Prologue 4

She saw Beth put her other hand over the first hand on her mouth and knew her sister was trying not to make herself known even with a whimper. The door remained slightly ajar but the conversations and voices travelled away. A shrill sound replaced them, threatening to destroy Gwen’s hearing.

She was beyond shocked. She was mortified. A proposal, a preposition to be a mistress? Impossibly, she leaned further into the wall, wishing to be one with the shadows. How had Lord Cossington come to such a conclusion?

She was no longer a child, she was very aware of what the Viscount’s preposition meant. She was to become the mistress of the man who was, a few minutes before, her betrothed. She knew perfectly what that meant too.

The family thought Beth to be the one vast in knowledge as she enjoyed reading, but she was not dumb. She had on one occasion or the other taken a liking to one of Beth’s books and the knowledge might sometimes be vulgar for her young mind but they were knowledge nevertheless.

How could the Viscount belittle her as such? She was to remain as her father’s daughter, but one day to become his son’s mistress? She was not good enough to be a wife, but was perfect to be a mistress? So he would not be bored in his marriage? She was nothing but a source of entertainment? How were such words even possible?

Why did they continue to humiliate her?

Was their outright rejection not sufficient enough?

And why was her father not saying a word?!

She gripped her dress, squeezing it in her fist. Why was he not bursting into anger and asking the Viscount to apologize? How could he still survive to remain in the Viscount’s presence?

Gwen paused, scared, her heart sinking. Dear Lord, he was not considering the proposal, was he? She suddenly found it hard to breathe, the air did not seem quite enough. Oh Lord, please do not let him agree to this humiliating proposal. She would never be a mistress, not to anyone, talk more of the man who had rejected her.

Finally, someone spoke. It was Eric. “Lord Cossington, you should leave.”

“Fitzgerald, do well to teach your son manners.”

“I have taught him quite well and he is a great man. And he is right, you have overstayed your welcome. It is high time you left.”

A scoff. “You cannot ask me to leave.”

“I believe I can. No matter how ‘dingy’ of an estate it is, or how lowly we have come, it still remains my home and you cannot force yourself to stay, so I am asking you to leave.”

A short laughter. “Your daughter would never wed.”

“I would rather she remained an old maid, unmarried and in my home, than to be your son’s mistress. Eric, see them to the door.”

Gwen remained stationed behind the pillar, her back pressed against the old stone, unable to think. Her chest became hollow with each passing second even as time seemed to stand still. Her mind became a flood of chaos, a muddle of tiny pieces of thoughts crashing against each other. She tried to grasp onto something, anything that could tie her to sanity, but there was nothing. No coherent thought came to her, she was abandoned, left alone in an ocean of uncertainty.

Dear God, what was happening? What had happened? Who was she? The daughter of a Duke, or one of a land baron? What was her fate? A wife or a mistress? Her vision blurred. She had no idea she was crying.

How could he ask her father to make her his son’s mistress, instead of a wife? Was the daughter of a baron good enough only as a mistress? Did that mean she would never wed? she would never be as happy as mother and father? Or as Aunt Marrily and Uncle Fitzwilliam? Has her life already been determined by the status of her family?

As opposed to before, many thoughts ran through her head like her father’s galloping horses until they had been removed, their hooves kicking up clouds of dust of uncertainty. Each thought clamoured for attention, demanding that she hear them even if they were not ready to offer clarity. She tried to focus, to sift through them but they were smoke, escaping her grasp before she could make sense of it. She could not hold onto one.

So lost in the labyrinth of her mind, absentmindedly, Gwen walked out of her hiding place, leaving behind the safe shadows and entering the harshness of reality.

“No!” Someone gasped out the word. She heard the distant whisper. Then, “Gwen! What are you doing out of your room? What are you doing here?”

The voice distracted her muddled up head, stealing her from the demeaning discussion of the Lord of Sorway and his son. She had been so lost and had not noticed her sister leave the door and run in her direction.

She had not noticed the tears running down her cheeks either.

A mistress? A source of entertainment? Was that how low they saw her? She should be nothing but a pastime for a man? A man she had been engaged to? She had written down her joy of him, but he wanted her as a mistress?

“Gwen,” Beth ran to her, grabbing both her hands. “What did you come here for? How long have you been here?”

She wasn’t aware either. All she knew was she had been there long enough to hear the words that were said to belittle her, the words to bring to suspicion and conclusion that she was not a Fitzgerald, words to make her question herself. Words that greatly embarrassed her and her family.

Slowly, her feet moved on their own accord. She stepped back, away from her sister, trying to hide, trying to run. Her mouth opened to drag in air for her nostrils did not seem to care about carrying out its job.

“Gwen!” Beth called, walking after her. “Gwen, wait.” It was impossible to do so. She supported herself with the wall, breathing heavily she could hear herself. When the door to the Marble Room finally opened, she didn’t bother to see who had emerged, she spared not a glance. Instead, she pivoted on her heels and bolted for her room, her only companions were the echoing footsteps on the creaking floorboards and the heavy weight of shame trailing her, hot on her heels like a relentless shadow.