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. Archie had 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.

Sarum Lacy House was the ancient seat of the Barons of Sarum, tracing its foundations to the Norman Conquest. Archie had inherited the title from his father six years previously, and since then, he had his sister had managed the estate as a joint enterprise. The thought of losing her was unimaginable, and Archie had believed the two of them would grow old together, sharing in life's joy and sorrows.

"Your mother asked me to lay a place for you in the dining room, My Lord. A little soup, perhaps? Some cheese?" asked Hargreaves, the butler, as Archie came down the hallway, finding him standing stiffly at the dining room door.

Hargreaves had been with the family since before Archie was born. He was fiercely loyal, and Archie knew he—along with all the servants—would mourn the loss of his sister as well.

"Thank you, Hargreaves. Some soup will suffice," Archie said, and the butler opened the dining room door for him.

The east wing was the most ancient part of the house. Once a fortified dwelling, it had served the family well during the civil war, and in times of persecution against the Catholic population. The house was a maze of corridors and locked rooms. There were no less than three priest holes, though the days of hiding visiting clergy for days at a time were mercifully over.

Now, the house seemed unnecessarily large and cut off, hidden away in the depths of the English countryside, and surrounded on all sides by a vast estate, made up of tracts of woodland and remote farms.

Hargreaves had lit candles around the room, and there was a fire in the hearth, but still, it felt cold. The single place setting at the large table, watched over by portraits of Archie's long-dead ancestors on the paneled walls above, only served as a reminder of how it would be when Gwendolene was gone.

"One moment, My Lord. I'll bring the soup," the butler said, retreating from the room.

Archie looked down at the place setting. The soup spoon was at a slight angle, and the napkin folded hastily. He rearranged it to his liking, angling the cutlery to precise terms, and straightening the napkin. Archie was a stickler for doing things properly.

His clothes and appearance were always neat and tidy, and he ordered his surroundings in the right way. Nothing was allowed to be out of place. Satisfied with his rearrangements, he sat down at the table with a sigh. But while he could order himself, and his environment, he felt powerless to bring order to the sad circumstances he found himself in.

He could do nothing for his sister. He could not make her better, and in that, he felt a failure. A wind whistled around the house, and through the window, Archie could see it was snowing again. The house could be cut off for weeks at a time in the winter, and Archie could not help but wonder as to the practicalities of what would happen if the worst was to be realized.

"Carrying the coffin through the snow,"he murmured to himself, shaking his head at the very idea of it.

Hargreaves now brought the soup, but despite knowing he was hungry, Archie did not feel so. He picked up his spoon, taking a few mouthfuls as the butler stood stiffly behind him. But having toyed with the soup for some time, he put his spoon down and sighed.

"What's the use of it?" he exclaimed, pulling his napkin off and tossing it to one side.

"My Lord?" the butler asked, stepping forward, and Archie rose to his feet.

"All this? She's going to die. And there's nothing I can do about it," Archie exclaimed.

He was not usually given to such emotional outbursts, but now he felt quite overwhelmed by the prospect of losing his sister, not knowing how he would cope without her. She had been his constant companion since childhood, his best friend, his closest confidant…

"My Lord, you're doing all you can. No one could do more. Your loyalty to your sister is… admirable," Hargreaves said, but Archie shook his head.

"But it's not going to help her, is it?" he replied.

But before the butler could reply, the sound of footsteps in the hallway caused Archie to look up, his heart skipping a beat. There was an urgency in the approach, and the dining room door now opened, revealing the anxious face of Marie.

"Come quickly, My Lord. Your sister doesn't have much time," she said.

Archie ran from the dining room, clattering up the stairs, and bursting into his sister's bedroom. He found her writhing on the bed, moaning in pain, as their mother stood powerless at her side.

"We don't know what happened. She was sleeping peacefully and now…" the dowager said, as Archie hurried to his sister's side.

"Gwendolene? I'm here. It's me, Archie," Archie said, kneeling at the bedside as his sister groaned.

"Oh… the pain… Archie, the pain. Make the pain go away," she said, as he clutched at her hand.

"I wish I could. Oh… more than anything, I wish I could. If I could take your pain, Gwendolene, I'd gladly do so. My poor sister. Is there nothing you can do for her?" he asked, turning to Marie, who shook her head.

"There's no hope of getting a doctor now, and even if we could, I don't think there's anything more to be done," she said.

Archie was now seized with desperation. There was nothing more he could do, and it seemed inevitable she would slip away. He would have given anything—his entire fortune—to save her. But he was powerless, and tears now welled up in his eyes, running down his cheeks, as he sobbed at his sister's side.

"Oh, Gwendolene. I'm so sorry, I did all I could, but it wasn't enough," he moaned.

He had his hand clasped in hers, and now she gripped him with a weak but determined hold.

"Archie… don't mourn for me," she said, and he looked up to find his sister looking at him, her eyes barely open, her lips trembling.

"But I will. I won't ever forget you, Gwendolene. I can't bear the thought of losing you. What cruel fate took you from me? It can't be natural. Why would God do this to us?" he exclaimed, glancing again at the crucifix hanging above the bed.

"We can't ask such questions," Gwendolene replied, her voice growing fainter with every word.

"But it's so unfair. It's not right. I'll find the reason, I've got to," Archie said.

He did not believe a woman so full of life, so full of hope for all that was to come, could succumb to such a dreadful fate. It had all been so sudden, and despite knowing the foolishness of his thoughts, Archie could not help but think someone was to blame for what had happened. This was not natural, it could not be…

"No, Archie. Let me rest in peace. This is all that matters," Gwendolene whispered.

"What? What is it that matters?" Archie replied, staring at his sister imploringly as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Live your life as I'd have lived mine. Don't shut yourself away. Don't hide from what can be. If I'm to die, I don't want you to die in kind, Archie. Promise me you'll live your life as I'd have done," she said.

It was a promise Archie could not bear to make, even as he knew doing so would allow his sister to depart in peace. The thought of life without her was unbearable. He could not imagine it, even as he knew its inevitability.

"Don't leave me, Gwendolene. I don't know how I can go on living without you," he said, but Gwendolene shook her head.

"We'll meet again—on another shore," she said, and now she squeezed his hand, her grip lessening, her eyes closing.

"Gwendolene, please…" Archie implored her.

"Promise me," she said, and he nodded.

"I promise. I promise I'll live the life you deserved. Until we meet again. I love you," he said, and a faint smile came over her lips.

"I love you, too," she whispered, and now she breathed her last.

Archie buried his face in the blankets, sobbing uncontrollably, and now his mother put her arm around him, kneeling at his side. For a moment, their heads were bowed in the heartbreak of loss, sobbing together, even as Archie tried to pray, just as the priest had told them, too.

"My poor Gwendolene," the dowager said, and as Archie looked up, she made the sign of the cross over herself.

Archie did the same. But as he looked up at the crucifix above the bed, he could not help but feel a sudden sense of anger at the loss of his sister, who now lay still and lifeless before them.

"I don't know how I'll go on," he said, knowing the promise he had made, but hardly daring to believe he could ever find happiness again when his sister had left him for another shore…