Page 1 of A Baron's Disguised Lady
Prologue
Sarum Lacy House, Wiltshire
February 1812.
“Don’t leave me, Archie, are you there?” Gwendolene said, and Archibald Thompson placed his hand on his sister’s, wanting to reassure her of his presence.
She was failing fast, her face pale, her hand cold to the touch. Her eyes were closed, and her lips, once so red and full, were now pinched and drawn. It was as though she was retreating into herself, preparing for her final journey. Archie felt tears welling up in his eyes, and he drew a deep breath, trying to stay strong, even in the face of such inevitable suffering.
“I won’t leave you, Gwendolene. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” Archie replied.
He had kept vigil at his sister’s bedside for the past three days, refusing to leave her, and sleeping in a chair next to her. Their mother had tried to persuade him to rest, but Archie was adamant. Gwendolene was his sister, his dearest friend. He loved her more than anything, and the thought of losing her was unbearable.
“My Lord, it’s time for her ladyship’s tonic,” the nurse said, and Archie looked up to find her standing in the doorway of his sister’s bedroom.
She had arrived after Christmas, when it was clear Gwendolene’s condition was only getting worse. Archie had been reluctant to admit it, adamant he could look after her, but the fever had taken hold. She had been so full of life, but now, she was reduced to a shadow of her former self, slowly fading like a tree losing its leaves, or a flower dropping its petals.
He did not know how this had come about. It all seemed so unfair. Archie rose to his feet, stepping back to allow the nurse to carry out her ministrations.
“I’m still here, Gwendolene. Let Marie give you your tonic,” Archie said.
He did not know if his sister could hear him, or if the tonic, prescribed by a doctor who had come up from London to attend her, would do any good. Nothing had seemed to work, and now it seemed to be a case of when, not if, she would slip away. A stream of sunlight was coming through the window, falling on his sister’s bed, the dust dancing in the rays.
But it was not the warm sun of a summer’s day, but the cold light of winter. Snow was lying thick on the ground around Sarum Lacy House, and there was no prospect of a thaw. Archiehad insisted on his sister’s bedroom fire being maintained at all times, and now he crossed over to the hearth, placing another log into the spluttering flames and warming his hands.
“That’s all until this evening, My Lord,” the nurse said, and Archie turned to her and nodded.
She was a practical woman—the sort who took no nonsense, and she had been diligent in her ministrations, even as little by way of progress had been made. Prayer was Archie’s last recourse, and he looked up at the crucifix hanging above his sister’s bed, remembering the words of the priest who had visited the previous day to administer the last rites.
“Peace is what she deserves, My Lord. The peace only God can give her,”he had said.
But Archie still clung to hope. He did not want his sister to die. It was a cruel and meaningless thing. She was still so young. Her whole life was ahead of her. She had barely begun to live.
He looked up at the crucifix, not understanding why, even as he knew it was not his place to question. Gwendolene had fallen asleep, the tonic as much a sedative as a cure, and Archie now sat down again at the side of the bed, maintaining his vigil, and longing for his sister to recover.
***
“You need to get some sleep, Archibald. You’ve sat here for days. Go to your bed and rest. I’ll stay with Gwendolene,” Archie’s mother—who always called him Archibald—said.
He looked up at her in surprise, not having realized she had entered the room. His mother, the dowager, was an imperious looking woman, very grand, dressed in a black gown with pearls at her neck, every bit the aristocratic lady. But her appearance disguised the fact of her true nature. Gwendolene had inherited much from her; her looks, her kindness, her gentle ways. Archie sighed.
“I want to stay, mother. What else can I do?” he asked, and his mother shook her head.
“Have something to eat, lie down in your own bed, read a book… anything to distract you from… this,” she said, glancing down at Gwendolene, whose eyes were closed, her head, with its red ringlets, turned to one side.
Her face had grown paler, more withdrawn. No one really knew what was wrong with her. She had been well until the start of December. But on the first Sunday of Advent, when the vestments the priest wore for Mass were purple, a sudden sickness had seized her. That had been the start of it, and since then, she had gradually faded.
“I… but she needs me, mother,” Archie said, even as his eyes were heavy with sleep.
“And I’d like a few moments alone with her, Archibald. She’s my daughter, as well as your sister,” his mother said.
It was not often she adopted a stern tone, but Archie now realized she was right. His was not the only grief, and he knew how it pained his mother to see Gwendolene suffer. Archie rose to his feet, offering the chair to his mother, who sat down with a sigh. There were tears in her eyes, and Archie placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and she nodded.
“I asked the servants to have something ready for you in the dining room. We still need to eat,” she said. Thanking her, Archie left his sister’s bedroom, closing the door behind him and sighing as he stood on the landing.
He was exhausted, even as he felt guilty for leaving Gwendolene’s side even for a few moments. But his mother was right, it was only fair to leave her and his sister alone for a moment. The day had turned dark, snow clouds gathering over the house, and as Archie made his way downstairs, he felt the chill of a draught around his legs.
