John Harwood - The Asylum

“But, Miss Ferrars,” he said suddenly, “I am forgetting my duty; you did not come all this way to listen to my ramblings.”

“It is a pleasure to hear about your family. But yes, there is something else: a separate matter.”

“You have only to name it,” he said eagerly.

“There are two men about whom I should like some information; I should like to know if either of them is still alive, and if so, where they are living. But I don’t want either of them to know of my enquiry.”

His face, which had cleared at the words “a separate matter,” fell again.

“And their names?”

“The first,” I said, studying him closely, “is Thomas Wentworth—Rosina Wentworth’s father.”

“That,” he said uneasily, “I may be able to help you with. What else can you tell me about him?”

“Only that he was wealthy—a businessman or financier of some sort—and lived in Portland Place, at least from 1859 until 1860. And he had an elder daughter, Clarissa, who eloped in the summer of 1859; she and her lover, a man called George Harrington, were—they died together in an accident in Rome, in October of that year; there was something about it in The Times. ”

“I see.” He fetched a piece of paper from his desk and scribbled a few lines on it, looking troubled, but not unduly alarmed. “And the other?”

“Felix Mordaunt, of Tregannon House, in Cornwall.”

This time the shock was palpable; he bent over his paper, writing studiously, but the rash along his jaw was suddenly livid.

I had guessed the riddle, but it made no sense. Felix Mordaunt might have been a notorious libertine, but how could Mama possibly have imagined that of all the men in the kingdom, I would meet and marry him? And again, even if she had, why not simply warn me herself?

“May I ask why?” he said, without raising his eyes from the page.

I was about to say, Because he is the man my mother named, but realised I did not actually know that for certain.

“Oh—a family connection,” I replied as coolly as I could manage. “My aunt mentioned the name once or twice; is it familiar to you, Mr. Lovell?”

His head flew up, his face reddening with anger.

“If you knew, Miss Ferrars, then why?—” His mouth snapped shut as realisation dawned.

“I assure you, Mr. Lovell, that when I arrived here this afternoon, I had not the faintest suspicion. If you had not led me to the answer, I should never have guessed. But now that you have told me—”

Once again he groaned and ran his hands through his hair, rumpling it so wildly that I feared it would come out in tufts.

“Will you tell me,” he said at last, “how you arrived at that name?”

“I cannot do that, Mr. Lovell, without betraying a confidence. But I know exactly why my mother did not want me to marry this man”—again that indecipherable flicker of reaction—“and I can assure you that my happiness, and that of my cousin, depends upon your handing over that packet, as my mother would instruct you to do, if only she were here. And I promise you—I will swear on the Bible, if you wish—that no one except Lucia and I will ever know you gave it to me.”

He leant back in his chair, swirling the dregs in the bottom of his teacup.

“I confess, Miss Ferrars, that I simply don’t know what to do. Sometimes I think I am not cut out for the law . . . But the fact remains: the terms of your mother’s bequest have not been met, and again I urge you to trust in her judgement. You say that your happiness depends upon it, but you don’t know what that packet contains, any more than I do, and you may be mistaken.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Lovell, but my mind is made up.”

“I feared as much. Will you allow me twenty-four hours to think it over?”

“Might I be able to see you in the morning? I should like to be home tomorrow night.”

“I am afraid that every minute of the morning is spoken for,” he said. “But I shall be free by half past two at the latest.”

He rose and offered his hand, which was reassuringly warm and dry, to help me up, and for a moment we stood smiling at each other, our hands still clasped.

“You have been very kind,” I said as he accompanied me to the landing, “and exceedingly forbearing; far more than I deserve.”

“On the contrary, Miss Ferrars, I have nothing but admiration for you. Until tomorrow, then, at half past two.”

I had gone halfway down the stairs before I realised that I was quite unsteady on my feet, and trembling with emotion.

It is only nine o’clock, but the hotel is completely silent; not surprisingly, as there is only one other guest. My room is quite large, and perfectly comfortable; Mrs. Gifford, the proprietor—she has the most extraordinarily elaborate coiffure of snow-white hair—is most obliging. From my window I can see a line of gaslamps stretching away in both directions along the empty street.

After I had written down everything I could recall of the interview, I put on my cloak (or rather, Lucia’s cloak) and set out again, meaning to walk down to the Hoe and look at the sea. But the light was fading, and the evening chill had settled, so I went only as far as the telegraph office on Royal Parade—it felt very strange, addressing a telegram to myself—to let Lucia know that I hoped to be home tomorrow night. Mrs. Gifford, who was hovering in the foyer when I returned, invited me to take tea by the sitting-room fire; I was about to decline when it occurred to me that she might know something of the Mordaunt family.

The sitting room is as dismal as most of its kind; I remember half a dozen like it from my travels with my aunt: crammed with chairs and sofas in faded Regency plush, along with their attendant footstools and side tables. There are the usual heavy maroon curtains shrouding a bow-fronted window; the wallpaper, also faded and Regency, is on the verge of peeling. But the fire was crackling cheerfully, and to forestall any more questions about myself (I must learn to answer to “Miss Ardent” without the slightest hesitation) I asked her at once about the Mordaunts of Tregannon House.

“Mordaunt, Mordaunt . . . No, I can’t say that I do,” she replied, taking the chair beside me. “But Tregannon—now, that rings a bell. There’s an asylum at Liskeard of that name.”

So Edmund Mordaunt must have prevailed, I thought.

“I think that might be it,” I said. “Can you tell me where Liskeard is?”

“About twenty miles to the west, Miss Ardent, just this side of Bodmin Moor.”

“I think the Mordaunt family may own Tregannon Asylum,” I said, realising as I spoke that someone had entered the room.

“Ah, Mrs. Fairfax,” said my hostess, bouncing to her feet. “Would you care to join us for tea? Miss Ardent; Mrs. Fairfax.”

I had passed her on the stairs that afternoon, on my way to Mr. Lovell’s office. She had the figure of a young woman, and her hair, a few shades darker than my own, showed no trace of grey. But her face was gaunt, with deep lines scored downward from the corners of her mouth, and bruised pouches like crumpled snakeskin beneath her eyes, which were very dark and lustrous.

As we exchanged greetings, a maid came in and murmured something to Mrs. Gifford.

“I am afraid I must leave you,” she said, “but do make yourselves comfortable; Martha will bring an extra cup.”

I did not want to make conversation with Mrs. Fairfax, but there was no escaping short of rudeness, and so I resumed my seat.

“A very comfortable hotel, is it not, Miss Ardent?”

“Yes, very.”

“And a fine view of the town; I am in number seven, on the floor above you, I think. Will you be staying long in Plymouth?”