John Harwood - The Asylum

“Then I shall happily wait all day—and the day after, if necessary—in the hope of seeing you there.”

With another captivating smile, and a bow to us both, he turned and strode off the way we had come.

“Mr. Mordaunt is a charming gentleman, is he not, Lily?” I said as we walked up Portland Place.

“Yes, miss, very charming indeed. But you must be careful, miss. Men—even gentlemen—will take advantage if—well, if you encourage them. And if your father were to hear of it . . .”

I could scarcely deny encouraging Mr. Mordaunt. “I know, I know; I promise to be careful. But I must see him again.”

She looked at me fearfully.

“But then you’ll crave to see him even more, miss. And what if your father comes back sooner than expected? Naylor’s always on the lookout; you’ll be caught for certain.”

“All I want, Lily, is a quiet hour or two’s conversation with Mr. Mordaunt tomorrow; if we wish to communicate after that, we shall write to each other, in the same way as I write to my cousin. But you are quite right; I had better not be seen. Is there a way of getting in and out of the house

without

being seen?”

“Not for you, miss, no.”

“But for you, Lily? I promise, on my heart, to keep it a secret.”

“Well, miss, I’m friends with one of the maids next door; she has the attic room along from mine, and sometimes we open our windows and talk. The roof’s not so steep, and there’s a bit of a ledge, so I

could

creep across and get in her window—not that I’ve done it, mind—”

“But then you would have to go down through the house.”

“Yes, miss, but the family’s away; there’s just the maids and the housekeeper on board wages. Only

you

couldn’t do it, miss; your gown would be all over smuts, and they’d be bound to talk—and how would you get in again?”

“Yes, I see. Well, supposing, tomorrow, you were to let me out when the coast is clear, and then say I am in bed with a headache? And then when I come back, I can say I felt better, and slipped out for a short walk—or you could watch for me from my window and run down and open the front door. I shall make it up to you, I promise.”

“And what if you don’t come back, miss? What would I do then?”

“Lily, I am not going to run away with Mr. Mordaunt after two days’ acquaintance.”

But even as I spoke, I remembered the warmth of his arm beneath my gloved hand; I imagined meeting his eyes—which are a deep, luminous, autumnal brown—and not having to look away. Was this how Clarissa had felt?

“What I meant, miss, was if you didn’t come back, I shouldn’t know what had become of you, so I should have to tell someone.”

“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