The Asylum (29 page)

And the cottage itself is ideal—only a hundred yards from the shore, and hidden from its neighbours by a coppice of trees. A woman from the village comes in the mornings; the rest of the time we have the house to ourselves and can do exactly as we please. Felix knows how to make tea and fry a beefsteak: we supped last night in bed, upon bread and cheese and potted meat and cake, and were utterly content.

I must finish here; we are about to walk into the village to catch the afternoon post. I dare not read this letter over, and can only remind myself that if I were in your place, I would want to know everything. We are to be married—I have only just thought to mention it, such is my conviction that we are married already—on Monday, the fourth of June, in Dunbar, if we are not discovered. I should have loved to have you and Godfrey for our witnesses, but it is such a long way, and perhaps you may feel—I must not entertain such thoughts, or I shall lose my nerve, and tear this up instead of posting it. May we come to you at Nettleford, as soon after the fourth as will suit? I long to embrace you, and will write again very soon. Have no fear for me, dearest cousin; I am blessed beyond measure.

All my love to you, and to dear Godfrey,

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Kirkbride Cottage,
Belhaven
Wednesday, 23 May 1860

Dearest Emily,

I burst into such tears of joy when I read your letter that Felix thought something terrible must have happened! Your loving words mean more than I can say until I embrace you on the ninth. And to know that Lily is safe in Tavistock Square—truly, my cup runneth over.

We have been here nine days now, without the slightest alarm. No one else knows where we are, except for Mr. Carburton, Felix’s solicitor, who is to write care of the post office in Dunbar. Because of the letter he dropped in the struggle with Naylor, Felix decided he must write to Mr. Carburton to explain the circumstances of our elopement, and warn him against believing anything my father may say. If my father should call at the office, Mr. Carburton is to tell him that we will shortly be married, but nothing more.

Felix has also written to his brother, as he feels is only right, though Edmund is bound to disapprove of our marriage, believing as he does that no Mordaunt should ever marry. Edmund remains bitterly opposed to the sale of Tregannon House, despite Felix’s assurance that the proceeds will be equally divided—which is all the more generous of Felix, since he has had to borrow against his own share and is anxiously awaiting the deed of sale. Mr. Carburton will forward the letter, as Felix does not want Edmund to know where we are until we are married.

But that is the only cloud on our horizon, and most of the time we scarcely notice it. The weather, for the most part, has kept wonderfully mild and sunny: we walk for miles along the coast, with scarcely another human being in sight. Those last fearful days at Portland Place already seem like a distant nightmare, apart from the odd superstitious moment when I have to pinch myself to make sure I am truly awake, and free, and happy beyond my wildest imagination. Felix has the most extraordinary vitality; he scarcely needs to sleep, and often I wake to see him scribbling verses by candlelight, or gazing at the stars. And then, if he hears me stirring, he turns to me with a look of such delight that my heart overflows. His mind teems with ideas: sometimes his thoughts tumble over one another so fast that I cannot keep up with what he is saying, but I feel I always understand the music, even when I miss some of the words. He dreams of finding, or even founding, a community—apparently there are several like it in New England—built upon love and respect, a brotherhood of the spirit, he calls it, in which women would enjoy the same rights as men, and property would be held in common, for the benefit of all. To me he seems the very embodiment of that spirit, always so ardent and loving, filled with the joy of life.

Until the ninth—Felix sends his warmest and most heartfelt thanks for your invitation, and joins with me in hoping that all is well with you and Godfrey—

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Kirkbride Cottage,
Belhaven
Friday, 25 May 1860

Dearest Emily,

Alas, I spoke too soon. I was unwell yesterday morning and so did not accompany Felix when he walked to Dunbar to see if the deed of sale had arrived yet. He returned, looking very grave, with a disturbing letter from Mr. Carburton, enclosing another, even more distressing, from Edmund. My father, it seems, went straight to Marylebone police station on the morning of our escape and had warrants sworn against Felix for abduction and assault. He then stormed into Mr. Carburton’s office, demanding to know where we were. Mr. Carburton, of course, knew nothing of what had happened (he did not receive Felix’s letter until Friday), but he was sufficiently alarmed to write to Edmund at Tregannon House, telling him of my father’s visit. This was Edmund’s response:

Dear Felix,

I have long despaired of your profligate ways, but I never imagined you capable of such an outrage as this. To have abducted an heiress (even if she accompanied you willingly, it is still abduction), and assaulted the loyal servant who sought to defend her honour: these are acts so heinous that I can only suppose—I might almost say hope—that you have altogether lost your reason. I have been in communication
with Mr. Wentworth, whose wrath would scarcely be appeased by seeing you hanged, and pleaded the only thing I could plead: that you ought to be confined as a lunatic rather than as a felon, but he is adamant, and will not rest, he says, until you are locked up in Newgate.

There is, nevertheless, a faint chance of your avoiding the disgrace of a prison sentence. You must ensure that this foolish young woman is returned to her father’s house at once—unless, as I greatly fear, you have already debauched her. If Mr. Wentworth refuses to take her back, then I suppose we must make provision for her. You yourself, however, must not accompany her to London, but return home at once. Maynard Straker has very kindly offered to come down and examine you as soon as he is summoned; assuming—I cannot see how there can be any doubt of it—that he is prepared to issue a certificate, we can declare you unfit to plead, and arrange for your confinement here.

As for your unconscionable scheme of selling the roof from over our heads: I have written to Mr. Carburton, apprising him of the facts of the matter, and advising him not to act upon any further communications from you, or to advance you any further funds, as you are plainly not of sound mind.

I urge you, once again, to arrange for Miss Wentworth’s immediate return to her father, and to present yourself here without delay. Fail in this, and I dare not answer for the consequences.

Your aff
^ct
brother,

E. A. Mordaunt

Mr. Carburton, for his part, advises Felix to “consider very carefully whether you still wish me to draw up a deed of sale, since your brother will certainly contest your fitness to sign this or any other document pertaining to the sale of the estate. This would place me, as a trustee of the Mordaunt estate, in a most invidious position, since I cannot, of course, act for one member of the family against another. I do most earnestly counsel you to come to terms with your brother before you proceed.”

“What does he mean, ‘come to terms with your brother’?” I asked. The day was overcast, the fire unlit; our little sitting room seemed, for the first time, cold and drab.

“He means—though being a lawyer, he will not say so plainly—that he agrees with Edmund: he thinks I am as mad as my father and should meekly present myself to his friend Straker to be certified and shut away like poor Horace—as soon as I have delivered you to the nearest police station, that is.”

“That is monstrous—absurd. No one could possibly believe you mad.”

“You forget the family history, dearest. Edmund regards my desire to sell that wretched mausoleum as proof in itself.”

“All the same . . . do you think, if we were caught, that you really might be sent to prison?”

“If you were able to swear that you came away willingly, and that Naylor was as much the aggressor as I, probably not. But you would be locked away in your father’s house—that is what they are counting on—in no position to swear to anything, leaving them free to blacken my character. So yes, I might very well be convicted and imprisoned, assuming that Edmund did not contrive to have me certified, which would be far worse—but fear not, my darling; in ten days’ time we shall be married in law, and that will draw most of their teeth.”

“Most?”

“Well, they could still have me arrested and thrown in gaol to await my trial. And then, if your father had you kidnapped—it would be illegal, but he might still risk it—they could contend that I was insane at the time of our marriage, and try to have the marriage annulled. Until you come of age in November, we must be on our guard. But don’t look so alarmed, dearest: we shall be gone long before then. I shall call at the shipping agent’s this afternoon, and see what sailings are available.”

“Shall we not see Emily, then, before we leave?” I asked, striving to conceal my disappointment.

“Your cousin’s house is likely to be watched. But,” he added, studying my face, “I know how much it means to you; we shall find a way of throwing them off the scent.”

“Must you go back today? Is it safe? What if Mr. Carburton has told your brother that he is writing to you at Dunbar?”

“I was on my guard from the moment I opened the letter—which I did in the post office, thinking it was the deed—and saw nothing suspicious; I am certain I wasn’t followed. There is always that danger, yes: the devil of it is, I must be able to communicate with Carburton about the sale, and so if we move, the same difficulty will arise. And it will be easier to prove our three weeks’ residence if we remain here. From now on, I shall go to Dunbar alone; if I have to run for it, that will give me a better chance of escaping. You must try not to worry too much; the only danger is at the post office, and I shall be watching like a hawk.”

“But if Mr. Carburton has taken your brother’s side? . . .”

“That is why I must go back: I have decided to consult a medical man and have him write me a certificate of sanity. Unusual, I know, but if you can be certified insane, why not the reverse? I shall send it straight to Carburton, with instructions to draw up the deed of sale and advance me a further two hundred and fifty pounds. I am the heir, after all, and he is already acting for me; I think, when it comes to it, he will have to do as I ask. And now I must be off; it may take me several hours, but the sooner it is done, the sooner we can set sail.”

Watching him stride away across the grass, I realised that, in spite of the threat hanging over us, I no longer wanted to live abroad. We had talked a great deal—or rather Felix had talked, and I had listened, utterly content in his embrace—of faraway cities like Rio de Janeiro: places he had never seen, but could conjure, with the utmost vividness, from fragments he had read and pictures he had glimpsed, as if recalling a vision of heaven. And yet it had never seemed quite real to me; reality was the bed we lay in, the sun on the coverlet in the mornings, the salt air wafting in from the sea, the beating of his heart against mine. I had said to myself, “I can be happy anywhere Felix is happy,” and believed it, but now, newly conscious of the damp stains on the wallpaper and the musty odor rising from the carpet, I envisaged a bleak procession of furnished rooms and lodgings, and my spirit rose up in revolt and said, “No, I want us to live here, in our own country, and have a house of our own, a place where our children can grow up amongst friends, and music, and laughter, not as strangers in a strange land.” Yet when we had talked in Regent’s Park, the prospect had seemed wholly delightful. What had come over me? I reproached myself for inconstancy of feeling and for putting my own comfort above Felix’s, but I could not recapture whatever it was I had felt that day.

I emerged from my reverie to find that Felix had vanished from sight. I had locked the front door behind him, but what of the others? The house was surrounded on three sides by trees, which until then had looked peaceful and sheltering, but now seemed alive with shadows. The front windows looked over a low stone wall, beyond which was an expanse of meadow, then a long curving line of pale sand, and the sea stretching toward the horizon. If you went out by the kitchen door at the back, you could pick your way through the trees—the copse was very much overgrown, and choked in places with nettles—past the collapsed remains of another wall, and scramble down onto the Edinburgh road, in clear view of the village. We had never gone that way to Dunbar, having always taken the path along the coast.

I went around the ground floor, making sure that all the windows were latched and the kitchen door bolted. Fear prickled at my spine. I went on upstairs, forcing myself not to look back, and into our bedroom. Not a soul was in sight; only the ragged meadow, and an iron grey sea fading into mist. My head ached dully, and there was a griping in the pit of my stomach, which might have been apprehension, or simply the discomfort I had felt all day. I was shivering, too, but reluctant to light the fire, telling myself it was not really cold enough and trying to suppress the voice that whispered,
The smoke will give you away.