Title: Marco: Interlude
Sequel to Marco, Mentally Challenged, and Contessa
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Written: 13-14 January, 2019
Fandom(s): A Place to Call Home / Pride and Prejudice
Pairing(s): (past) Marco/Darcy, (pseudo-past) Marco/George Bligh, (present) Marco/Surprise
Relationship(s): Marco Hightower & Cardinal Robert Hightower
Warnings: time travel, miscarriage, abandonment, Roman Catholicism
Summary: Marco is once again a teenager, but in 2005 and on tour as Marcelle Bligh. She remembers Darcy, she remembers George, but what she doesn’t remember is her father being alive…
Marco: Interlude
Marco Hightower wasn’t certain exactly where she was, or, precisely, when she was. The set up was familiar. The room had a vanity and mirrors all across one wall, a door to the far left. In the corner where she was standing was a place for her to change and all along the walls were posters of various concerts that had taken place at this venue. Marco was clearly in a dressing room. Going over to the mirror, she took in herself. She was just as young as she had been five minutes before—nineteen, twenty. It was clear with this time shift she hadn’t found the missing ten years of her life.
Her hair was done in a twist, the thick black curls tamed by diamond pins. Wait, she recognized the one that pushed her hair away from her forehead. Leaning into the mirror she saw a diamond clip with rubies—Anna Bligh had given it to her when they were in Cambridge back in 1952. Was she? Could she? But no.
An ipod was lying on the vanity.
Sitting down in her silk white gown, she felt the modern stiletto sandals on her feet. Nothing like them existed in the 1950s. She was dressed like The White Rose, classical pianist and International Sensation.
The scent of roses permeated through the room, all of them white, except for the telltale red ones from her mother. Mom. She was alive. How strange. Marco had lived so long without her. She wasn’t sure she knew what it meant to have a mother anymore.
The only mother she had known—however briefly—was Mrs. Elizabeth Bligh.
A photograph caught her attention and her eyes honed in on a frame that showed a newspaper cut out of—no, that wasn’t possible. There she was, with her long Italian hair and black eyes, sitting next to George Bligh, her second husband. The article was dated 1953, speaking of how the newly elected Member for Parliament was moving to Sydney with his wife of less than a year and their only child—a son. No name was given.
Beside the framed article were two rings—her engagement and wedding rings.
Her gaze once again fell on the iPod in confusion.
A knock sounded on the door, jarring her back to a sense of the present. “Come in,” she called, suddenly exhausted, hoping she had already given a concert and wasn’t about to go on stage.
The face of her manager, Charles Haversham, appeared. He was tall and thin, with a neck like a crane, and a slightly comical face that reminded her of Ichabod Crane starring Bing Crosby.
Giving him a small smile as it had been years since she had seen him, she asked, “I can’t remember the date. I’m so tired, I can’t remember the date, Charles.”
“Perfectly understandable,” he agreed in his slightly southern drawl. “It’s January 14th. You did have three encores.”
Three encores. That did sometimes happen at the beginning of her career before she put an end to it and insisted on leaving the stage after only one no matter how the crowd called for her.
She raised an eyebrow at him, asking him silently to continue. “2005.”
Oh, Lord. She was just short of her nineteenth birthday then.
In his hands were the telltale chocolate bar and carton of milk, something she insisted on after every performance. He quickly came over and put the offerings in front of her and placed his hand over her forehead, reminding her of Nurse Adams, and then again on her cheek. “You must be overtired.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “That must be it.” Picking up the chocolate bar, she unwrapped it and took a bite, moaning in pleasure. She hadn’t had much chocolate in nineteenth century England and absolutely none in the mental institution. Also, for some reason she had never told George of her weakness for it so it had never been offered to her in 1952. “Do I have any obsequious suitors?”
“I’ve selected two,” Haversham told her as he took a seat beside her. “One is a young man, British obviously,”—ah, they must be somewhere in Britain—”who is an avid fan and a Marquis.”
“Tell me he’s not in his seventies!” she begged. “I don’t want to be photographed with a seventy-year-old. I’m young. I’m carefree. Let’s start some romantic rumors to up sales.” Her eyes sparkled in amusement as she parroted his usual argument when she wanted to just go back to the hotel.
“He’s in his late twenties,” Haversham stated kindly, placing a hand on her bare arm in a brotherly gesture. “The other claims to be a Hightower.” He paused. “You told me once that your father was a Hightower even though you, yourself, are a Bligh.”
This startled her. Glancing down at the vanity, she realized there wasn’t a program. “Do you have a program?” she asked.
Looking startled, Haversham nonetheless produced one and she saw that the name ‘Marcelle Bligh’ was proclaimed across it. In this reality she had never forgotten her husband then. Her eyes flitted to the cut out again, wondering at it all, before she handed it back.
“Hightower?”
“Cardinal Hightower. As you are Catholic, I thought you’d appreciate it.”
For some reason a chill ran through her. Looking at Haversham, she took in his watery blue eyes and then nodded. “Let’s see this Marquis. Then bring in the Cardinal ten minutes later.”
Snapping off one last square of chocolate, Marco popped it into her mouth and took the two rings and slipped them onto her finger.
“You promised—” Haversham reminded her carefully, but she stubbornly did not take them off. “I know you and your mother are no longer speaking because you apparently gotten married, but whoever your husband is, he seems to have taken himself off.”
“And yet I am devoted,” she stated sadly, remembering the gentle kisses in the night, hands on her stomach as he made soft love to her.
Haversham hesitated a moment. “I thought you wanted to make him jealous.”
“Fine,” she sighed, taking them off again and slipping them next to the picture frame. “Show in the Marquis.”
Turning away toward the mirror so that she could take in her reflection, the diamond clip that Anna Bligh of all people had given her, touching it to see if it was real.
The door opened behind her and she saw a familiar figure appear, this time in a tux. His smooth brown hair was the same as it ever was, the bright blue eyes, the tall frame, the steady hands. Last time she had seen him he had been in a pullover and denims, so out of place in 1950s Cambridge, saying he must be dreaming as she was alive. Slowly, she turned and took him in and his bright blue eyes showed obvious admiration, a bit of adoration which was usual in her fans, but not the familiar signs of love and devotion.
He was holding a bouquet of—
“Purple roses!” she exclaimed, standing and coming up to him. Marco smiled at him widely as she accepted them. “You don’t know what a relief it is to see color.”
“I imagine, Miss Bligh,” he answered in his rich baritone. “You are, after all, called ‘the White Rose’. You’re famous for your devotion to the color.”
“I am,” she agreed, as she looked down at the beautiful display of purple. “But, forgive me, I don’t know who you are.”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” he responded. “Lord Ashbourne.”
“Lord Ashbourne,” Marco greeted, not curtseying as she was American and she didn’t believe in such things. She had bobbed to Sir Henry and Lady Swanson, but only the once before it was ‘discovered’ she was an Italian Countess, and then it was fortunately unnecessary. “You like the classical piano then.”
Turning from him, she went over to a white arrangement of white lilacs and roses—she could read the note later—and started arranging the pale purple roses among them. As Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, she had become rather adept at flower arrangements.
“So few people, until your rise to fame,” he answered carefully, “appreciated it. I really must commend you, Miss Bligh, on achieving what I thought was unachievable.”
She smiled softly to herself. He still sounded like Darcy—and he had always enjoyed her playing.
“I’m only glad I could help bring back that appreciation,” she stated. “I’ve had hundreds of school teachers, if you can imagine, thank me as their bands and music classes are suddenly filled. Piano teachers suddenly have work. It seems I’ve started an industry without even realizing it—I’m even on the Hot 100 in America with some of my more avant garde pieces though, unfortunately, I’m not permitted on the English Pop Charts.” Finishing with the last rose, she turned to Lord Ashbourne and gave him a slightly false smile. Marco was, after all, playing a part. “Do you play?”
“No,” he answered carefully, “however, my sister is taking lessons. I couldn’t get her Headmaster to let her out for the night to come hear you.”
“Would you like a personalized autograph?” she asked kindly. “Would she like that?”
Ashbourne’s face brightened. “Georgie would love that! She owns every one of your c.d.’s, Miss Bligh.”
Turning to where she usually kept a stack of photographs, she found one of her with her hair wild around her face, a single white rose in her hair, a white gown flowing off her with white gloves coming past her elbows. There was a single dash of tone change in the monochromatic photograph in the black belt, if one could call it that. It was more like chain links. She was sitting at a piano, however, turned outward toward the audience. Picking up a pen, Marco made it out to ‘Georgie’ as that was the name she had been given, careful to sign it ‘Marcelle Bligh’. Handing it over, she saw the door was opening behind Ashbourne and her heart stopped as she saw the Cardinal red. The photograph fell from her fingers as she took in the similar slope to the nose, the glittering green eyes, the white hair, and knew exactly who this was.
Cardinal Robert Hightower took her in and a sad look came over his face. “I asked your mother to tell you that when I reconverted to the Catholic faith. I thought it would be easier as you were only a child of seven.”
Marco looked at Lord Ashbourne, giving him a small smile, and asked kindly, “Would you excuse me and my father? We haven’t seen each other in over a decade.”
“Pemberley,” he stated carefully, and she looked at him sharply. “All those days riding at Pemberley, you used to sneak the Byron. I’ve been here for twelve years just waiting for a chance to see you, Marco.”
Her eyes blew wide.
“I never thought you’d change your name or have a stage name.”
Lying, she stated coolly, “I don’t know what you mean.—I would like to speak to my father, Lord Ashbourne.” She leveled a stare at him, which she was certain he would recognize.
Ashbourne—who was in fact Darcy—looked at her for a long moment before reaching into his breastpocket and not only taking out a business card but a small envelope. Handing them over to Haversham, he then took Marco’s hand and kissed the back of it. “I came through with the wedding ring,” he murmured.
She didn’t answer. To say anything would be to acknowledge the fact that she had, in fact, once known him.
He didn’t look a day over thirty. That meant if he came through to 1995, he would have been about twenty. That would have been startling. Marco certainly had found that back in the 1940s when she was suddenly a teenager.
Darcy withdrew and she was left with her manager and her—father—who was dressed in Cardinal red.
“Did Mom know you were coming?” she asked carefully, looking down at her lap.
“No,” he answered gently, coming up to her but keeping a respectful distance.
Haversham, bless him, took the extra chair that was beside her and placed it beside Robert Hightower so that he could sit. He would be a man in his—seventies or eighties. Marco wasn’t entirely certain.
Marco then leveled a look at him, eyes blazing.
A gasp escaped his lips. “You look so much like Oria.”
“Strange,” she commented. “Mom says I remind her of you.”
The father and daughter fell into silence, each looking at one another openly. Finally, it was Marco who broke the silence.
“Why’d you leave us? Episcopalians convert and are allowed to take their families.”
“Not when they’ve already defected,” he told her carefully. “It was a condition. I made it so that the church paid for your education at St. Helen’s in New York. They’re paying for Julliard, not that you need the money. You, at least, are taken care of, although I could do nothing for your mother.”
“Your love for the church was greater than your love for us?” Marco asked, her voice hitching just a little, despite her best efforts.
He sighed a little and leaned forward, setting his elbow on his red clad elbow, his double chin hidden by the fact that his chin was resting on his fist. “Darling, I know you. I may not have seen you for twelve years. You know the answer to that. Your mother understands—sneaking you off to Roman Catholic services despite my best efforts to work.”
And, yes, she did understand. Sadly, she did. It was unfortunately like breathing. The faith was everything, but she had married outside of it twice and she had been happy the first time and then unbearably happy the second. Carefully, she turned around and took her rings and slipped them onto her hand. “Daddy,” she murmured, “I’ve never known a greater joy then with my husband.”
Immediately, he was kneeling before her and kissing her hands. “There is nothing I want more for you,” he swore, tears glittering in his green eyes. “I never wanted a religious life for you. I never wanted you to be a nun like Oria. That life was stifling to her, ruining her bloom, however much she loved the Lord. I am glad that you have found a balance.”
Turning her thoughts inward, she whispered, “Have I? George is Anglican. He’s promised to take me to mass on Christmas—but he has a position to uphold.”
“A position, Marco, darling?”
She shrugged off his hands and turned toward the article. “Yes,” she agreed. “I don’t know if I will ever see him again—but I live in hope.”
Marco doubted that her father understood, but he said nothing. He merely knelt there. “May I take you to dinner, Marco dear? I flew in from Rome to hear you—I know you have a concert there later this month, but I have a fondness for Royal Albert Hall and couldn’t be prouder that you were playing here.” Carefully getting to his feet, Marco looked up at him.
“You left me. Forgot about Mom. You left me. I thought you were dead.” She stood angrily, looking at the man who in another life had been a doting and loving man. “And for what? Cardinal’s robes?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I left you, but I was always watching. I received monthly reports from St. Helen’s. I receive your grades from Julliard. I saw the pictures of you at your prom with that boy who looked like he belonged in a rock band. I’ve been going to your concerts for years, proudly watching my little girl. It was just too much this time, when your mother wrote and said you were married and she had never even met the man—”
“Right,” she spat angrily. “You’re now playing the father. Your daughter is married and you need to meet the man, don’t you, and properly threaten him?—Get out.”
“Marco,” he pleaded. “I trust you. You’re a Hightower. You are obviously a woman of convictions and I’m sure my—absence—from your life caused you to grow up sooner than most, combined with becoming an international superstar. I just wanted to see you, see that you were being treated well.”
Deflating, she admitted, “I am being treated very well.” Her thoughts turned to George and how she would sometimes just sit in his arms, her back against his chest, and stare out into the distance.
Absently she wondered if the little Olivia Bowes-Lyon had been sent back yet to England. Then again, she could choose to stay in Australia and start over with a new life. Marco doubted that Olivia had the stomach for it. Then again, the girl could always surprise her.
“Just go,” she begged. “You died years ago. You can’t expect, Cardinal, to come back from the dead. You’re not our Lord, after all.” Turning away, she looked down at the newspaper article and looked at the beloved face of her second husband.
There were some quiet murmurings from behind her and then the sound of a door opening and closing behind her.
Not turning, she asked, “Is the Cardinal gone?”
“I’m so sorry, Marco,” Haversham apologized, coming up to her from behind, causing her to shy away a little. Her time in the mental institution had not been completely without leaving its mark.
“Don’t let him in if he comes to Rome,” she begged. “Or any other Prince of the Church. I don’t want any of them making his case.” She moved toward the privacy screen, and paused to look at him. “Was the other man really a Marquis?”
“He’s in Debretts,” he answered apologetically.
Marco nodded once and then moved behind the screen.
It was like moving through a door that was already open. She found herself in the country hospital in Inverness and a cramp moved through her and she grit her teeth. Immediately, Nurse Adams was beside her, holding her hand.
“Breathe, your highness,” she stated calmly. “We’ll get you into a bed and Dr. Duncan will be here momentarily.”
Pressing her hand against her stomach as another cramp pulsed through her, Marco felt a trickle of blood run down her leg. “I’m hemorrhaging,” she sobbed at the thought that she was still carrying her husband’s child—that she was losing him—because the article said that she had a son. “I can feel the blood.” She looked down at herself and saw she was wearing a brown day dress and that there was indeed blood sticking to her hose. White gloves were on her hands, but she could feel her wedding band and engagement ring on her fourth finger. Somehow, though, they felt slightly different than they had a moment ago. The fact that they were there, at least, was a relief.
Another nurse hurried out and helped her into a bed, stripping off her hose and garters, her shoes discarded somewhere. “Where’s George?” she whispered.
“Your father-in-law?” Nurse Adams asked in confusion. “I don’t know. However, the driver went for your husband—James Bligh.”
Marco must have looked at her in horror because Nurse Adams felt her forehead. “Yes,” she murmured to the other nurse. “She’s a little feverish. The poor lamb must be a bit confused.” Then louder, she stated, “Dr. Duncan is coming. Your husband is coming. You have nothing to worry about. We need you to breathe and think about happy things while we check on the baby.”
And so Marco just lay back and thought about how she seemed to have three husbands in her existence. What the fuck was happening in her life?
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