The Asylum

by John Harwood

  “I think the Mordaunt family may own Tregannon Asylum,” I said, realising as I spoke that someone had entered the room.

  “Ah, Mrs. Fairfax,” said my hostess, bouncing to her feet. “Would you care to join us for tea? Miss Ardent; Mrs. Fairfax.”

  I had passed her on the stairs that afternoon, on my way to Mr. Lovell’s office. She had the figure of a young woman, and her hair, a few shades darker than my own, showed no trace of grey. But her face was gaunt, with deep lines scored downward from the corners of her mouth, and bruised pouches like crumpled snakeskin beneath her eyes, which were very dark and lustrous.

  As we exchanged greetings, a maid came in and murmured something to Mrs. Gifford.

  “I am afraid I must leave you,” she said, “but do make yourselves comfortable; Martha will bring an extra cup.”

  I did not want to make conversation with Mrs. Fairfax, but there was no escaping short of rudeness, and so I resumed my seat.

  “A very comfortable hotel, is it not, Miss Ardent?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “And a fine view of the town; I am in number seven, on the floor above you, I think. Will you be staying long in Plymouth?”

  “No—that is to say, I am not sure. And you, Mrs. Fairfax?”

  “I think I shall stay a few more days . . . Forgive me, Miss Ardent,” she said in a lower tone. “I hope you will not think me impertinent, but I could not help overhearing: you were speaking of Tregannon Asylum.” Her voice had a throaty, musical quality which seemed vaguely familiar; she must, I thought, have been talking to Mrs. Gifford just before I met her on the stairs.

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Forgive me; I don’t mean to pry. It is only that—I have just been visiting a dear friend there.”

  I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging look, wondering if I should offer my condolences.

  “Oh, it is not a painful duty,” she said, smiling. “My friend is a voluntary patient; she can come and go as she pleases. She is prone to nervous exhaustion, and says that a month at Tregannon Asylum is as good as a visit to Baden-Baden.”

  “So it is not a lunatic asylum, then?”

  “Oh yes, there are lunatics confined there—quite separately from the voluntary patients—but they are treated very kindly. Dr. Straker, the man in charge, prides himself upon running the most humane and enlightened asylum in the country.”

  “I believe it is owned by the Mordaunt family,” I ventured.

  “Yes, Miss Ardent; do you know them?”

  “No,” I said, rather too hastily. “I—er—I have a friend who is distantly related. And you, Mrs. Fairfax, are you acquainted with the family?”

  “Not personally, no. But my friend has met Mr. Edmund Mordaunt, the present owner—though that was some years ago now; I believe his health is failing, and he seldom leaves his quarters.”

  “Does he live at the asylum, then?”

  “Oh yes; the estate has been in the family for centuries—but perhaps you know that,” she added, regarding me curiously. Trust me; confide in me, her gaze seemed to say. The pupils of her eyes glowed like polished jet; I could see the pinpoint reflections of the flames burning in their depths.

  “My friend has told me a little,” I said, as casually as I could manage. “She mentioned a Felix Mordaunt, I think; have you heard of him?”

  “No, I don’t think I have—unless you mean Frederic Mordaunt, Edmund Mordaunt’s nephew, a charming young man: my friend is always singing his praises. He acts as Dr. Straker’s personal assistant and will presumably inherit the entire estate.”

  “Edmund Mordaunt has no children of his own, then?”

  “No, he never married.”

  “And Frederic Mordaunt?”

  “He, too, is a bachelor, Miss Ardent—and a very eligible one, I am sure,” she added, glancing at my left hand.

  “I am sure he is,” I said mechanically, remembering Mr. Lovell, and how his expression had changed at the words “my mother did not want me to marry this man” . . . this man, this man . . . and suddenly I saw that Mrs. Fairfax had handed me the key to Mr. Lovell’s strongbox.

  “Miss Ardent?”

  I realised that I was staring vacantly into the fire.

  “I do beg your pardon,” I said. “I am a little preoccupied . . . a family matter.”

  “You mustn’t apologise,” she said, in a tone that invited confidences. I could not think how to respond to this, and an awkward silence fell, until Mrs. Gifford returned with the maid and the tea tray.

  It was a bad mistake to call myself Miss Ardent, as I realised from the moment I set foot in the hotel. I could not borrow Lucia’s actual history, as it would have made her too anxious: I am supposed to have lost my parents before I could remember, and to have lived with my great-aunt, in various parts of the country, ever since. But Lucia’s faith in me is misplaced; I have contradicted myself several times already, and I fear that Mrs. Fairfax, at least, suspects me of dissembling. There was another awkward moment in the sitting room, when Mrs. Gifford suggested that since Mrs. Fairfax and I were the only guests, we might like to share a table at dinner. Travelling as myself, I would have seized the opportunity to press her about the Mordaunts. As it was, I hesitated, and was spared embarrassment only because she happened to be dining with friends. I met her coming upstairs, presumably to change, as I was going down to dinner.

  A half-moon is rising above the rooftops opposite; I have scarcely seen a moon since I left Niton, let alone one so clear. Tomorrow I mean to visit Nettleford. There is a ferry across the harbour to Turnchapel, and then a walk of about three miles along the coast; if I leave straight after breakfast, I shall be back well before half past two. I hope Lucia will not mind—mind my not waiting until we can see Nettleford together, that is. It is the perfect way to fill what would otherwise be several long and anxious hours; and of course she would want me to go, just as I would want her to go in my place.

  If only she were here with me, my happiness would be complete. But I shall be home tomorrow night, with the packet—I am certain I have guessed the riddle—and we shall open it together. And then we shall leave Gresham’s Yard, and never have to be apart again. She said to me last night, as we lay in bed: “You must not be anxious for me, dearest: no matter what we discover, it will be a relief to know.”

  Strange that a quarrel—well, only a spat, really, and only on her side, but horribly distressing all the same—should bring such joy. It was shortly before bedtime; we were in her room, packing her valise, and were about to close it when I thought of my writing case and brooch, and said I would run upstairs to fetch them.

  “But that will spoil the illusion,” she said sharply. “If Charlotte notices, she may realise what we’ve done.”

  “I am sorry, Lucia,” I said, “but I would never travel anywhere without them. They are all I have left from the wreck of our house”—as you know perfectly well, I almost added—“and Charlotte won’t know, because I always keep them in the drawer of my writing desk.”

  She looked, for a moment, quite mutinous; her eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to protest, then turned on her heel and left the room. I heard her running upstairs, and then my own bedroom door slamming. My heart seemed to shrivel in an instant; I dared not run after her, and sank down on her bed, engulfed in misery.

  An eternity later—as it seemed—I felt her arm steal around my shoulders. Looking up blearily, I saw that she had brought my writing case and brooch.

  “Forgive me, Georgina,” she murmured, drawing me closer. “I am such a stickler for perfection, when it comes to acting a part, that I forgot myself. Of course you must take them.”

  I allowed myself to be kissed but could not surrender to her embrace. She took me by the shoulders and turned me gently to face her. My happiness, I thought, is utterly in your keeping; but is the same true for you?

  “I am so sorry, dearest,” she said. “It was not just . . . I know it is foolish, but I am anxious about
your going; I could not bear it if anything happened to you.”

  “Then come with me,” I said. “It is not too late.”

  “No, that would only make it harder for you—when you come to tell your uncle that we are going to live together, I mean—and I won’t have that. And I am being foolish; I know it. Only . . . may I sleep with you tonight?”

  “Of course you may,” I said, all misery forgotten. “But what about Charlotte?”

  “I do not care about Charlotte; I want to stay with you, here, tonight, in my bed.”

  As I was brushing her hair and gazing at her reflection in the mirror, it struck me that something about her appearance had changed since our first night together; something that for a moment eluded me. Her dressing table was the same size and shape as mine; the candles were in much the same places; we were wearing the same nightgowns; yet . . . And then it came to me: the first time, I had been overwhelmed by the resemblance; now, I was conscious only of the differences between us: the shape and set of her eyes, the exact curve of her cheekbones, the play of her expressions; and I was overjoyed at the realisation. I am not like Narcissus, I thought. We are different; and that is what draws us together. Our eyes met in the glass, and she made a small kissing gesture with her lips, as if she had divined my thought.

  “Lucia,” I said, “where would you most like us to live?”

  “Where would you, dearest?”

  “Somewhere by the sea; but I will be happiest wherever you are happiest.”

  “And I feel the same. I used to think—I remember saying to you, when we first found each other—that all I craved was to be settled in one place, to put down roots, and never have to move again. But what I really craved was this”—she took my hand and pressed it to her breast—“and wherever we are together, that will be our settled place.”

  Her breast swelled beneath my hand; my heart was suddenly pounding. She rose to her feet and into my arms; our bodies melded together; our lips met and parted, and I was filled with a sweetness beyond imagining. My hands moved of their own accord over her body, discovering, dwelling, delighting; her arms tightened around me; I felt the soft pressure of her tongue against mine; but then she drew back, keeping her hands on my waist and regarding me with huge, troubled eyes. We were both trembling violently.

  “I am so sorry,” she gasped. “You must not think . . . that I do not want to; I do, but . . .”

  “But . . .?”

  “I was cruel to you, cruel and hateful: I have Mordaunt blood in my veins.”

  “Lucia, Lucia, my darling, I don’t care whose blood runs in your veins. All that matters is that I love and adore you, and as long as you love me, too—”

  “What if I should stop loving you?”

  “Then I should die,” I said, more seriously than I intended. “But I would never regret loving you. And it wasn’t the Mordaunt blood; it was only because you are anxious about that packet. Remember what you said: we can face anything, so long as we are together.”

  “You are so good to me,” she said. “Once I know . . . I still want to stay with you tonight, only . . .”

  “Of course,” I said, kissing her gently. “Can we leave the candle burning for a little, so that I can look at you?”

  “Yes, my dearest; I should like that too.”

  I would have been perfectly content to stay side by side, but she took me in her arms and drew me close again, so that we were lying face to face.

  “This is our settled place,” she murmured, “and when you are home again . . .” Her eyelids drooped; a small smile played about her lips, and a few minutes later she was fast asleep. But I lay awake until the candle guttered, softly caressing my beloved, remembering that first night when I had thought no greater joy was possible, dreaming of paradise to come.

  Dawlish’s Private Hotel

  Tuesday, 31 October 1882

  I shall be resolute and start at the beginning—perhaps it will help me to decide what I must do.

  I slept badly last night—the moon was shining full on my face, but I did not want to draw the curtains—and woke with a headache and no appetite for breakfast. I felt distinctly queasy aboard the ferry, but my spirits lifted on the road to Nettleford, which took me along the coast, through open pasture like the country beyond Chale, only lower and gentler. I had always imagined Nettleford as a smaller version of Niton, with paved streets, and a post office, and an inn like the White Lion, but it proved to be a mere scattering of cottages around a disused church. Several of the cottages were plainly untenanted; smoke was rising from the chimney of another, but as I approached the gate, a dog began barking hysterically. The front door opened a little; a harsh voice commanded the dog to be silent, and a sour-faced, grey-haired woman peered out, regarding me suspiciously.

  “And what might you want?”

  “I am looking for the house where Dr. Ferrars lived—about twenty years ago, but perhaps you might—”

  “No one of that name here,” she said, and closed the door firmly. I saw a curtain twitch as I retreated.

  I went on as far as the church without seeing any other sign of life, and stopped by the lych-gate, contemplating the wilderness within. The graves were overgrown, the headstones flaking and pitted with lichen. As I stood gazing at this dismal scene, my eye was drawn by a name that looked like “Ferrars.”

  I lifted the latch and pushed at the wooden gate. The hinges groaned; shards of rotting wood fell about my feet; it opened just far enough for me to squeeze through into the churchyard.

  The name, I saw as I came closer, was not Ferrars but Fenner—Martha Fenner. “Departed This Life” . . . The rest had crumbled away. Many of the inscriptions were quite illegible, but beneath the opposite wall, about twenty paces away, was a much newer stone, the original pink of the marble still gleaming faintly through the lichen. Trampling down weeds, I made my way over to it.

  In Loving Memory Of

  Rosina May Wentworth

  b. 23 November 1839

  d. 6 March 1861

  Dearly Beloved Cousin

  Of Emily Ferrars

  REST IN PEACE

  Useless to dwell upon the hours of fearful speculation that followed. I arrived at Mr. Lovell’s office half an hour early, certain of only one thing: I could not return to London until I had secured that packet and found out what was in it. I paced about the waiting room, anxiously observed by his clerk, whose name I could not recall, until I heard footsteps bounding up the stairs.

  Henry Lovell’s face brightened when he caught sight of me, but his smile changed to a look of concern as he showed me into his room.

  “Miss Ferrars, is something wrong? You are as white as—as if you had seen a ghost.”

  All too true, I thought.

  “Yes, I have had a shock—something which makes it all the more imperative that I find out what is in that packet.”

  “I see. But first you must take some refreshment: a glass of wine, perhaps? Tea? Some cake?”

  “Thank you, I want nothing; only my mother’s bequest.”

  “Then—can you not tell me what has happened?”

  “No, Mr. Lovell, I cannot.”

  Still he seemed to hesitate.

  “Mr. Lovell,” I said, launching upon the speech I had rehearsed many times, “I am afraid I was not entirely frank with you yesterday afternoon.”

  “I suspected as much. Please be assured, Miss Ferrars, that nothing you say here will ever pass beyond these four walls.”

  He leant forward encouragingly.

  “You asked me if I was engaged to be married, and I said I was not. The truth is, I am secretly engaged to Mr. Frederic Mordaunt, of Tregannon House—Tregannon Asylum, as it now is—at Liskeard, in Cornwall.”

  He recoiled as if I had struck him.

  “Miss Ferrars, you cannot be—I am afraid I don’t believe you.”

  “Sir, that is most discourteous!” I replied, with all the indignation I could muster.

  “I am very sorry
for it, but truly, Miss Ferrars, there is no need for this—this charade. I had already decided to give you the packet.”

  If he truly meant it, why had he had not said so at the beginning? Was he trying to trap me? I could not take the risk.

  “My engagement, sir, is no charade. I did not tell you yesterday because I needed time to reflect. Even Frederic’s uncle, Mr. Edmund Mordaunt, does not yet know of our engagement. And so, Mr. Lovell, my mother’s condition is fulfilled. Will you now hand over the packet?”

  He rose slowly from his chair, his face a welter of conflicting emotions: doubt, confusion, concern; even, I thought, disappointment.

  “Yes, Miss Ferrars, I will. I only wish I knew . . .” I thought he was going to add, “whether to believe you,” but he said no more. From the top of an unstable heap of papers on his desk, he picked up a large grey envelope and handed it to me.

  It struck me, as I declined another offer of refreshment, that I need not have lied to him.

  “If there is anything more I can do, Miss Ferrars,” he said as we parted, “anything at all, I hope you will not hesitate to call upon me. Here is my card. I have written my parents’ address on the back, and if you should ever find yourself at Noss Mayo, you will always find a welcome there.

  “Oh, and there is one thing more. You asked me to find out if Thomas Wentworth was still alive: he died bankrupt, in November of 1879, by his own hand.”

  So intent was I upon the envelope in my hand that the words scarcely registered. When I reached the landing below, I looked back and saw him still standing at the top, regarding me with troubled eyes.

  Rosina Wentworth to Emily Ferrars

  Kirkbride Cottage,

  Belhaven

  East Lothian

  Friday, 18 May 1860

  Dearest Emily,

  I am so sorry to have left you in suspense, and can only hope that you received the notes I scribbled from King’s Cross and Dunbar. I am safe, and well, and happier than I ever imagined possible. And now I must gather my wits, and try to tell you everything as it happened.