blunt and abrupt, leaving Frank with a feeling akin to a man who has been shot. He struggled to find an answer. "No, sir, I don't think so."

"I have," Sir Percy whispered, turning his red- rimmed gaze to his hands, which lay on his silk- covered lap. "I am, in fact." He paused and smiled a little- a hollow, desperate smile that made Frank feel oddly miserable. "I adore my wife, utterly and hopelessly. Do you know that I have literally kissed the ground Lady Blakeney walks on?"

Frank was bewildered as to where this conversation was headed. How had they gotten onto the subject of Lord Blakeney's blind devotion of his wife? "I... had not been aware of the truth of that statement, sir."

Sir Percy gave a hollow, mirthless laugh that matched his smile. "I love her with every inch of my being. I will never stop loving her, which makes what I will have to do infinitely harder."

"Which is, sir?" Frank prompted, desperately searching for facts so he could understand this startling event.

Sir Percy tired picked up a letter from the pile beside him and stared at it, looking heart-broken. "Lord Hastings came to me with the information first- he had heard it being talked over during my wedding reception, and found the truth of it by asking some soldiers at the East gate. Marguerite," he paused a moment, as his eyes had filled with tears at her name and his voice trembled, "Lady Blakeney betrayed the family to the French tribunal. The entire family, even the children, was executed this morning."

Frank was stunned to the point of immobility. He felt he should say something, should do something, anything... but couldn't.

"I've received several letters informing me of the same thing," Sir Percy continued on, in a beaten, dejected tone of voice. "And I waited for Mar... for Lady Blakeney to say something, to explain why she had done this, but she... she offered none. I would have accepted any answer at all, that she was willing to give me... but she was silent. She demanded I accept this fact, forgive her for it, and defend her against such rumors... without a shred of explanation." Sir Percy's voice trembled heavily and he had to pause to calm himself. "I... I could not."

Frank, who had had cried perhaps once in his entire lifetime, felt as if he too, would begin crying. "That..." he paused swallowed the lump that had gathered in his throat, "that is most understandable, sir."

"My pride," Percy whispered, crumpling the letter in his hand. "My pride would not allow it. So now I must act the fool, the fop, the adored imbecile of the English court around her as well." He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against his clenched fist.

Frank was annoyed at himself for being so helpless, for not being able to make sense of what was happening.

"Marguerite," Sir Percy murmured, the one name containing all the longing, the despair, and the love one human could possibly contain.

Frank felt ashamed for being there, for seeing the brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had never seemed afraid- no matter the danger- or sad- no matter the circumstances, in the midst of great personal agony. It was as if the Sir Percy Frank knew- the fop and the hero- had been shattered in that one instant, forcing Frank to realize that his employer was just as human as he was.

"I cannot risk letting her know that I'm the Scarlet Pimpernel. She has betrayed more then one innocent person to the guillotine and she is more then capable of doing it again. I cannot let her know who I really am." Percy took a deep, shuddering breath. "No matter what I do, happiness always seems to elude me."

"Sir?" Frank questioned, wanting to be able to help in some way, to try and figure things out, to make things as they were. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Have someone move Lady Blakeney's possessions to the large guest bedroom on the other side of the house. Those are to be her chambers for now.' His voice broke on the word 'now' and Sir Percy had to pass his hand over his eyes to hide his tears.

Frank looked away, feeling ashamed, startled, and (for some reason) hopeless. "Anything else, sir?"

"Nothing, save if you could change the past," Sir Percy mumbled, letting the crumpled letter fall to the ground, and burying his face in his hands. "I... I suppose I set her up on a pedestal, but she was only human after all. She is only human..."

Frank knelt there for a few moments more, watching his master's unmoving form, before standing to do as Sir Percy had requested. He walked away, the words, 'only human' pounding through his brain relentlessly.

Once inside, Louise came up to him, looking confused and worried. She spoke with a French accent slightly heavier then her mistress's, but her English was still very good. "Frank- Lady Blakeney wishes to be moved to another room. She no longer wishes to share one with her husband. Did, did she and Sir Percy have a lover's quarrel over the... the event that occurred this morning?"

Frank nodded wearily. "Sir Percy has anticipated her wishes. There is a large and comfortable bedroom on the other side of the house that will be prepared for her ladyship. And yes- there was an argument of sorts... but it is unlikely that their conflict will ever be resolved." He glanced at the dark form of Sir Percy still huddled on the bench.

Louise readjusted her mob cap so that it covered her dark hair more thoroughly, a nervous habit of hers. "But... milord Blakeney loved milady Blakeney so deeply... and... milady has a... fondness for him... she might even love him, a bit..."

Frank shrugged, desperate to make a list of something. "Some conflicts can overcome love, I suppose. Love is illogical, anyways."

Louise readjusted her cap again, agitated. "Poor Lady Blakeney."

"Poor Lord Blakeney," Frank muttered. "I've never seen him like this before."

Louise muttered something in French while fussing with her mob cap and Frank made a mental list of the servants needed to move Lady Blakeney's possessions to the other room. Both feeling slightly calmer, they turned to each other.

"How has... Lord Blakeney handled the argument?" Louise asked tentatively, still fiddling with her cap.

Frank glanced around to make sure no one was listening to them. "He's sobbing. I've never seen him cry so... hard before. He's utterly lost in grief. He's..." Frank searched for the right word, "completely heart- broken." He paused as they both glanced at the shadowy figure out in the garden. "And... Lady Blakeney?"

"As soon as she got in, she fell onto the bed, crying as well. It took nearly ten minutes for her to calm down enough so I could understand her." Louise bit her lip, her dark eyes worried. "If only they knew how much they hurt each other- how much they care for one another."

Frank straightened his powdered wig and smoothed out his waistcoat. "It's not our place to comment on the behavior of milord and milady Blakeney. And we are powerless to resolve this." Frank was tempted to give a bitter laugh, but refrained. "After all, we are their servants... and they are only human."

Louise looked as if she wanted to cry over the helpless plight of her employers, but nodded.

"Let's get two or three man-servants for heavy trunks and a few maids to help pack," Frank decided, remembering to put business first. "How many maids would you think we need?"

"Just one other, I think. Milady Marguerite has not unpacked much- she was preparing for the move to England in a few days." Louise tugged her cap down slightly. "Will she still have a separate room there, too?"

Frank watched as the figure of Lord Blakeney knelt on the grass outside, praying. "Undoubtedly."

"It pains me to see how stupid they are," Louise muttered, turning away from the window and giving one last, impatient tug on the edge of her cap.

"They are only human," Frank remarked again, looking away from the window with eyes closed against a sudden burst of tears. "Only human."