John Harwood - The Asylum

I wish I could leave sooner, but my father will be at home all day tomorrow; on Mondays he is usually gone by nine, and he will not expect to see me at breakfast. I shall lock my door behind me and leave a note on it saying that I have taken chloral after a bad night and am not to be disturbed. Lily will wait until the middle of the afternoon, and then tell the housekeeper she is worried about me. With luck, that will give us half a day’s start; I do not think they will break down the door without sending for my father, and when they do, he will find a letter saying I have run away to Paris.

I am dreadfully sorry to leave you in such anxiety, but if I am caught—I try not to think of it—I shall have no way of writing to you. Felix swears that if I

am

captured, he will not rest until he finds a way of rescuing me.

Pray for me; I shall let you know the moment I am safe.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Georgina Ferrars’ Journal

Gresham's Yard

27 September 1882

For weeks now I have weeks now I have been too low-spirited to begin a new journal. There is absolutely nothing to record, but I feel I must make the attempt, before all volition slips away from me. I spent this morning as usual making up parcels for my uncle, and the afternoon minding the shop—without a single customer—whilst he attended a sale. How the hours drag! The days are rapidly shortening, and the shop seems more dismal than ever.

I never imagined that books could be so oppressive. I loved our little library at Niton, the comforting smell of the boards, the warm colours of the spines with their faded gold lettering; but here they poison the air with mould and damp. For all my uncle’s attempts at airing the place, there are livid splotches like toadstools amongst the pages; the spores rise up and clutch at my throat. And in all this time, I have not found a single volume I would care to read.

I have tried to be content with my lot, and I know that I should be grateful to my uncle for taking me in, but to him I am simply a useful pair of hands, cheaper and more painstaking than the boy who used to do the parcels for him. If I were to say, “Uncle, I am dying of loneliness and boredom,” he would not know what to reply; I doubt that he would even comprehend.

No—another winter of wrapping books for elderly clergymen I shall never see is more than I can bear. But what else can I do? I cannot afford to live independently unless I find an occupation. I keep telling myself that I should learn typewriting; even spending my days copying other people’s words onto a machine would be better than this. But I have done nothing about it, just as I have not written to Mr. Wetherell to ask about Aunt Vida’s will, which must surely have been proven by now—it is nearly a year since she died.

Later: I have just woken from a trance in which I was staring at my reflection in the window and trying to will it to move and speak to me, as I used to do with the mirror at Niton. If only I had a sister! If I could summon Rosina now, what would she say? She would scorn me for moping, and tell me to be bold, and take my courage in both hands, and do something, anything, to lift myself out of the slough of despond—but what?

Well, what about the two hundred pounds Mama left me? Everyone says it is wrong to spend your capital, but at least I could see something of the world—Rosina would surely want me to, and I hope Mama as well—and perhaps find a friend at last. I shall write to Mr. Wetherell—in fact I shall do so now, before my resolve weakens.

Gresham’s Yard

Monday, 2 October 1882

An extraordinary thing has happened. This morning I received a letter from a Mr. Lovell in Plymouth, explaining that Mr. Wetherell has been in poor health for some months (hence the delay in settling my aunt’s affairs), telling me that I have £212 11s 8d to my name—and enclosing a sealed packet labelled “Papers deposited by Mrs. Emily Ferrars for safekeeping, 22 November 1867; retained upon instruction of Miss Vida Radford, 7 June 1871, in re Ferrars bequest.” Inside was a bundle of letters, tied with a faded blue ribbon, addressed to my mother at West Hill Cottage, Nettleford.

I have read Rosina Wentworth’s letters over and over, as my mother must have done before me: some of the folds have worn completely through. This is why I called my imaginary sister Rosina—I must have overheard Mama and Aunt Vida talking about her before I was old enough to understand what they were saying. But why did they never mention her in front of me? Did Rosina escape with Felix Mordaunt, or did her father catch her and lock her away—or even murder her, as I fear he murdered her sister? And if Mama wanted me to have the letters when I grew up, wouldn’t she have left a note explaining why?

Perhaps she meant to, but her heart gave out too soon—she sent the packet to Mr. Wetherell only weeks before she died. Did she send it to him because she knew she was dying? Anything she left with Aunt Vida would have been lost with the house.

Uncle Josiah, of course, says he has never heard of Rosina Wentworth or Felix Mordaunt, “but it was all a long time ago, my dear, and I may well have forgotten . . . unless you mean Dr. Mordaunt of Aylesbury—the Jacobean divine, you know—I have an incomplete set of him in the back room . . .” He did not even ask to see the letters.

This afternoon I walked round to Portland Place and wandered up and down, looking at the grand houses and wondering where she might have lived. There is one in particular, with a dark, unfriendly look to it that strikes a chord, but I have no way of telling.

Eleven o’clock has struck, and the house is completely silent. I feel as if I have been sleepwalking through my days, and Rosina’s letters have awakened me. I must find out what became of her. But how?

Tuesday, 3 October

This morning I wrote to ask Mr. Lovell if he could tell me anything of Rosina Wentworth or Felix Mordaunt. I had scarcely returned from the post when a most peculiar letter arrived from him. He says: “If you have not already opened the packet I enclosed with yesterday’s comm n, I most urgently request you to return it to me unopened at your earliest convenience. Even if you have examined the contents, I should be most grateful for their return.” It seems that Rosina’s letters should have been kept with another sealed packet that Mama had subsequently sent for safekeeping, and that “according to your late mother’s instruction, this packet is to be made available to you if and only if a certain condition is fulfilled”—but he does not say what condition.

Mr. Lovell—Henry Lovell is his name—sounds quite young, despite all the circumlocutions. He sends his “most abject apologies,” which does not sound like a grizzled old lawyer. Reading between the lines, I should say that Mr. Wetherell came into the office unexpectedly, discovered what Mr. Lovell had done, and berated him soundly. But what can it mean? I wrote back at once, saying that I should like to keep the letters unless the law positively forbids it, and asking him to explain exactly what I need to do to see the rest of the papers. I have copied all of Rosina’s letters into the back of this journal, just in case.

Thursday, 5 October

Mr. Lovell’s reply is even stranger. “I regret that your late mother’s instructions explicitly prohibit us from disclosing the terms upon which the packet in question may be forwarded to you. We are likewise prohibited from answering any enquiry relating to the contents of the package, and I am therefore unable to respond to the questions in your previous letter of the 2 nd inst. ” He says that since I have read the letters, I may keep them if I wish, and sincerely regrets that he is unable to enter into any further correspondence upon the subject.