Page 12 of A Baron's Disguised Lady
“It’s always better to be shown around a house than to explore it for oneself. I can tell you the history of the place,” she said, and Lavinia and her mother now followed the dowager out into the hallway.
The study door was still closed, and Lavinia pictured the baron sitting at a desk or lounging in an armchair. She had always wondered what men like that did all day. They always seemed terribly busy, and engaged in work of the greatest importance, and yet there was nothing they wanted for, nor anything of a practical nature they had to accomplish for themselves.
Their meals were presented to them, their collars were starched, their water was heated—everything was to hand, and yet still, they appeared busy.
“Will His Grace be joining us?” Lavinia asked, as they passed the study door.
“His Lordship. He’s a baron, Lavinia, not a duke,” Horatia replied, smiling as Lavinia blushed.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I knew that,” she said, feeling annoyed with herself at her repeated mistake.
She still felt embarrassed over the episode with the carriage, her first impression to the baron, to Archibald, being that of her falling flat on her face.
“He’ll be busy with his correspondence. But he’ll join us for dinner. Now, let me show you some of the upper rooms, they’re the most ancient part of the house. There was a timewhen Sarum Lacy House was a fortified hall, in medieval times the animals would’ve slept downstairs, and the baron and his family above, attended by servants,” Horatia said, leading them upstairs.
But Lavinia’s thoughts were still with the baron, and she wondered what he was doing behind his study door…
***
My dear Mr. Trent, I write concerning the matter of your tenancy and thank you and your family for their loyalty to this family over the generations. Your present circumstances—the illness of your wife and child—gives me great cause for concern, and my sympathies are with you.
Please know I will do all I can to support you at this time, and bearing this in mind, the rent for your farm will not be due until such a time as you are able to pay…Archie finished the letter, signing with his usual flourish.
Bertie Trent had visited him the previous week, informing him of his wife’s illness. Archie had been sympathetic, and now he was writing to inform his tenant he would not be collecting rent from him until his wife was better. Archie knew all too well the pain of watching a loved one suffer, and he knew, too, his own privilege.
During his sister’s illness, he had not had to worry about putting food on the table or affording the cost of the doctor’s bill. If he could do something to help his tenant, he was only too glad to do so. Sealing the letter with a wax seal, Archie sat back with a sigh. He could hear his mother talking on the stairs. She would be giving Octavia and Lavinia a tour of the house. Archie was not looking forward to dinner.
The thought of making polite conversation did not appeal. He did not know what to say when faced with strangers. Thomas, the gardener, was right—Archie had become something of a recluse over the past few months, withdrawing into himself after the death of his sister. It felt safer that way, for he did not know how he could ever emerge from his sorrow.
Poor Mr. Trent. I can’t imagine his wife will survive,Archie thought to himself, as he took another letter from his pile of correspondence.
But despite the work he had to do, Archie’s thoughts were still distracted by his suspicions concerning Gwendolene’s death. He simply could not accept It had been natural, and yet as for who to blame…
Perhaps I’m just clutching at possibilities,he thought to himself, taking up his quill to answer a letter from his lawyer.
But try as he might, Archie remained distracted, and he knew he would find it difficult to sit through dinner with his mind on other things…
***
“We call this the long gallery, for obvious reasons,” Horatia said, as they stepped onto a corridor with exposed wooden beams, its walls paneled, and lined with portraits.
Some were very old, crude depictions of the baron’s ancestors, while the later ones were more formal, with their subjects dressed in their best clothes, gazing formidably out of the frames. They made their way along the corridor, and the dowager pointed out notable figures in the family’s history.
“It’s certainly an ancient line,” Lavinia’s mother said.
“Yes, right back to the Norman conquest. Oh, here’s an interesting character… Ruben Thompson, the twelfth baron. He had his wife bricked up in the old bell tower for her infidelity with a servant. She was fed and watered through a hole in the wall, and lived a life of penance for twenty years. After that, he let her out, and they carried on as they had in the past,” Horatia said.
Lavinia shuddered at the thought, and now they passed along the sweep of English history, with each of the barons having a story to tell. At the far end of the corridor, the dowager pointed out the portrait of her husband. He was a handsome man, and his son was his very image, with the same curly black hair and lean features.
“And there’s a portrait for every baron?” Lavinia asked.
“That’s right—oh, here’s Archibald’s,” she said, pointing to a portrait on the other side of the corridor.
But this one was different from the others. It showed not only the baron, but his sister, too. She was smiling, her head tilted to one side, and Archie positioned in the same way, the two of them leaning towards one another. Had she not known better, Lavinia might have assumed them to be husband and wife. She was curious about Gwendolene, and wanted to know more about her.
“And that’s your daughter? The one who died,” Lavinia said.
Her mother gave her a hard stare. But Lavinia did not believe in holding back her words. If there was something to say, she said it, and Horatia nodded.
