John Harwood - The Asylum

Apart from your letters, Lily is my only comfort. I divined from the first that my aunt would disapprove of our intimacy, and so I am always very stern with Lily—who acts the timid and downtrodden maid to perfection—in her presence. I used to think Miss Woodcroft a martinet, but now I realise how much freedom she allowed us: a freedom that was, I suppose, poor Clarissa’s undoing. If she had flatly refused to marry Mr. Ingram, my father might have allowed her to wait for another candidate. But she consented, thinking, I suppose—she would never confide in me—that, once married, she could live her own life. And then as the day drew closer, she found that she could not bear it, and there was George Harrington, who was at least young and handsome, however much of a rake he may have been.

I have asked myself many times: if she and I had been close, would she still have run away? So often I felt that I had offended her, without knowing why, and if I ventured to ask what I had done, she would deny that anything was wrong, in the tone that says you have committed a further offence by asking. You once said that you thought she envied me, but I cannot remember

why

you thought so. She was older, she was prettier, she was poor mama’s favourite; she was the centre of attention whenever we had company—but I must not write of her in the past tense. I can only pray that she is safe and happy.

Lily is waiting, so I shall seal this now. If only you could write freely in reply, I would not feel so—but what a fool I am! It has only just occurred to me that you could write to me c/o the post office in Mortimer Street for Lily to collect—if you do not mind the deception, that is. I shall guard your letters with my life.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

3 November 1859

Dearest Emily,

I have terrible news—as you may have guessed, if you saw

The Times

this morning—Clarissa is dead. It happened a week ago yesterday, when she and George Harrington were driving in the hills above Rome—their horse bolted, and they were flung over a precipice, and crushed beneath the wreck of the carriage. The article—it is only a brief paragraph—calls them Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, but there can be no doubt. My father sent for me after breakfast and said, without preliminary, “Your sister is dead, as she deserved. There will be no mourning, and no further mention of her. You may go.” His look said, as clearly as if he had spoken, “Disobey me, and the same may happen to you.”

I do not remember leaving his study, or climbing the stairs; the next thing I knew, I was back in my room, possessed by a dreadful suspicion that he had caused her death. It was only when Lily brought me the paper that the worst of my fears were allayed. Even then I wondered how long he had known, and whether he had told me only because he realised I was bound to find out.

Poor Clarissa! I have not even been able to weep for her. All I can feel is black, smothering despair.

I shall write when I am calmer.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

Tuesday, 17 April 1860

Dearest Emily,

It was such a joy to receive your letter, and to know that dear Godfrey is recovering his strength at last. Nettleford sounds enchanting—I am sure that you could not have found a better place. I should dearly love to visit you, but my father would never allow me to travel without Aunt Harriet, and I would not inflict her upon you for the world.

I know that I have said very little of myself, all these long months, but I did not want to burden you with my woes whilst you were so anxious about Godfrey. The piano, as always, has been my principal refuge: I play for hours at a stretch and have learnt most of my favorite pieces by heart, so that I seldom need a score. And Lily’s reading is much improved, though we have had to conceal the fact that I am teaching her, both from my aunt and from the other servants. But time hangs very heavily. The only exercise I have is pacing up and down my room, and yet I have grown thinner; I am often hungry, in that sick, costive sort of way, but all appetite dies in my aunt’s presence. And the shadow of Clarissa’s death is everywhere about the house, all the more darkly because I am forbidden to speak of her. So often I resented her sulks and her ill-temper; how I wish now that I had been more forgiving!

It has only just occurred to me that she and George Harrington might have been married in truth. Aunt Harriet dwells constantly upon the wickedness of those who live in sin, and plainly delights in the idea that Clarissa has gone to eternal torment. She finds a hundred ways of alluding to it, without ever mentioning Clarissa by name. But I will not believe in the God she worships. She has made him in her own image: cruel, petty, vengeful, taking pleasure in the punishments he inflicts. Even if such a being existed, it would be wrong to worship him. I still say my prayers, but I have no sense of any answering presence. Perhaps I never did.

I confess, indeed, that I have sometimes envied Clarissa, and thought: better a few weeks’ perfect happiness (as I pray she found), a brief moment of terror, and then blessed oblivion, than dragging out my days in this gilded cage. Mary Traill used to say how much she envied

me,

living in such a grand house; yet I have come to understand that I have nothing. My father owns even the clothes on my back, and if he chose, he could throw me into the street to starve.

Since Clarissa’s death, he has altogether ceased to entertain; he dines out most evenings, breakfasts early, and is usually gone by the time I come down. He no longer keeps a carriage, and has dismissed his butler and all but two of the footmen. Naylor, his new valet—a most unpleasant young man with a perpetual sneer—is now effectively in charge of the household. He (Naylor) is stooped and boney, with disproportionately long arms, and moves in a kind of lunging, spiderish fashion; Lily says that the maids all hate him but dare not show it.

But I have not yet said what is uppermost in my mind. The truth is—even to write it makes me feel as if I am looking over a precipice—I mean to run away. In six months’ time I shall be of age, but that may be too late. I know, all too well, the sort of man my father will choose for me, and if I wait until he presents me with my fate, and then refuse him, I shall be still more closely guarded. He may even try to starve me into submission—I have read of such things. My only hope of escape, so far as I can see, is to find a situation—as a governess, or a piano teacher, or—anything that will enable me to earn my own living. But

how

am I to do this, without my father or my aunt finding out? If there is anything you can suggest, I shall be eternally grateful.

I shall seal this now, before my courage fails me, and Lily will take it to the post later on. She has a sweetheart nearby—he is a footman in Cavendish Square—and contrives to snatch a few moments with him on these excursions.

All my love to you, and to dear Godfrey,

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

25 April 1860

Dearest Emily,

I have shed so many tears of joy over your letter that the ink has run all over “there will always be a home for you at Nettleford.” It is so generous of you to offer to come up to London and be my chaperone for the journey, and there is just a chance that my father will agree to let me go without Aunt Harriet. It seems that Grandmother Wentworth’s health is failing; my aunt’s way of putting it is that she has been forced to neglect her duty to her mother in order to fulfill her duty to me. The truth of the matter is that Grandmother will not have me in the house, in case I might rattle a teacup, or cause a floorboard to creak, or—worse still—speak above a whisper.