John Harwood - The Asylum

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, approaching. “I mistook you for someone else. Felix Mordaunt, at your service.”

He was, indeed, extraordinarily handsome. I could not help smiling in return as we introduced ourselves.

“I take it that you prefer to observe, rather than to be observed, Miss Wentworth.”

“Well, yes; I have not been out of doors for many months, and was not expecting such a grand occasion. It is all rather daunting.”

“I quite agree,” he replied—though he seemed entirely at ease—“especially as I don’t know a soul here.”

“But surely you must know the Traills?”

“Well, no, I have only just met them. Our families are distantly related by marriage, you see, and I thought—or, to be truthful, my brother thought—that I should pay my respects whilst I was in London, and this invitation was the result.”

“You do not live in London, then?”

“No, Miss Wentworth. We have an estate in Cornwall; my father has lately died, and I am in town to see about his will.”

I realised, as I murmured my condolences, that I did not want to speak of Clarissa, and contrived, without telling any positive untruths, to imply that I was an only child recovering from a winter’s illness. It turned out that he really had been ill—he did not say with what—and had spent the winter abroad. I told him that I played the piano, and discovered that he, too, loves music, and plays the cello—very beautifully, I am sure, despite his protestations to the contrary. Listening to him talk is like hearing a song perfectly rendered in a nearby room, when you cannot make out the words, but the effect is more sublime than any mere words could convey. And, though I tried not to meet his glance too often, I could not help drinking in every detail of his appearance.

All too soon I saw Mary and her mother coming up the path, and all I could think was to ask how long he would be in London.

“I shall be here at least another week. And you, Miss Wentworth, will you be . . . In fact, do you think I might call upon you?”

My heart was pounding violently, and I had only a moment to think.

“I am afraid my father would not allow that,” I said, “but . . . if it keeps fine, my maid and I will take a turn in Regent’s Park—around the Botanic Gardens—tomorrow morning at about eleven.”

He had no time to reply, for the Traills were upon us.

“Rosina, we have been looking

everywhere

for you,” said Mrs. T. archly. “I see you have already made a conquest of Mr. Mordaunt. But you must come and tell me how you

are;

such a sad time it has been for you.” I caught his questioning glance as Mrs. T. led me away, sick with mortification as I realised what I had done. I had made an assignation with a young man, within moments of meeting him, in a way that he could only construe as wantonly forward, especially when Mary told him about Clarissa, as she was bound to do. He would assume that I, too, was willing to be carried off by a man I scarcely knew, regardless of the consequences.

“You must excuse me,” I said, feeling the heat rush to my face. “I am feeling quite unwell and must go home at once.”

“Nonsense; you are simply over-excited. A cooling drink is what you need. Tell me, how is your dear aunt Harriet?” Mrs. Traill had never, before this, been actively malicious toward me, and I wondered, as I stammered out my replies, if she saw Mr. Mordaunt as a possible candidate for Mary. And when at last I managed to extricate myself, I was bailed up by one acquaintance after another, all of them pointedly not mentioning Clarissa. My face remained scarifyingly hot; beads of perspiration kept trickling out of my hair, and I felt certain that the entire company were talking about me behind my back. And yet I stayed, I confess, in the vain hope that Mr. Mordaunt would come up to me, and that I would somehow—but how?—be able to set things right.

When I could bear it no longer, I went in search of Lily, who had been helping with the refreshments, and left without even attempting to thank Mrs. T. We had passed out of sight of the house, and I was assuring a disbelieving Lily that I was perfectly all right, only fatigued, when I heard footsteps hurrying up behind us. To my astonishment, it was Mr. Mordaunt, rather out of breath and looking, I thought, a little apprehensive.

“Miss Wentworth, forgive me, but I did not want to lose the opportunity of speaking to you again, in case—”

The implication hung in the air between us. I wondered how many people had seen him run after me.

“I slipped out on the pretext of smoking a cigar,” he added, as if answering my thought.

“If you really wish to smoke, Mr. Mordaunt, I do not mind. This is my maid, Lily.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Lily,” he said, bowing. She made him a most demure curtsey, but I could tell that she was smiling to herself. “I don’t in fact smoke, but it seemed—may I walk with you for a little?”

I glanced uneasily around but saw no one I recognised.

“Yes, sir, you may; but if I should ask you to leave us, please do so at once.”

“I quite understand.” He went to offer me his arm but checked himself gracefully, and we set off toward Tottenham Court Road, with Lily following a discreet two paces behind.

“The fact is, Miss Wentworth, I was very sorry to be snatched away from you like that. It seemed to me, from the few glimpses I caught, that you did not enjoy the rest of the afternoon any more than I did, but I was given no opportunity to speak to you again. Is Miss Traill, may I ask, a close friend of yours?”

“Not close, no; I thought of her as a friend, but now . . . Did she, by any chance, speak of my sister?”

“I’m afraid she did, yes, and in a less than generous spirit. All I can say, Miss Wentworth, is that I was—I am—deeply sorry to hear of your sister’s death.”

“You will understand, I hope, why I find it hard to speak of poor Clarissa. My father forbids all mention of her.”

“I am very sorry to hear it. By a strange coincidence, I was in Rome myself last winter and heard talk of a young English couple tragically lost in an accident—but forgive me, Miss Wentworth; I should not have mentioned it.”

“You needn’t apologise,” I said. “It is only that—I was not even allowed to weep for her.” My tears overflowed, and he stood awkwardly by while Lily fussed over me; she seemed to understand that he was not to blame. When I had collected myself, he offered me his arm, and this time I took it.

“This—Clarissa’s disgrace, as everyone else regards it—is why I have not been out of doors for so long,” I said.

“I cannot think of it as disgrace. I can scarcely imagine what it must be like for a spirited young woman to be so closely guarded. In your sister’s place, I should certainly have run away.”

I looked at him in surprise and gratitude; I had never heard such sentiments from a man before, and it emboldened me to speak openly of the long months of confinement, and of my yearning to escape to you at Nettleford, find myself a situation, and be free of my father’s tyranny forever. He listened closely, never seeking to bring the talk back to himself; I was conscious all the while, even through my glove and several layers of fabric, of the movement of my hand against his arm. All too soon—again—we were turning into Langham Street.

“You must leave me here,” I said, “and return to make your farewells, if only for my sake. They must think you have smoked a whole case full of cigars.”

“I shall indeed. But you will still come to Regent’s Park in the morning?”

“I cannot promise. But if I can, I will; I cannot say exactly when.”