John Harwood - The Asylum

“Have you ever been in love, Georgina?” said Lucia, as if she had read my thought.

I started, almost spilling my tea, and blushed.

“Not before—I mean, no, no, I haven’t.”

“But do you think about marriage—do you long to be married, to have children?”

“I don’t think I do, no. I—I don’t think I have a very high opinion of men. Our little household at Niton seemed very complete, even after Mama died. I knew when I was older that there was something I yearned for, and I vaguely assumed it must be marriage, but I have never met—never even seen a man I could imagine marrying. As for children, I know that I am supposed to long for them, but I don’t think I actually do; I can’t even imagine what it would feel like. I feel—I feel entirely content, sitting here with you.”

I felt myself blushing even more.

“And you, Lucia?”

“Oh, I have fancied myself in love with various young men, but like you, I could never imagine marrying any of them. And I am accustomed to freedom, to making my own way in the world; I will not surrender that lightly. I wish I could live many lives, and be many different people; I should like to know what it feels like to be rich, to go to wonderful balls and banquets, and wear extravagant clothes, and be admired by everybody; but only for the experience: to walk on stage, so to speak, with the cream of society, play my part to perfection, and slip away again. Perhaps we shall do such things together, one day; it is what fascinates me about being an actress. But the theatre is so artificial, so mannered; I should love to be an actress in real life. The secret of acting, I feel sure, is to become the person you mean to play; not simply pretend to be them, but to cast off your usual self as completely as you shed one costume and put on another.”

“It sounds fascinating, but I have no talent for acting.”

“I am sure you have. Your uncle is always saying he could not manage without you; let us prove him wrong by changing places for a day. I will be you, and do the parcels and mind the shop; you shall wear my peacock blue, and I shall make up your face a little—in the most delicate fashion—and I will wager that even Charlotte will not realise what we have done.”

“Yes, let us try it,” I said, feeling my heartbeat quicken at the prospect. “What will you wager?”

“What would you most like to win?”

I longed to say, “Your heart,” but could only blush, and try to hide my face in my cup.

“Perhaps you have won it already,” she said, touching my wrist with the tip of her gloved finger. “We shall change places tomorrow. And if we succeed, we shall not tell anyone, just yet; it will be another of our secrets.”

Saturday, 21 October

Lucia was right; Charlotte addressed me as “Miss Ardent” from the moment we came downstairs. Aunt Vida used to say that only vain, foolish women use powder and paint, but when Lucia allowed me to look in the glass, I confess I was very much taken with the result: she had made my eyes darker and more luminous, my eyebrows finer; my cheekbones more prominent, but so subtly that I could scarcely tell how it was done. And the peacock blue gown suited me to perfection. She had only watched me do the parcels once, but she carried it off flawlessly, sweetly turning aside my uncle’s peevishness. She even insisted that I should go out for the afternoon while she kept the shop; I would far rather have stayed, but she said firmly, “No, Lucia; it is very kind of you to offer, but you must have some time to yourself.”

We continued to play each other even when we were alone; I found it extraordinarily exciting, and (in a brief lapse of concentration) told her so. “You see?” she replied. “It is just as I promised; that is the delight of acting. Of course, you and I are so alike that it is easy for us to change places. And now, Lucia . . .” I never contradict her when she says we are alike, because it pleases me, but—despite the extraordinary resemblance—I am not at all sure that we are alike. And yet I could not say how we differ. Lucia is still a mystery to me—I feel that she is opaque where I am transparent, and it is the mystery that fascinates me.

When it came time for bed, we rose and embraced as usual, standing by the sitting-room fire—only not as usual, for she held me closer than ever before, and murmured, with her lips almost brushing my ear, “Lucia, why don’t you sleep with me tonight? Then I can comfort you if you have nightmares.”

I was about to say, “Oh, Lucia, I should love to,” when I remembered that I was supposed to answer for her, not myself. My heart sank; the words died on my lips. Was she hoping I would say yes? Or subtly rebuking me for being too forward? I drew back, her hands still warm upon my shoulders. A faint, teasing smile flickered about her mouth; she regarded me as a teacher might regard a prize pupil faltering over a recitation.

“Thank you, dearest cousin, but I’m sure I shall sleep soundly tonight.” Her smile broadened; I had won the prize, but lost what I most desired.

“Good night, dearest cousin,” she said, drawing me close again, and adding, in a low, throaty whisper, “We shall make an actress of you yet.” Her lips brushed mine as she turned toward the door. But instead of crossing to the stairs, she turned right, and disappeared in the direction of my own room. A moment later I heard my door open and close.

I was halfway down the stairs when I remembered my writing case. The key was around my neck—the chain is entirely hidden when I am dressed, so Lucia had not asked for it—but had I locked my journal away in the case, and put the case back in the drawer as usual, or was it lying on my writing table? Should I go up and make sure? But if I knocked, Lucia would think . . . She would think, at the very least, that I had something to hide. You always lock your journal away, I told myself. The reason you cannot remember is that you do it automatically. But I could not actually picture myself turning the key, and I hovered on the stairs for a long time before I went miserably on down to her room, where I lay awake most of the night, alternately tormenting myself by imagining what I had forfeited—perhaps she had wanted me to say yes, and was now lying awake in my bed, thinking that I did not want her —and enduring agonies of humiliation at the thought of her reading my journal. In the end I overslept, to find my bedroom empty, my writing case safely locked away, and Lucia already downstairs, back in her own character and behaving as if we had never so much as thought of impersonating each other.

Monday, 23 October

Mr. Lovell has replied at last, apologising for the delay: it seems that Mr. Wetherell has suffered another stroke, and retired from the practice, leaving Mr. Lovell in sole charge of his clients. Lucia and I were at breakfast when the letter arrived; she watched eagerly as I opened it, but her face fell as I began to read aloud:

I deeply regret that your late mother’s instructions expressly prohibit me from forwarding the packet as you request. You say that your circumstances have changed in a way that makes it vital that you see the remaining papers; I wonder whether you could be more explicit about the nature of that change? I should add that the remainder of the bequest consists of a single sealed packet. Beyond the impression that it contains papers or documents, I know nothing of its contents. I think I may indicate, without exceeding my instructions, that in the event of your death—or certain other events, which I am forbidden to disclose—the packet is to be destroyed unopened. If you wish to instruct me on any other matter, I shall, of course, be honoured to act for you . . .