John Harwood - The Asylum

I dreamt of Niton as a lost paradise, and thought many times of returning, but I feared that I would be just as lonely there, mourning the life I had lost. Amy wrote to me in the spring to say that she had married her sweetheart and moved with him to Portsmouth; Mrs. Briggs had retired from service and gone to her sister in Felixstowe; and when I heard that Mr. Allardyce had died—even at Niton, the winter had been exceptionally severe—that put the seal upon it.

Depressing as I found my uncle’s shop, I decided that I might as well make myself useful instead of moping upstairs. Most of his business was done by post, but he disliked having to close when he went out to sales, or to visit other dealers, and so I offered to mind the shop whenever he did. By the time I realised what a mistake I had made, it was too late: Uncle Josiah was going out every afternoon from two o’clock until five, while I sat moping downstairs instead of up. If there had been no clients at all, I should have rebelled, but the few that called—mostly elderly clergymen—brought in just enough money for my uncle to insist that we could not possibly manage without it.

Standing at the infirmary window, with the rain still falling steadily, I sought to coax my memory beyond those drab autumn days in my uncle’s shop. I could recall, vividly enough, feeling that another winter in Gresham’s Yard would be more than I could bear, and thinking that as soon as Aunt Vida’s estate was settled—it seemed to be taking Mr. Wetherell an unconscionably long time—I could draw out the two hundred pounds Mama had left me and travel abroad: in Rome, or Naples, it would at least be warm . . .

Shivering, I returned to bed and tried to make up my mind about leaving, until Bella arrived with a knowing look and the news that, though it was only half past eight, “Mr. Mardent” would be pleased if I would join him for breakfast in the sitting room.

He was pacing about the room when I arrived, looking even paler than he had the day before, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. But his face lit up when he saw me, and I felt my breathing quicken in response.

“Miss Ferrars, I am delighted to see you looking so much better.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mordaunt. I slept extremely well. And you?”

“Not so well, I’m afraid; I am—not one of the world’s great sleepers. But no matter.”

There was a short silence while we settled ourselves by the fire.

“Tell me, Miss Ferrars, have you decided?—about returning to London, I mean.”

“I thought—perhaps by this afternoon’s train,” I replied, realising, as his face fell, that I was not at all sure it was what I wanted.

“I’m afraid there is no afternoon train on a Sunday. It would have to be this morning at eleven, which would leave you very little time; and in such vile weather . . . Why not wait for Dr. Straker?”

Rain spattered against the window; I thought of how bleak and cheerless Gresham’s Yard would seem on such a day—and all the fogbound, wintry days to follow. Of course, I could leave first thing tomorrow, but to depart only hours before Dr. Straker returned would seem even more pointed.

“I should be very happy to wait for Dr. Straker,” I said, “if you would be kind enough to send another wire to my uncle, just to make sure that—that he knows I am here.”

“I am sorry, Miss Ferrars, but that is impossible; the telegraph office is closed on Sundays. Of course, we could wire in the morning, but I doubt the reply would be here before Dr. Straker.”

“Then I think I should . . .” Instinct prompted me to say “take the first train home tomorrow,” but Frederic had given me his word, and I was here as their guest, with Bella, seemingly, as my personal maid; they would have every right to be offended. But still the idea of waiting for Dr. Straker prompted a cold, clutching sensation in the pit of my stomach.

“I shall stay until tomorrow,” I said at last. “As you say, the weather is too wet for travelling.”

Frederic’s hands, which had been tightly clasped on his knees, relaxed, and his face brightened again. “It rained like this for a week before we lost our house,” I added by way of distraction, forgetting I had not mentioned the landslide. He looked suitably startled and begged me to continue. No one—except my mother—had ever listened so attentively, or for so long. Frederic scarcely spoke, beyond murmurs of sympathy or encouragement, and yet his attention never wavered. When I described my ordeal on the path that night, he shivered unconsciously; I found myself speaking more and more openly as I went on, even disclosing what I had meant to conceal, my misery at Gresham’s Yard, and my dread of another winter there.

A small silence followed, in which we sat contemplating the remnants of a breakfast I scarcely remembered eating.

“I wonder,” said Frederic tentatively, “if that—your unhappiness in London, I mean—might explain your presence here. You say that, in the last days you can recall, you were thinking of wintering abroad. Let us suppose that you actually did set out on a journey of some length; we don’t know when, or where, but you told your uncle not to expect you back until the new year, let us say.

“And then—this is only my hypothesis, you understand—you suffered an accident, or a severe shock, lost your memory—all of it, I mean—and hence your luggage, though you must have retained some money. You outfitted yourself as best you could; perhaps in Plymouth, perhaps before you arrived there. Why you chose to call yourself Lucy Ashton we don’t know—a subliminal awareness, perhaps, that your mind had been badly shaken. It was at Plymouth, I suspect, that you consulted a physician, who in turn recommended you to us. The courage and determination you displayed so abundantly that night on the cliff brought you all the way here, but then the strain caught up with you, in the form of a seizure, which restored most, but not all, of your memory. As I think I mentioned yesterday, if the initial shock was—well, exceptionally frightening—that could explain why there is still a gap in your memory.

“And, if I’m right, we can even account for the telegram Dr. Straker received from your uncle, who, you say, is very much absorbed in his business and—er—not the most observant of men. What he meant to convey was ‘Your patient can’t be Georgina Ferrars because she is travelling abroad’—assuming he knows nothing of the accident, or its aftermath—but to economise on words, as one does with telegrams, he put ‘Georgina Ferrars here,’ with the most unfortunate results. Of course, it is only a theory, but it seems at least plausible, does it not?”

“It is more than plausible,” I said with a deep sigh of relief. “I am sure you are right. I have been thinking myself that the reason I went to Plymouth is because it is near Nettleford; if, as you say, I had lost all of my memory, instinct might still have drawn me to the place where I was born. Thank you, Fr—Mr. Mordaunt; that is such a relief to my mind.”

Our eyes met; I was suddenly, acutely, conscious of his hand resting on the arm of his chair, only a foot away from mine. I lowered my gaze, but my awareness of his hand remained. My breathing faltered; blood rushed to my face. His fingers spread across the fabric, seeming to reach toward mine of their own volition.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Frederic hastily withdrew his hand, even though it had not moved beyond the arm of his chair. I clasped my own hands in my lap and stared at them, willing my colour to subside and looking, I am sure, as guilty as if Bella had caught us in the most flagrant embrace, while she cleared away the dishes, pointedly averting her eyes. Frederic made some banal remark about the weather, to which I replied in kind, addressing myself to the fireplace. It seemed an age before Bella withdrew and I dared to glance in Frederic’s direction, only to catch him glancing at me, looking every bit as flushed and discomfited as I felt. He stirred uncomfortably in his chair, as if preparing to make his excuses and depart.