John Harwood - The Asylum

“I suppose it was foolish of me to hope,” she said, with a look of desolation that pierced my heart.

“You musn’t despair, Lucia. You shall see what is in that packet, if I have to engage a burglar to steal it from Mr. Lovell’s office. But we shan’t need a burglar; he is weakening, you can see. Inviting me to be more explicit: that is surely a hint. Lucia, we must tell him that we have met; I am certain that is what my mother intended.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she said, “but I would feel happier if we had met him—so that I could feel sure of his discretion.”

“Then let us go down to Plymouth and see him,” I said.

“But your uncle—he will be most put out.”

“Uncle Josiah will have to manage without us soon enough.”

“But not like this; you must break it to him gently, for your own sake. And what does Mr. Lovell mean by ‘certain other events’? Your mother might have ordered him to destroy the packet if anyone else enquired about it . . . and there is another way. What is the point of your having a solicitor in Plymouth? Why don’t we find one here in London and ask Mr. Lovell to send the packet to him? A new man would be so much easier to persuade.”

I had not thought of this. Her suggestion made obvious sense; yet all my instincts were against it.

“But changing solicitors might be another of those ‘events,’” I said, trying to justify my reluctance. “Mr. Lovell wants to help us, I am sure of it. If I write to him and say—in the strictest confidence—that you and I have met, and that you are the daughter of Rosina Wentworth, who married Jules Ardent—what harm can come of that?”

“I—I don’t know what it is I fear,” she said uneasily. “If only I could meet him, then I would know whether to trust him with my secret . . .”

“But Lucia, we needn’t tell him. He doesn’t know what’s in the packet; as far as he is concerned, you are the legitimate daughter of Jules Ardent, who married Rosina Wentworth in France. Mama wouldn’t have told him any more than that.”

“But what if we are wrong, and this is not the condition she laid down?”

“Then I will go down to Plymouth and tell Mr. Lovell that I shan’t leave his office until he hands over the packet.”

“You are right,” she said, taking a deep breath and lifting her chin. “I know I am being foolish—it is only that . . . Suppose I were to go to Plymouth in your place? Mr. Lovell has never met you, after all.”

“But Lucia, he might want you to sign something—”

“I am sure I could imitate your signature, if I practised a little.”

“No, dearest, no, I won’t have it. If Mr. Lovell so much as suspected, he might destroy the papers; you could even be sent to prison. No, I will go down to see him—I need only be away one night—and, if you are sure you don’t mind, you can pretend to be me again, and then Uncle Josiah will have nothing to complain of. You are right: I must give him time to get used to the idea and find someone to help in the shop, but I mean to tell him as soon as I return from Plymouth. And I promise you, Lucia, if I have the slightest reservation about Mr. Lovell, he will never know of your existence.”

“But then how will you persuade him to hand over the packet?”

“You mustn’t fret, Lucia. Mr. Lovell wants to help us; I feel it in my bones. I promise I shan’t return empty-handed.”

Her face was still troubled, but I had confidence enough for two, and my letter to Mr. Lovell was in the post an hour later.

Wednesday, 25 October

Mr. Lovell has replied by return; a good omen. My appointment is for two o’clock on Monday. He even advises about trains, and recommends Dawlish’s Private Hotel, which is only fifty yards from his office. I had hoped to return that night, but the London express leaves Plymouth at four forty-two, and I cannot be sure of catching it; it may take more than one visit to persuade him.

Lucia was very subdued all day; I tried several times to persuade her to come with me, but she assured me that she was happy to stay with Uncle Josiah. “It is nothing; just low spirits; it will pass,” she kept saying, until at last, as we were about to retire, I took her in my arms and implored her to tell me what was wrong.

“It is nothing, only . . . I have no right to ask, but I should have loved to be there when you opened the packet.”

“You have every right,” I said, reproaching myself for being so obtuse. “Come with me, and we shall open it together.”

“No, one of us must stay with your uncle.”

“Then I shan’t open the packet until we are together again.”

Her face lit up at this, and she kissed me very warmly.

“Thank you, Georgina. Shall we tell your uncle in the morning that I will be going away for a little while? In fact, why don’t you travel under my name?—not with the lawyer, of course, but at the hotel? You shall wear my things, and take my travelling-case; then the illusion will be complete, and even Charlotte will not suspect.”

Dawlish’s Private Hotel,

George Street,

Plymouth

Monday, 30 October

There is so much to record, but I must begin with my interview with Mr. Lovell, while it is fresh in my mind. His rooms are in a high, narrow building of dark brown stone; an elderly clerk led me up several flights of stairs to a landing, where I was warmly greeted by Mr. Lovell himself. My intuition was right: he is tall and gangly and fresh-faced, and looks no more than twenty-five, though I think he must be at least thirty. His office was lined on three sides with bookshelves, filled with an extraordinary array of objects: stones, shells, birds’ eggs, paperweights by the dozen, fishhooks, brass instruments, lumps of coloured glass, ornaments of every size and shape—as well as the books, which are crammed in higgledy-piggledy. His desk was heaped with bundles of papers, interspersed with yet more books, many of them lying open and face-down. An armchair stood in a patch of sunlight by the window.

“I am afraid we are all at sixes and sevens, Miss Ferrars,” he said, ushering me to the armchair. Henry Lovell, I could not help noticing, is really quite handsome. He has thick fair hair, rather dishevelled, and a long, clean-shaven face, slightly reddened around the jaw as if the razor irritates his skin. His suit—a coarse brown tweed, patched with leather at the elbows—looked like something a farmer might wear. He dragged an upright chair across the carpet and settled, or rather draped, himself upon it, and for the next few minutes we talked about my journey, and about Mr. Wetherell’s illness: despite his remark about sixes and sevens, it soon became clear that Mr. Lovell had been doing most of the work of the practice for several years now—my mother’s estate was one of the few that Mr. Wetherell had kept to himself—and that his room is in permanent chaos.

By the end of our small-talk, I had resolved to trust him with everything except the secret of Lucia’s birth, which I had promised not to reveal unless there was no other way of securing the papers. He listened closely, and without interjecting, to the account I had rehearsed on the journey down, in which Rosina had fled from a cruel and violent father, married Jules Ardent in France—I made no mention of Felix Mordaunt—and refused ever afterward to speak of her childhood.

“So you see, Mr. Lovell,” I concluded, “why I am sure that my mother would want me to have that packet, now that my cousin and I have met.”

He had listened intently, without once interrupting, and remained silent for a little, regarding me with troubled eyes.

“I am very sorry, Miss Ferrars,” he said at last, “but your mother’s instructions were quite explicit, and the condition she specified has nothing to do with your cousin, Miss Ardent. I don’t for a moment doubt that your mother would have wanted you to have the packet in the circumstances you describe, but the law, alas, compels me to abide by the letter, rather than the spirit, of her wishes in the matter.”