John Harwood - The Asylum

“Then surely, Mr. Lovell, you can at least tell me what the condition is. ”

“I am afraid not. Your mother was, as I say, absolutely explicit. Unless your circumstances should change in a very particular way, I may not give you the packet, or reveal to you anything whatsoever about the bequest. If I had not made the unpardonable error of sending you those letters, you would never have known of its existence.”

“Unless my circumstances should change in a very particular way,” I repeated thoughtfully.

“Yes; that is correct.”

“But how would you know, Mr. Lovell, if that change were to occur? Wouldn’t my mother have wanted to be sure that you did know?”

“Well, yes,” he said uneasily. “But really, Miss Ferrars, I should not be discussing this at all—”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Lovell, but I am your client, too.”

“Yes, and it puts me in something of a quandary.” He gave me a wry smile, in which I detected a hint of encouragement. Unless your circumstances should change . . . Of course! How could I have been so obtuse? I had a sudden vivid recollection of Aunt Vida on her deathbed, saying, “You’re a handsome gel, not like me—you’ll have offers . . . Write to Mr. Wetherell—tell him who you’re marrying. Papers to draw up . . .”

“I have guessed the condition, Mr. Lovell. I am to have the packet if I marry—or become engaged to marry.”

Now he looked deeply uncomfortable.

“Well, yes, but—”

“But?”

“I take it, Miss Ferrars,” he said, glancing at my left hand, “that you are not engaged—or contemplating an engagement?”

“Certainly not,” I said.

“Then I fear it is absolutely impossible for me to hand over the packet.”

“But if I were to become engaged . . .” To an obliging young man, I thought, willing to play the part . . . or why not simply invent one?

“Then you should write and tell me, yes. But that in itself would be exceedingly unlikely—astonishingly unlikely—to fulfill the condition. And now, Miss Ferrars, I really cannot say any more . . .”

Astonishing unlikely . . . “Tell him who you’re marrying,” Aunt Vida had said . . .

“I am to have the packet if I become engaged to someone in particular,” I said flatly. “Mr. Lovell, you have been so helpful; will you not take the last step and tell me who it is?”

“That, Miss Ferrars, I absolutely cannot do. I have trespassed thus far because I am to blame for your receiving those letters in the first place. But carelessness is one thing; knowingly breaching a client’s trust is quite another. I should deserve to be struck off if I did any such thing.”

A small silence followed. Our eyes met, and I smiled encouragingly.

“But, Mr. Lovell, you would not be breaching my mother’s trust. It is absolutely essential, for my own peace of mind and Lu—Miss Ardent’s—that I should see what is in that packet, and if my mother were here now, she would tell you so herself.”

“Are you quite certain of that, Miss Ferrars?”

“Of course I am, Mr. Lovell. Don’t you think I know what my own mother would have wanted?”

“I meant, are you sure that seeing those papers would bring you peace of mind?” he said.

“You said in your letter, Mr. Lovell, that you didn’t know what the packet contained.”

“Nor do I. But—no, I am sorry; it is quite impossible. Now really, Miss Ferrars, there is nothing more I can tell you. Would you care for some tea?”

“Yes, I should, thank you.”

“Then pray excuse me one moment.” He rose with evident relief and left the room.

All I need do, I thought, is ask the right question. A man Mama did not want me to marry—or did not want me to grow up and marry without reading the rest of the papers—which must have to do with Rosina and Lucia, Thomas Wentworth, and Felix Mordaunt . . . Could Thomas Wentworth have remarried and had a son? Then why all the secrecy? Why had Mama, or Aunt Vida, not simply warned me against him? And why on earth would Mama have feared that, of all the eligible men in the kingdom, I would choose this particular one? She had sealed the packet at least ten years ago: he might easily have married someone else by now. Or died.

And there was something else . . . something Mr. Lovell had said in his last letter, which I had brought with me. “In the event of your death—or certain other events, which I am forbidden to disclose—the packet is to be destroyed unopened.” “Certain other events” . . . Surely the man’s death. So he must still be alive!

But Mr. Lovell had written “events.” I had just realised what it must mean when he returned to his chair.

“Tea won’t be long,” he said, glancing uneasily at the paper on my knee.

“I am sorry to plague you,” I said, “but I have divined so much that you may as well tell me the rest. You are to give me the packet only if I become engaged to marry a certain man”—his expression changed at this, in a way I could not interpret. “If he dies—or if I marry anyone but this man—you are to destroy it unopened. I am right so far, am I not?”

He groaned and ran his hands through his hair.

“This is my own fault, Miss Ferrars; I have dug myself a pit, and fallen into it; but I cannot answer you.”

“Then I am sorry for you, Mr. Lovell, for I have vowed not to leave Plymouth without that packet.”

“You are a very determined young woman, Miss Ferrars,” he said with a rueful smile.

“You may think it unbecoming—”

“I did not say that, Miss Ferrars, nor did I mean it. On the contrary,” he said warmly, “you have every right to press me. But the fact remains: I am bound by my oath of office not to surrender that packet unless your mother’s terms are met.”

“But surely, Mr. Lovell, if her intention was to save me from marrying this man, she would want you to tell me his name—now that you have revealed so much?”

“You would make a formidable barrister,” he said, ruffling his hair again. “But all I can do—speaking from the heart, and not simply as a lawyer—is advise you to trust in your mother’s judgement. At least some good has come of my carelessness; it has brought you and your cousin together, and I can see that you are deeply attached to her. Indeed—am I right in feeling that you are here for her sake rather than your own?”

“For both our sakes,” I said, avoiding his eye as I felt my colour rising.

“All the same, Miss Ferrars, given what you have told me, I don’t see how your cousin’s happiness can possibly depend upon the contents of that packet. I do earnestly advise you to trust in your mother and leave things as they are—ah, thank you, Mr. Pritchard,” he said, springing from his chair as the elderly clerk appeared with a tray.

I was glad of the interval, for I could not decide what to do next. Instinct warned me that revealing Lucia’s secret would not be enough to sway him; I would have to divine the forbidden suitor’s name or coax Mr. Lovell into revealing it . . . and then I saw how it might be done.

“Tell me, Mr. Lovell,” I said when he was seated again, “have you always lived in Plymouth?” The look of relief on his face was almost comical, and for the next few minutes I encouraged him to talk about himself. He had indeed grown up in Plymouth, and until quite recently had lived at home with his parents—his father had also been a solicitor—and his two youngest sisters; there were two married sisters and a brother, all living within twenty miles of the town. His parents had lately retired to the village of Noss Mayo, leaving Mr. Lovell in bachelor quarters near the Hoe. He spoke of them all with great affection, and sounded entirely content with his lot.