The Asylum (19 page)

I asked myself what
you
would advise, and I heard you saying, as clearly as if you were in the room: “Be patient; do not provoke your father’s wrath; resign yourself to another six months’ confinement; come to us at Nettleford when you are of age, and apply for a situation when you are safely here.” I made half a dozen attempts at another note, pleading a headache and asking Mary not to call as I was forbidden visitors, but a hard, stubborn knot of resistance prevented me from giving my whole heart to the task. I saw months—years—of captivity stretching before me like an endless desert; and how would I ever summon the courage to defy my father, if I dared not even pass the front door in his absence?

I was still vacillating when it came time to dress, which threw me into another dilemma: would the Traills expect to see me in mourning, which my father had forbidden me to wear? In the end, I chose a very dark grey, and set off in a state of deep foreboding. I can only think now that some good angel—some prescient instinct, at least—was urging me onward—but I must not run ahead of myself.

Just to be out of doors again was quite overwhelming. My aunt always insists upon a closed carriage, and so I had not set foot in the street since last summer. The hubbub of voices sounded extraordinarily loud, the colours dazzlingly bright, the smells so strong that at first I feared I might faint. I had meant to arrive early, so as to have a little time alone with Mary, but three o’clock was striking when we turned into the square, and as we approached the house, my nerve failed me altogether. I told Lily to go on and say that I had been taken ill, but she would not have it. “You’ve been cooped up too long, miss, and you ought to see your friends while you’ve the chance; you know it’ll do you good.”

I had assumed that there would be no more than a dozen guests, but when I was shown through onto the terrace, I thought half of London must be there: the lawn was a sea of elaborate gowns, bobbing with hats of every imaginable colour, and not a single face I recognised. If Mary had not come up to greet me, I should have turned tail and fled; she wanted to introduce me at once, but I pleaded to be left alone until I had collected myself. I accepted a cup of tea and moved away as soon as her back was turned, picking my way around the edge of the crowd until I came to a massive oak, standing close by the wall, and slipped into the shadow of the trunk.

There I must have remained for ten or fifteen minutes, sipping my tea and gazing at the spectacle, until I became aware of a man—a young man—hovering on the path a few paces away from me. I thought at first glimpse that he might be a Spaniard, because his hair was jet-black, thick and glossy, and his complexion had a faint olive glow to it. He was not especially tall, but perfectly proportioned, plainly dressed in a dark suit with a soft white shirt and stock, and a mourning band on his arm. As our eyes met, he smiled warmly, and seemed about to speak, but then his expression changed to one of embarrassment, followed by another, more tentative smile.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, approaching. “I mistook you for someone else. Felix Mordaunt, at your service.”

He was, indeed, extraordinarily handsome. I could not help smiling in return as we introduced ourselves.

“I take it that you prefer to observe, rather than to be observed, Miss Wentworth.”

“Well, yes; I have not been out of doors for many months, and was not expecting such a grand occasion. It is all rather daunting.”

“I quite agree,” he replied—though he seemed entirely at ease—“especially as I don’t know a soul here.”

“But surely you must know the Traills?”

“Well, no, I have only just met them. Our families are distantly related by marriage, you see, and I thought—or, to be truthful, my brother thought—that I should pay my respects whilst I was in London, and this invitation was the result.”

“You do not live in London, then?”

“No, Miss Wentworth. We have an estate in Cornwall; my father has lately died, and I am in town to see about his will.”

I realised, as I murmured my condolences, that I did not want to speak of Clarissa, and contrived, without telling any positive untruths, to imply that I was an only child recovering from a winter’s illness. It turned out that he really had been ill—he did not say with what—and had spent the winter abroad. I told him that I played the piano, and discovered that he, too, loves music, and plays the cello—very beautifully, I am sure, despite his protestations to the contrary. Listening to him talk is like hearing a song perfectly rendered in a nearby room, when you cannot make out the words, but the effect is more sublime than any mere words could convey. And, though I tried not to meet his glance too often, I could not help drinking in every detail of his appearance.

All too soon I saw Mary and her mother coming up the path, and all I could think was to ask how long he would be in London.

“I shall be here at least another week. And you, Miss Wentworth, will you be . . . In fact, do you think I might call upon you?”

My heart was pounding violently, and I had only a moment to think.

“I am afraid my father would not allow that,” I said, “but . . . if it keeps fine, my maid and I will take a turn in Regent’s Park—around the Botanic Gardens—tomorrow morning at about eleven.”

He had no time to reply, for the Traills were upon us.

“Rosina, we have been looking
everywhere
for you,” said Mrs. T. archly. “I see you have already made a conquest of Mr. Mordaunt. But you must come and tell me how you
are;
such a sad time it has been for you.” I caught his questioning glance as Mrs. T. led me away, sick with mortification as I realised what I had done. I had made an assignation with a young man, within moments of meeting him, in a way that he could only construe as wantonly forward, especially when Mary told him about Clarissa, as she was bound to do. He would assume that I, too, was willing to be carried off by a man I scarcely knew, regardless of the consequences.

“You must excuse me,” I said, feeling the heat rush to my face. “I am feeling quite unwell and must go home at once.”

“Nonsense; you are simply over-excited. A cooling drink is what you need. Tell me, how is your dear aunt Harriet?” Mrs. Traill had never, before this, been actively malicious toward me, and I wondered, as I stammered out my replies, if she saw Mr. Mordaunt as a possible candidate for Mary. And when at last I managed to extricate myself, I was bailed up by one acquaintance after another, all of them pointedly not mentioning Clarissa. My face remained scarifyingly hot; beads of perspiration kept trickling out of my hair, and I felt certain that the entire company were talking about me behind my back. And yet I stayed, I confess, in the vain hope that Mr. Mordaunt would come up to me, and that I would somehow—but how?—be able to set things right.

When I could bear it no longer, I went in search of Lily, who had been helping with the refreshments, and left without even attempting to thank Mrs. T. We had passed out of sight of the house, and I was assuring a disbelieving Lily that I was perfectly all right, only fatigued, when I heard footsteps hurrying up behind us. To my astonishment, it was Mr. Mordaunt, rather out of breath and looking, I thought, a little apprehensive.

“Miss Wentworth, forgive me, but I did not want to lose the opportunity of speaking to you again, in case—”

The implication hung in the air between us. I wondered how many people had seen him run after me.

“I slipped out on the pretext of smoking a cigar,” he added, as if answering my thought.

“If you really wish to smoke, Mr. Mordaunt, I do not mind. This is my maid, Lily.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Lily,” he said, bowing. She made him a most demure curtsey, but I could tell that she was smiling to herself. “I don’t in fact smoke, but it seemed—may I walk with you for a little?”

I glanced uneasily around but saw no one I recognised.

“Yes, sir, you may; but if I should ask you to leave us, please do so at once.”

“I quite understand.” He went to offer me his arm but checked himself gracefully, and we set off toward Tottenham Court Road, with Lily following a discreet two paces behind.

“The fact is, Miss Wentworth, I was very sorry to be snatched away from you like that. It seemed to me, from the few glimpses I caught, that you did not enjoy the rest of the afternoon any more than I did, but I was given no opportunity to speak to you again. Is Miss Traill, may I ask, a close friend of yours?”

“Not close, no; I thought of her as a friend, but now . . . Did she, by any chance, speak of my sister?”

“I’m afraid she did, yes, and in a less than generous spirit. All I can say, Miss Wentworth, is that I was—I am—deeply sorry to hear of your sister’s death.”

“You will understand, I hope, why I find it hard to speak of poor Clarissa. My father forbids all mention of her.”

“I am very sorry to hear it. By a strange coincidence, I was in Rome myself last winter and heard talk of a young English couple tragically lost in an accident—but forgive me, Miss Wentworth; I should not have mentioned it.”

“You needn’t apologise,” I said. “It is only that—I was not even allowed to weep for her.” My tears overflowed, and he stood awkwardly by while Lily fussed over me; she seemed to understand that he was not to blame. When I had collected myself, he offered me his arm, and this time I took it.

“This—Clarissa’s disgrace, as everyone else regards it—is why I have not been out of doors for so long,” I said.

“I cannot think of it as disgrace. I can scarcely imagine what it must be like for a spirited young woman to be so closely guarded. In your sister’s place, I should certainly have run away.”

I looked at him in surprise and gratitude; I had never heard such sentiments from a man before, and it emboldened me to speak openly of the long months of confinement, and of my yearning to escape to you at Nettleford, find myself a situation, and be free of my father’s tyranny forever. He listened closely, never seeking to bring the talk back to himself; I was conscious all the while, even through my glove and several layers of fabric, of the movement of my hand against his arm. All too soon—again—we were turning into Langham Street.

“You must leave me here,” I said, “and return to make your farewells, if only for my sake. They must think you have smoked a whole case full of cigars.”

“I shall indeed. But you will still come to Regent’s Park in the morning?”

“I cannot promise. But if I can, I will; I cannot say exactly when.”

“Then I shall happily wait all day—and the day after, if necessary—in the hope of seeing you there.”

With another captivating smile, and a bow to us both, he turned and strode off the way we had come.

“Mr. Mordaunt is a charming gentleman, is he not, Lily?” I said as we walked up Portland Place.

“Yes, miss, very charming indeed. But you must be careful, miss. Men—even gentlemen—will take advantage if—well, if you encourage them. And if your father were to hear of it . . .”

I could scarcely deny encouraging Mr. Mordaunt. “I know, I know; I promise to be careful. But I must see him again.”

She looked at me fearfully.

“But then you’ll crave to see him even more, miss. And what if your father comes back sooner than expected? Naylor’s always on the lookout; you’ll be caught for certain.”

“All I want, Lily, is a quiet hour or two’s conversation with Mr. Mordaunt tomorrow; if we wish to communicate after that, we shall write to each other, in the same way as I write to my cousin. But you are quite right; I had better not be seen. Is there a way of getting in and out of the house
without
being seen?”

“Not for you, miss, no.”

“But for you, Lily? I promise, on my heart, to keep it a secret.”

“Well, miss, I’m friends with one of the maids next door; she has the attic room along from mine, and sometimes we open our windows and talk. The roof’s not so steep, and there’s a bit of a ledge, so I
could
creep across and get in her window—not that I’ve done it, mind—”

“But then you would have to go down through the house.”

“Yes, miss, but the family’s away; there’s just the maids and the housekeeper on board wages. Only
you
couldn’t do it, miss; your gown would be all over smuts, and they’d be bound to talk—and how would you get in again?”

“Yes, I see. Well, supposing, tomorrow, you were to let me out when the coast is clear, and then say I am in bed with a headache? And then when I come back, I can say I felt better, and slipped out for a short walk—or you could watch for me from my window and run down and open the front door. I shall make it up to you, I promise.”

“And what if you don’t come back, miss? What would I do then?”

“Lily, I am not going to run away with Mr. Mordaunt after two days’ acquaintance.”

But even as I spoke, I remembered the warmth of his arm beneath my gloved hand; I imagined meeting his eyes—which are a deep, luminous, autumnal brown—and not having to look away. Was this how Clarissa had felt?

“What I meant, miss, was if you didn’t come back, I shouldn’t know what had become of you, so I should have to tell someone.”