by John Harwood
Lucia was very subdued all day; I tried several times to persuade her to come with me, but she assured me that she was happy to stay with Uncle Josiah. “It is nothing; just low spirits; it will pass,” she kept saying, until at last, as we were about to retire, I took her in my arms and implored her to tell me what was wrong.
“It is nothing, only . . . I have no right to ask, but I should have loved to be there when you opened the packet.”
“You have every right,” I said, reproaching myself for being so obtuse. “Come with me, and we shall open it together.”
“No, one of us must stay with your uncle.”
“Then I shan’t open the packet until we are together again.”
Her face lit up at this, and she kissed me very warmly.
“Thank you, Georgina. Shall we tell your uncle in the morning that I will be going away for a little while? In fact, why don’t you travel under my name?—not with the lawyer, of course, but at the hotel? You shall wear my things, and take my travelling-case; then the illusion will be complete, and even Charlotte will not suspect.”
Dawlish’s Private Hotel,
George Street,
Plymouth
Monday, 30 October
There is so much to record, but I must begin with my interview with Mr. Lovell, while it is fresh in my mind. His rooms are in a high, narrow building of dark brown stone; an elderly clerk led me up several flights of stairs to a landing, where I was warmly greeted by Mr. Lovell himself. My intuition was right: he is tall and gangly and fresh-faced, and looks no more than twenty-five, though I think he must be at least thirty. His office was lined on three sides with bookshelves, filled with an extraordinary array of objects: stones, shells, birds’ eggs, paperweights by the dozen, fishhooks, brass instruments, lumps of coloured glass, ornaments of every size and shape—as well as the books, which are crammed in higgledy-piggledy. His desk was heaped with bundles of papers, interspersed with yet more books, many of them lying open and face-down. An armchair stood in a patch of sunlight by the window.
“I am afraid we are all at sixes and sevens, Miss Ferrars,” he said, ushering me to the armchair. Henry Lovell, I could not help noticing, is really quite handsome. He has thick fair hair, rather dishevelled, and a long, clean-shaven face, slightly reddened around the jaw as if the razor irritates his skin. His suit—a coarse brown tweed, patched with leather at the elbows—looked like something a farmer might wear. He dragged an upright chair across the carpet and settled, or rather draped, himself upon it, and for the next few minutes we talked about my journey, and about Mr. Wetherell’s illness: despite his remark about sixes and sevens, it soon became clear that Mr. Lovell had been doing most of the work of the practice for several years now—my mother’s estate was one of the few that Mr. Wetherell had kept to himself—and that his room is in permanent chaos.
By the end of our small-talk, I had resolved to trust him with everything except the secret of Lucia’s birth, which I had promised not to reveal unless there was no other way of securing the papers. He listened closely, and without interjecting, to the account I had rehearsed on the journey down, in which Rosina had fled from a cruel and violent father, married Jules Ardent in France—I made no mention of Felix Mordaunt—and refused ever afterward to speak of her childhood.
“So you see, Mr. Lovell,” I concluded, “why I am sure that my mother would want me to have that packet, now that my cousin and I have met.”
He had listened intently, without once interrupting, and remained silent for a little, regarding me with troubled eyes.
“I am very sorry, Miss Ferrars,” he said at last, “but your mother’s instructions were quite explicit, and the condition she specified has nothing to do with your cousin, Miss Ardent. I don’t for a moment doubt that your mother would have wanted you to have the packet in the circumstances you describe, but the law, alas, compels me to abide by the letter, rather than the spirit, of her wishes in the matter.”
“Then surely, Mr. Lovell, you can at least tell me what the condition is.”
“I am afraid not. Your mother was, as I say, absolutely explicit. Unless your circumstances should change in a very particular way, I may not give you the packet, or reveal to you anything whatsoever about the bequest. If I had not made the unpardonable error of sending you those letters, you would never have known of its existence.”
“Unless my circumstances should change in a very particular way,” I repeated thoughtfully.
“Yes; that is correct.”
“But how would you know, Mr. Lovell, if that change were to occur? Wouldn’t my mother have wanted to be sure that you did know?”
“Well, yes,” he said uneasily. “But really, Miss Ferrars, I should not be discussing this at all—”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Lovell, but I am your client, too.”
“Yes, and it puts me in something of a quandary.” He gave me a wry smile, in which I detected a hint of encouragement. Unless your circumstances should change . . . Of course! How could I have been so obtuse? I had a sudden vivid recollection of Aunt Vida on her deathbed, saying, “You’re a handsome gel, not like me—you’ll have offers . . . Write to Mr. Wetherell—tell him who you’re marrying. Papers to draw up . . .”
“I have guessed the condition, Mr. Lovell. I am to have the packet if I marry—or become engaged to marry.”
Now he looked deeply uncomfortable.
“Well, yes, but—”
“But?”
“I take it, Miss Ferrars,” he said, glancing at my left hand, “that you are not engaged—or contemplating an engagement?”
“Certainly not,” I said.
“Then I fear it is absolutely impossible for me to hand over the packet.”
“But if I were to become engaged . . .” To an obliging young man, I thought, willing to play the part . . . or why not simply invent one?
“Then you should write and tell me, yes. But that in itself would be exceedingly unlikely—astonishingly unlikely—to fulfill the condition. And now, Miss Ferrars, I really cannot say any more . . .”
Astonishing unlikely . . . “Tell him who you’re marrying,” Aunt Vida had said . . .
“I am to have the packet if I become engaged to someone in particular,” I said flatly. “Mr. Lovell, you have been so helpful; will you not take the last step and tell me who it is?”
“That, Miss Ferrars, I absolutely cannot do. I have trespassed thus far because I am to blame for your receiving those letters in the first place. But carelessness is one thing; knowingly breaching a client’s trust is quite another. I should deserve to be struck off if I did any such thing.”
A small silence followed. Our eyes met, and I smiled encouragingly.
“But, Mr. Lovell, you would not be breaching my mother’s trust. It is absolutely essential, for my own peace of mind and Lu—Miss Ardent’s—that I should see what is in that packet, and if my mother were here now, she would tell you so herself.”
“Are you quite certain of that, Miss Ferrars?”
“Of course I am, Mr. Lovell. Don’t you think I know what my own mother would have wanted?”
“I meant, are you sure that seeing those papers would bring you peace of mind?” he said.
“You said in your letter, Mr. Lovell, that you didn’t know what the packet contained.”
“Nor do I. But—no, I am sorry; it is quite impossible. Now really, Miss Ferrars, there is nothing more I can tell you. Would you care for some tea?”
“Yes, I should, thank you.”
“Then pray excuse me one moment.” He rose with evident relief and left the room.
All I need do, I thought, is ask the right question. A man Mama did not want me to marry—or did not want me to grow up and marry without reading the rest of the papers—which must have to do with Rosina and Lucia, Thomas Wentworth, and Felix Mordaunt . . . Could Thomas Wentworth have remarried and had a son? Then why all the secrecy? Why had Mama, or Aunt Vida, not simply warned me against him? A
nd why on earth would Mama have feared that, of all the eligible men in the kingdom, I would choose this particular one? She had sealed the packet at least ten years ago: he might easily have married someone else by now. Or died.
And there was something else . . . something Mr. Lovell had said in his last letter, which I had brought with me. “In the event of your death—or certain other events, which I am forbidden to disclose—the packet is to be destroyed unopened.” “Certain other events” . . . Surely the man’s death. So he must still be alive!
But Mr. Lovell had written “events.” I had just realised what it must mean when he returned to his chair.
“Tea won’t be long,” he said, glancing uneasily at the paper on my knee.
“I am sorry to plague you,” I said, “but I have divined so much that you may as well tell me the rest. You are to give me the packet only if I become engaged to marry a certain man”—his expression changed at this, in a way I could not interpret. “If he dies—or if I marry anyone but this man—you are to destroy it unopened. I am right so far, am I not?”
He groaned and ran his hands through his hair.
“This is my own fault, Miss Ferrars; I have dug myself a pit, and fallen into it; but I cannot answer you.”
“Then I am sorry for you, Mr. Lovell, for I have vowed not to leave Plymouth without that packet.”
“You are a very determined young woman, Miss Ferrars,” he said with a rueful smile.
“You may think it unbecoming—”
“I did not say that, Miss Ferrars, nor did I mean it. On the contrary,” he said warmly, “you have every right to press me. But the fact remains: I am bound by my oath of office not to surrender that packet unless your mother’s terms are met.”
“But surely, Mr. Lovell, if her intention was to save me from marrying this man, she would want you to tell me his name—now that you have revealed so much?”
“You would make a formidable barrister,” he said, ruffling his hair again. “But all I can do—speaking from the heart, and not simply as a lawyer—is advise you to trust in your mother’s judgement. At least some good has come of my carelessness; it has brought you and your cousin together, and I can see that you are deeply attached to her. Indeed—am I right in feeling that you are here for her sake rather than your own?”
“For both our sakes,” I said, avoiding his eye as I felt my colour rising.
“All the same, Miss Ferrars, given what you have told me, I don’t see how your cousin’s happiness can possibly depend upon the contents of that packet. I do earnestly advise you to trust in your mother and leave things as they are—ah, thank you, Mr. Pritchard,” he said, springing from his chair as the elderly clerk appeared with a tray.
I was glad of the interval, for I could not decide what to do next. Instinct warned me that revealing Lucia’s secret would not be enough to sway him; I would have to divine the forbidden suitor’s name or coax Mr. Lovell into revealing it . . . and then I saw how it might be done.
“Tell me, Mr. Lovell,” I said when he was seated again, “have you always lived in Plymouth?” The look of relief on his face was almost comical, and for the next few minutes I encouraged him to talk about himself. He had indeed grown up in Plymouth, and until quite recently had lived at home with his parents—his father had also been a solicitor—and his two youngest sisters; there were two married sisters and a brother, all living within twenty miles of the town. His parents had lately retired to the village of Noss Mayo, leaving Mr. Lovell in bachelor quarters near the Hoe. He spoke of them all with great affection, and sounded entirely content with his lot.
“But, Miss Ferrars,” he said suddenly, “I am forgetting my duty; you did not come all this way to listen to my ramblings.”
“It is a pleasure to hear about your family. But yes, there is something else: a separate matter.”
“You have only to name it,” he said eagerly.
“There are two men about whom I should like some information; I should like to know if either of them is still alive, and if so, where they are living. But I don’t want either of them to know of my enquiry.”
His face, which had cleared at the words “a separate matter,” fell again.
“And their names?”
“The first,” I said, studying him closely, “is Thomas Wentworth—Rosina Wentworth’s father.”
“That,” he said uneasily, “I may be able to help you with. What else can you tell me about him?”
“Only that he was wealthy—a businessman or financier of some sort—and lived in Portland Place, at least from 1859 until 1860. And he had an elder daughter, Clarissa, who eloped in the summer of 1859; she and her lover, a man called George Harrington, were—they died together in an accident in Rome, in October of that year; there was something about it in The Times.”
“I see.” He fetched a piece of paper from his desk and scribbled a few lines on it, looking troubled, but not unduly alarmed. “And the other?”
“Felix Mordaunt, of Tregannon House, in Cornwall.”
This time the shock was palpable; he bent over his paper, writing studiously, but the rash along his jaw was suddenly livid.
I had guessed the riddle, but it made no sense. Felix Mordaunt might have been a notorious libertine, but how could Mama possibly have imagined that of all the men in the kingdom, I would meet and marry him? And again, even if she had, why not simply warn me herself?
“May I ask why?” he said, without raising his eyes from the page.
I was about to say, Because he is the man my mother named, but realised I did not actually know that for certain.
“Oh—a family connection,” I replied as coolly as I could manage. “My aunt mentioned the name once or twice; is it familiar to you, Mr. Lovell?”
His head flew up, his face reddening with anger.
“If you knew, Miss Ferrars, then why?—” His mouth snapped shut as realisation dawned.
“I assure you, Mr. Lovell, that when I arrived here this afternoon, I had not the faintest suspicion. If you had not led me to the answer, I should never have guessed. But now that you have told me—”
Once again he groaned and ran his hands through his hair, rumpling it so wildly that I feared it would come out in tufts.
“Will you tell me,” he said at last, “how you arrived at that name?”
“I cannot do that, Mr. Lovell, without betraying a confidence. But I know exactly why my mother did not want me to marry this man”—again that indecipherable flicker of reaction—“and I can assure you that my happiness, and that of my cousin, depends upon your handing over that packet, as my mother would instruct you to do, if only she were here. And I promise you—I will swear on the Bible, if you wish—that no one except Lucia and I will ever know you gave it to me.”
He leant back in his chair, swirling the dregs in the bottom of his teacup.
“I confess, Miss Ferrars, that I simply don’t know what to do. Sometimes I think I am not cut out for the law . . . But the fact remains: the terms of your mother’s bequest have not been met, and again I urge you to trust in her judgement. You say that your happiness depends upon it, but you don’t know what that packet contains, any more than I do, and you may be mistaken.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Lovell, but my mind is made up.”
“I feared as much. Will you allow me twenty-four hours to think it over?”
“Might I be able to see you in the morning? I should like to be home tomorrow night.”
“I am afraid that every minute of the morning is spoken for,” he said. “But I shall be free by half past two at the latest.”
He rose and offered his hand, which was reassuringly warm and dry, to help me up, and for a moment we stood smiling at each other, our hands still clasped.
“You have been very kind,” I said as he accompanied me to the landing, “and exceedingly forbearing; far more than I deserve.”
“On the contrary, Miss Ferrars, I have nothing but admiration for you. Until tomorro
w, then, at half past two.”
I had gone halfway down the stairs before I realised that I was quite unsteady on my feet, and trembling with emotion.
It is only nine o’clock, but the hotel is completely silent; not surprisingly, as there is only one other guest. My room is quite large, and perfectly comfortable; Mrs. Gifford, the proprietor—she has the most extraordinarily elaborate coiffure of snow-white hair—is most obliging. From my window I can see a line of gaslamps stretching away in both directions along the empty street.
After I had written down everything I could recall of the interview, I put on my cloak (or rather, Lucia’s cloak) and set out again, meaning to walk down to the Hoe and look at the sea. But the light was fading, and the evening chill had settled, so I went only as far as the telegraph office on Royal Parade—it felt very strange, addressing a telegram to myself—to let Lucia know that I hoped to be home tomorrow night. Mrs. Gifford, who was hovering in the foyer when I returned, invited me to take tea by the sitting-room fire; I was about to decline when it occurred to me that she might know something of the Mordaunt family.
The sitting room is as dismal as most of its kind; I remember half a dozen like it from my travels with my aunt: crammed with chairs and sofas in faded Regency plush, along with their attendant footstools and side tables. There are the usual heavy maroon curtains shrouding a bow-fronted window; the wallpaper, also faded and Regency, is on the verge of peeling. But the fire was crackling cheerfully, and to forestall any more questions about myself (I must learn to answer to “Miss Ardent” without the slightest hesitation) I asked her at once about the Mordaunts of Tregannon House.
“Mordaunt, Mordaunt . . . No, I can’t say that I do,” she replied, taking the chair beside me. “But Tregannon—now, that rings a bell. There’s an asylum at Liskeard of that name.”
So Edmund Mordaunt must have prevailed, I thought.
“I think that might be it,” I said. “Can you tell me where Liskeard is?”
“About twenty miles to the west, Miss Ardent, just this side of Bodmin Moor.”
