The Asylum (21 page)

When dinner was over, my father insisted I play for them, which he would never ordinarily do; he actively dislikes music. I chose the most mournful piece I could think of, but still I could feel Mr. Bradstone watching me. And when at last I dared to excuse myself, he said, “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wentworth, and I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.” His tone was just within the bounds of civility, but his eyes laid insolent claim to me, and I left with the dreadful suspicion that my loathing had aroused his interest.

As you will imagine, I scarcely slept. I was dreadfully afraid that Mr. Bradstone might be staying here, and I watched from my window until I saw him drive away in a cab. And then I kept hoping that Felix, too, might be sleepless (he is lodging in Sackville Street, near Piccadilly) and would walk past the house as he had said he might. But there was only the flare of the lamps, and the empty street, and the hourly tramp of the constable’s boots, until I sank into nightmare visions of Mr. Bradstone’s face looming out of the dark, over and over until I woke at dawn and realised the nightmare was still before me.

After breakfast came the summons I had been dreading. My father was sitting at his desk when I entered the study, and motioned me to stand before him, like a child about to be punished.

“Mr. Bradstone seems favorably impressed with you, despite your sullenness. He wishes to see you again, and when he does, you will make yourself agreeable to him.”

I realised, just in time, that my only chance of escape was to placate him.

“If you wish it, sir, I will do my best.”

He gave me a long, disbelieving stare.

“You knew yesterday that it was my wish,” he said at last. “Why did you not obey me then?”

“I do not like him, sir; I am sorry if that disappoints you.”

“It does—and you will not disappoint me again. Mr. Bradstone and I are negotiating an alliance of interests; he is in want of a wife, and a marriage between our houses will cement our association. If he should make you an offer, you will accept. Your duty is to obey me, and you will learn to like him, because I wish it.”

“And when does Mr. Bradstone return?” I asked.

“On Wednesday; he will stay a fortnight. In the meantime, you are not to leave the house—as I am told you have been doing in my absence—”

“It was only to walk, sir,” I said, praying that my face would not betray me—and wondering who had betrayed me.

“No doubt Mr. Bradstone will be happy to escort you. Until then, as I say, you are to remain indoors: I have given orders to ensure that you do. Disobey me in this, and you will be confined to your room. That is all.”

As I crossed the hall, I saw Alfred stationed like a sentry by the front door. He studiously avoided my eye.

I do not know how I managed to keep my composure in my father’s presence; by the time I reached my room, I was trembling violently. My first impulse was to escape at once through Lily’s window. But if Felix was not at his lodgings—or worse, if I was caught trying to escape with my father still in the house—I realised I had better write to him first, and send Lily to find him and bring back his reply. He and I had talked of what we might do if this should happen, and he told me that under Scots law we could marry as soon as we had lived there for three weeks. It was, I confess, more his wish than mine that we should wait until I came of age. “As soon as you are safe beneath your cousin’s roof,” he said, “I can do the honourable thing and ask your father for his blessing. The worst he can do is throw me down the stairs; if nothing else, it may lessen his wrath. But if your life at home becomes intolerable, we shall elope at once.”

Then I began to think about what I could take. I remembered Clarissa’s room stripped bare, her belongings piled on that filthy cart, my father saying, “Be warned; I will not be embarrassed a second time.” I imagined him chopping my beloved piano into pieces with an axe and flinging all of my music into the fire, and my resolve wavered. But if I stayed, and refused Mr. Bradstone, he might do all of that, and more; and once imprisoned in my room, how would I ever escape? Clarissa had been of age when she ran away—it had never occurred to me, until then, that the law had been on her side, not my father’s—but that had not blunted his fury in the slightest. And what if I
had
been seen with Felix? I might have to flee at a moment’s notice.

Sick with fear at the enormity of what I was doing, I chose a small valise and set about collecting things: my mother’s necklace and brooch; your letters; a ring Clarissa had given me in a fit of generosity; a few miniatures; a small dressing case; a nightgown; a shawl—already the valise was almost full. I would have to travel in the clothes I stood up in—not the morning dress I was wearing, but something in which I could run, if need be, without tripping over layers of petticoats. The only thing I could find was a plain white dress I had worn when I was sixteen: the worst possible colour for climbing over a roof, but it could not be helped. Packing seemed to heighten, rather than relieve, my terror; when Lily tapped at the door, I almost jumped out of my skin.

Lily turned very pale when she saw the valise, and burst into tears when I told her I meant to elope.

“He’ll hunt you down, miss; you know he will.”

“We need only hide for three weeks; once we are married, he cannot touch us.”

“But what if Mr. Mordaunt doesn’t marry you, miss? He might ruin you and leave you, and then—it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

“My heart tells me to trust him, Lily. He is the best and kindest man I have ever met, and I cannot stay here. I would rather fling myself from that window than have Mr. Bradstone so much as touch me.”

“Then refuse him, miss. Even if your father keeps you on bread and water, it’s better than being ruined. And if Mr. Mordaunt really loves you, he’ll wait till you’re of age.”

“He has already promised to wait for me, Lily. But I dare not stay, and I shall never be surer of Felix than I am now.”

“Then go to your cousin, miss. It’s a long way from London; you’ll be safe with her.”

I confess I was sorely tempted, and not for the first time. Nettleford beckons like an earthly paradise; but I cannot come to you. My father’s rage at Clarissa will be as nothing compared to his fury at me, and I could not bring that upon you and Godfrey. Nettleford is one of the first places he will think of; our hearts would be in our mouths every time there was a knock at the door. At least in Scotland we have only to evade pursuit for three weeks until we are safe—and then we
shall
come to you, and all your fears for me will be set at rest.

Later:
I have heard from Felix, and we have made our plans. I shall slip out of the house very early on Monday morning, through Lily’s window if necessary; I shall know by then if the door is to be watched at night. Felix will be waiting for me in a cab; we shall drive straight to King’s Cross and take the first train north. Lily and I have shed a good many tears over each other, but I will not take her away from her sweetheart. We went through the advertisements together and found a situation for a lady’s maid in Tavistock Square; I have given her the most splendid character, and she will call upon them when she takes this to the post. Lily will write to me at Nettleford—I hope you do not mind—if she is in want of anything.

I wish I could leave sooner, but my father will be at home all day tomorrow; on Mondays he is usually gone by nine, and he will not expect to see me at breakfast. I shall lock my door behind me and leave a note on it saying that I have taken chloral after a bad night and am not to be disturbed. Lily will wait until the middle of the afternoon, and then tell the housekeeper she is worried about me. With luck, that will give us half a day’s start; I do not think they will break down the door without sending for my father, and when they do, he will find a letter saying I have run away to Paris.

I am dreadfully sorry to leave you in such anxiety, but if I am caught—I try not to think of it—I shall have no way of writing to you. Felix swears that if I
am
captured, he will not rest until he finds a way of rescuing me.

Pray for me; I shall let you know the moment I am safe.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Georgina Ferrars’ Journal

Gresham's Yard
27 September 1882

For weeks now I have weeks now I have been too low-spirited to begin a new journal. There is absolutely nothing to record, but I feel I must make the attempt, before all volition slips away from me. I spent this morning as usual making up parcels for my uncle, and the afternoon minding the shop—without a single customer—whilst he attended a sale. How the hours drag! The days are rapidly shortening, and the shop seems more dismal than ever.

I never imagined that books could be so oppressive. I loved our little library at Niton, the comforting smell of the boards, the warm colours of the spines with their faded gold lettering; but here they poison the air with mould and damp. For all my uncle’s attempts at airing the place, there are livid splotches like toadstools amongst the pages; the spores rise up and clutch at my throat. And in all this time, I have not found a single volume I would care to read.

I have tried to be content with my lot, and I know that I should be grateful to my uncle for taking me in, but to him I am simply a useful pair of hands, cheaper and more painstaking than the boy who used to do the parcels for him. If I were to say, “Uncle, I am dying of loneliness and boredom,” he would not know what to reply; I doubt that he would even comprehend.

No—another winter of wrapping books for elderly clergymen I shall never see is more than I can bear. But what else can I do? I cannot afford to live independently unless I find an occupation. I keep telling myself that I should learn typewriting; even spending my days copying other people’s words onto a machine would be better than this. But I have done nothing about it, just as I have not written to Mr. Wetherell to ask about Aunt Vida’s will, which must surely have been proven by now—it is nearly a year since she died.

Later:
I have just woken from a trance in which I was staring at my reflection in the window and trying to will it to move and speak to me, as I used to do with the mirror at Niton. If only I had a sister! If I could summon Rosina now, what would she say? She would scorn me for moping, and tell me to be bold, and take my courage in both hands, and
do
something, anything, to lift myself out of the slough of despond—but what?

Well, what about the two hundred pounds Mama left me? Everyone says it is wrong to spend your capital, but at least I could see something of the world—Rosina would surely want me to, and I hope Mama as well—and perhaps find a friend at last. I
shall
write to Mr. Wetherell—in fact I shall do so now, before my resolve weakens.

Gresham’s Yard

Monday, 2 October 1882

An extraordinary thing has happened. This morning I received a letter from a Mr. Lovell in Plymouth, explaining that Mr. Wetherell has been in poor health for some months (hence the delay in settling my aunt’s affairs), telling me that I have £212 11s 8d to my name—and enclosing a sealed packet labelled “Papers deposited by Mrs. Emily Ferrars for safekeeping, 22 November 1867; retained upon instruction of Miss Vida Radford, 7 June 1871,
in re
Ferrars bequest.” Inside was a bundle of letters, tied with a faded blue ribbon, addressed to my mother at West Hill Cottage, Nettleford.

I have read Rosina Wentworth’s letters over and over, as my mother must have done before me: some of the folds have worn completely through.
This
is why I called my imaginary sister Rosina—I must have overheard Mama and Aunt Vida talking about her before I was old enough to understand what they were saying. But why did they never mention her in front of me? Did Rosina escape with Felix Mordaunt, or did her father catch her and lock her away—or even murder her, as I fear he murdered her sister? And if Mama wanted me to have the letters when I grew up, wouldn’t she have left a note explaining why?

Perhaps she meant to, but her heart gave out too soon—she sent the packet to Mr. Wetherell only weeks before she died. Did she send it to him because she knew she was dying? Anything she left with Aunt Vida would have been lost with the house.

Uncle Josiah, of course, says he has never heard of Rosina Wentworth or Felix Mordaunt, “but it was all a long time ago, my dear, and I may well have forgotten . . . unless you mean Dr. Mordaunt of Aylesbury—the Jacobean divine, you know—I have an incomplete set of him in the back room . . .” He did not even ask to see the letters.

This afternoon I walked round to Portland Place and wandered up and down, looking at the grand houses and wondering where she might have lived. There is one in particular, with a dark, unfriendly look to it that strikes a chord, but I have no way of telling.

Eleven o’clock has struck, and the house is completely silent. I feel as if I have been sleepwalking through my days, and Rosina’s letters have awakened me. I
must
find out what became of her. But how?

Tuesday, 3 October

This morning I wrote to ask Mr. Lovell if he could tell me anything of Rosina Wentworth or Felix Mordaunt. I had scarcely returned from the post when a most peculiar letter arrived from him. He says: “If you have not already opened the packet I enclosed with yesterday’s comm
ⁿ
, I most urgently request you to return it to me unopened at your earliest convenience. Even if you have examined the contents, I should be most grateful for their return.” It seems that Rosina’s letters should have been kept with another sealed packet that Mama had subsequently sent for safekeeping, and that “according to your late mother’s instruction, this packet is to be made available to you if and only if a certain condition is fulfilled”—but he does not say what condition.