The Asylum (20 page)

“Lily, you surely don’t think Mr. Mordaunt capable of abducting me? From Regent’s Park?”

“No, miss, but he might persuade you to go somewhere private. You don’t know what any man’s capable of, till you’re alone with him. I don’t mean my Arthur, miss; he’s always good to me, but . . .”

I looked at her questioningly, but she said no more.

My elation at seeing Felix Mordaunt again was succeeded by a restlessness, the like of which I had never experienced. I could not settle to anything, even the piano, and went up and down stairs a dozen times, feeling I could not stand another day of captivity, let alone six months of it. I went to bed early, hoping to sleep the time away, but I was pacing my room again five minutes later, caught in a whirligig of contrary emotions. What if he was an accomplished seducer, who amused himself by preying upon foolish young women like me? I imagined him boasting of his latest conquest, or even making sport of me when he returned to Mrs. Traill’s party; I relived every detail of my humiliation there, and my face burnt more fiercely than ever. My father was bound to find out, and I should be locked away forever, as I deserved.

But then, in the depths of mortification, the image of Felix—it sounds terribly forward, but you will understand, in a little, why I speak of him thus—would come back to me in all his beauty and sunny openness, and my distrust would blow away like so much shredded paper, and all I could think was that I
must
see him again, no matter what the cost.

And so I passed one of the longest nights of my life, tossing between dread and longing. My mattress seemed to consist entirely of lumps; I would grow suffocatingly hot, and throw off the clothes, and then find myself shivering with cold. I was compelled several times to go and stand at my window in case Felix should be gazing up at me from the street, knowing that the idea was quite mad, but unable to restrain myself. And when at last I did go to sleep, I woke with a dreadful start to find the sun streaming in and Lily knocking at my door, and leapt out of bed in a blind panic, thinking I had slept away the whole morning.

And then, of course, I could not decide which gown to wear—but I shall not dwell upon the agonies of indecision I inflicted upon poor Lily as well as myself. Enough to say that I did manage to escape without being seen, and to arrive, breathless and late, at the Botanic Gardens, and that Felix was waiting, and that one look at his face was enough to dispel all of my fears.

All of yesterday, and most of today, we spent walking and talking, or sitting and talking, in the park. We found a bench in a secluded spot, away from the main walks, and subsisted upon tea and chestnuts from the coffee stall; the weather kept fine and warm, and in all that time I saw nobody I knew. I was vaguely aware that I
ought
to be afraid—mortally afraid—of discovery, but in Felix’s company I became quite fearless. It was like the moment after you have taken a glass of champagne, miraculously prolonged, when you feel the bubbles fizzing along your veins, but your head is still perfectly clear.

You will perhaps have guessed—I pray that you will not be shocked—that Felix has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted. There! I have said it. I know you will be anxious, but consider: Felix and I have spent twelve uninterrupted hours alone together, and how many couples, before they become engaged, can say as much? You will say that I cannot be sure of him; I can only reply that when you see us together, you will understand. There is an affinity between us—he felt it, too, from the moment we met—as if we have always known each other. He has the sunniest, most open countenance I have ever seen in a man. You can follow the play of his emotions from moment to moment—I am sure he would be incapable of deceit (or of pretending to like someone he did not). And he
listens,
which most men are incapable of doing with a woman for more than a sentence—but I am letting my pen run away with me again.

The obstacle is, of course, my father. Felix will have about six hundred a year after the estate has been sold up and divided, as he means to do, with his brothers. He comes of old Cornish stock—his family have held the estate for many generations—but there is a difficulty there, which I shall come to in a moment. And you know how my father affects to despise the gentry, especially those, like Felix, who have no particular occupation: he will want me to marry some rapacious man of business, like that vile Mr. Ingram. Felix insists that he has money enough and does not care about a dowry, only about my being disinherited. He wants to do the honourable thing and call upon my father, but I have persuaded him—or so I trust—that only disaster would come of it. Merely admitting that I went to Mrs. T.’s unchaperoned and met a gentleman there would be enough to have me locked away.

Felix’s lack of occupation, I should say, is not from indolence, but because he is sure that his destiny does not lie with any of the established professions. As you will see when you meet him, he would be utterly unsuited to the army, or the law, and—though I am sure he would preach a very eloquent sermon—he says he could not, in conscience, take holy orders, as there is much in established doctrine that he finds doubtful or even abhorrent. He loves music, as I think I told you—it will be such a joy to play together—and he has written a great many poems. When he first discovered Byron, he was so powerfully affected that he thought
Childe Harold
must have been written especially for him (though nowadays he prefers
Don Juan,
which I have never been allowed to possess—we are going to read it together). For years afterward, his greatest ambition was to
be
Lord Byron: he acquired a black cloak, and used to stride about the moors in it, doing his best to look like a tragic hero wrapped in a cloud of gloom.

And, though his disposition is naturally cheerful, he has had much to be gloomy about. There is—again I beg you not to be anxious; five minutes in Felix’s company will set your mind at rest—there is a disposition toward melancholia, and sometimes even madness, in his family, especially upon the male side. His mother died when he was ten years old, worn out, Felix believes, by the strain of living with his father, who could not bear to be crossed in the smallest particular. His father’s temper was uncertain at the best of times, and when the fit was on him, he could be very violent: he disinherited his eldest son, Edmund, for trying to have him certified insane, and then the second son, Horace, for marrying without his consent, which is why Felix is determined to share with them. He says that if his father had not been carried off by a seizure, he would have been disinherited in turn, and the whole estate would have gone to some distant relation in Scotland. Poor Horace is presently confined to an asylum after a complete nervous collapse—all the more distressing because he has an infant son.

Even Felix, who is the kindest and gentlest of men, has been sadly afflicted by melancholia. It came upon him without warning, in the autumn of his second year at Oxford. He went to bed one night a healthy young man and woke in the grip of the most appalling horror; he felt, he said, as if he had committed a capital crime. At times his mind would race beyond control, whirling from one dreadful prospect to the next, all fraught with the most hideous anxiety; then his thoughts would slow until to think at all was like trying to wade through quicksand, and he would sink into a lethargy so profound that even to leave his bed seemed an intolerable effort. And over all was cast a leaden blackness of spirit, a thing worse than the worst pain he had ever experienced, because it consumed his entire being, suffocating all joy and hope as if he were being smothered by ashes.

After a month in this terrible state, he abandoned his studies and went home to Cornwall. It was, he said, the worst thing he could have done, because Tregannon House is a dismal place even in summer: dark and damp, with great thick walls and tiny windows. In those bleak surroundings, he sank even deeper into the pit, constantly tempted by the thought of suicide, until some instinct of self-preservation prompted him to flee the house and take passage to Naples, where within a few weeks he was his old self again. He returned to Oxford in the spring, believing himself cured, but the following autumn he felt it coming on again.

This time he did not wait for the darkness to engulf him but sailed at once for Italy, where again his spirits were restored. He has wintered abroad ever since. The English climate, he says, brings out the dark strain in the Mordaunt blood, which is why he is determined to sell the estate. Edmund, sadly, does not agree: he has some absurd idea of turning Tregannon House into a private asylum, but Felix hopes that the rift will heal once things are settled and Edmund has money in his pocket. And he is certain that with me at his side, he will never sink into melancholia again.

Felix, as you can see, has been absolutely candid; he wished me to hear the worst about his family from him, rather than from some malicious tattle-bearer, and, knowing that you are my dearest friend in all the world, asked if I would relate it to you. He very much hopes that you will allow him to call at Nettleford when he returns to Cornwall in a week or two, especially since you and Godfrey will be the sole keepers of our secret. Felix does not want to say anything to his brother until the estate is settled.

We intend to marry as soon as I am of age, and since we cannot hope for my father’s blessing, it would be a joy to Felix—and of course to me—if you would give him yours. I should love, more than anything, to be married from your house, with you and Godfrey as witnesses.

Six months does not seem so very long to wait, now. I shall have Felix’s letters to look forward to, and he will come up to London as often as the business of the estate allows; I am sure I shall be able to slip out and see him sometimes. I shall even try to be kinder to Aunt Harriet!

And now I must make an end of this long letter. We mean to live abroad—somewhere warm and light, where I pray that you will come to visit us—and travel a great deal. It is sad to think that in all of England, the only people I shall sorely miss are you and Godfrey—and Lily. I would love to keep her with me, but I know she would pine for her Arthur, and for London—she is a London girl through and through, whereas I cannot wait to leave here.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place
Saturday, 12 May 1860

Dearest Emily,

The worst has happened. All yesterday I waited for my father to return; no one knew when to expect him, and I dared not leave the house. I had thought that two whole days with Felix would be enough for me to live on, but from the moment I woke this morning, I was consumed by doubts, which grew worse as the hours I might have spent with him crawled by. What if he had changed his mind? What if his way of amusing himself in London was to extract pledges of marriage from foolish girls? I thought I had banished such fears forever, but they came swarming back to torment me. Five minutes—a single minute—or a line of his writing would have set my mind at rest: I stood for ages at my window, praying that he would appear in the street below, even though I knew that he would be engaged on business all day.

My father did not return until late in the afternoon. I was waiting in the drawing room, and at the first glimpse of his face, my heart turned to lead.

“Mr. Bradstone—the gentleman I spoke of—will dine here this evening; you will join us at seven and make yourself agreeable to him.”

I had forgotten all about Mr. Bradstone. My horror must have shown, for his face darkened, and he asked very sharply if I had not heard him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “but I feel my headache returning”—I am sure I looked stricken enough for it to sound plausible—“and I hope you will excuse me.”

“Headache or no, you will present yourself at seven, if you know what is good for you,” he replied, and left me without another word.

I dragged myself upstairs, feeling as if I had stumbled into a nightmare, and dressed as severely as I could, with no jewellery except a small silver cross; I had Lily pull my hair back so tightly it hurt. But nothing could have prepared me for the man my father has chosen.

Mr. Giles Bradstone is perhaps forty years old, tall and powerfully built, with a long, boney face and a leprous complexion. His nostrils flare slightly when he breathes, and his eyes are very prominent: the coldest, palest blue I have ever seen—they fix you with a look of amused contempt. He is a widower, and I can give you no better idea of the man than to say that when he told me—with, I would swear, a flicker of a smile—that his first wife (he actually
said
“my first wife”) died in an accident, I felt certain he had murdered her. His voice is cool and contemptuous, like his stare, and of course he is a man of business; he deals in property, like my father, and holds the same views. I kept my eyes lowered, as far as possible, but all too often he addressed me directly—just for the pleasure, I am sure, of forcing me to look at him. My father gave one of his disquisitions upon the idleness of the poor, and how much more work could be got out of them if they were not so leniently treated by the law; he had no sooner finished than Mr. Bradstone said,

“But I fear Miss Wentworth does not agree with her father.”

“I have no opinion, sir,” I replied, “beyond what scripture tells us, that it is our duty to care for those less fortunate than ourselves.”

My father shot me an angry look; Mr. Bradstone smiled and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, I know that you dislike me, but do not imagine that you can escape. Later he remarked—in reference to some business venture, but with his gaze fixed upon me—“I never allow myself to be beaten. At anything.”