John Harwood - The Asylum

“No—that is to say, I am not sure. And you, Mrs. Fairfax?”

“I think I shall stay a few more days . . . Forgive me, Miss Ardent,” she said in a lower tone. “I hope you will not think me impertinent, but I could not help overhearing: you were speaking of Tregannon Asylum.” Her voice had a throaty, musical quality which seemed vaguely familiar; she must, I thought, have been talking to Mrs. Gifford just before I met her on the stairs.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Forgive me; I don’t mean to pry. It is only that—I have just been visiting a dear friend there.”

I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging look, wondering if I should offer my condolences.

“Oh, it is not a painful duty,” she said, smiling. “My friend is a voluntary patient; she can come and go as she pleases. She is prone to nervous exhaustion, and says that a month at Tregannon Asylum is as good as a visit to Baden-Baden.”

“So it is not a lunatic asylum, then?”

“Oh yes, there are lunatics confined there—quite separately from the voluntary patients—but they are treated very kindly. Dr. Straker, the man in charge, prides himself upon running the most humane and enlightened asylum in the country.”

“I believe it is owned by the Mordaunt family,” I ventured.

“Yes, Miss Ardent; do you know them?”

“No,” I said, rather too hastily. “I—er—I have a friend who is distantly related. And you, Mrs. Fairfax, are you acquainted with the family?”

“Not personally, no. But my friend has met Mr. Edmund Mordaunt, the present owner—though that was some years ago now; I believe his health is failing, and he seldom leaves his quarters.”

“Does he live at the asylum, then?”

“Oh yes; the estate has been in the family for centuries—but perhaps you know that,” she added, regarding me curiously. Trust me; confide in me, her gaze seemed to say. The pupils of her eyes glowed like polished jet; I could see the pinpoint reflections of the flames burning in their depths.

“My friend has told me a little,” I said, as casually as I could manage. “She mentioned a Felix Mordaunt, I think; have you heard of him?”

“No, I don’t think I have—unless you mean Frederic Mordaunt, Edmund Mordaunt’s nephew, a charming young man: my friend is always singing his praises. He acts as Dr. Straker’s personal assistant and will presumably inherit the entire estate.”

“Edmund Mordaunt has no children of his own, then?”

“No, he never married.”

“And Frederic Mordaunt?”

“He, too, is a bachelor, Miss Ardent—and a very eligible one, I am sure,” she added, glancing at my left hand.

“I am sure he is,” I said mechanically, remembering Mr. Lovell, and how his expression had changed at the words “my mother did not want me to marry this man” . . . this man, this man . . . and suddenly I saw that Mrs. Fairfax had handed me the key to Mr. Lovell’s strongbox.

“Miss Ardent?”

I realised that I was staring vacantly into the fire.

“I do beg your pardon,” I said. “I am a little preoccupied . . . a family matter.”

“You mustn’t apologise,” she said, in a tone that invited confidences. I could not think how to respond to this, and an awkward silence fell, until Mrs. Gifford returned with the maid and the tea tray.

It was a bad mistake to call myself Miss Ardent, as I realised from the moment I set foot in the hotel. I could not borrow Lucia’s actual history, as it would have made her too anxious: I am supposed to have lost my parents before I could remember, and to have lived with my great-aunt, in various parts of the country, ever since. But Lucia’s faith in me is misplaced; I have contradicted myself several times already, and I fear that Mrs. Fairfax, at least, suspects me of dissembling. There was another awkward moment in the sitting room, when Mrs. Gifford suggested that since Mrs. Fairfax and I were the only guests, we might like to share a table at dinner. Travelling as myself, I would have seized the opportunity to press her about the Mordaunts. As it was, I hesitated, and was spared embarrassment only because she happened to be dining with friends. I met her coming upstairs, presumably to change, as I was going down to dinner.

A half-moon is rising above the rooftops opposite; I have scarcely seen a moon since I left Niton, let alone one so clear. Tomorrow I mean to visit Nettleford. There is a ferry across the harbour to Turnchapel, and then a walk of about three miles along the coast; if I leave straight after breakfast, I shall be back well before half past two. I hope Lucia will not mind—mind my not waiting until we can see Nettleford together, that is. It is the perfect way to fill what would otherwise be several long and anxious hours; and of course she would want me to go, just as I would want her to go in my place.

If only she were here with me, my happiness would be complete. But I shall be home tomorrow night, with the packet—I am certain I have guessed the riddle—and we shall open it together. And then we shall leave Gresham’s Yard, and never have to be apart again. She said to me last night, as we lay in bed: “You must not be anxious for me, dearest: no matter what we discover, it will be a relief to know. ”

Strange that a quarrel—well, only a spat, really, and only on her side, but horribly distressing all the same—should bring such joy. It was shortly before bedtime; we were in her room, packing her valise, and were about to close it when I thought of my writing case and brooch, and said I would run upstairs to fetch them.

“But that will spoil the illusion,” she said sharply. “If Charlotte notices, she may realise what we’ve done.”

“I am sorry, Lucia,” I said, “but I would never travel anywhere without them. They are all I have left from the wreck of our house”—as you know perfectly well, I almost added—“and Charlotte won’t know, because I always keep them in the drawer of my writing desk.”

She looked, for a moment, quite mutinous; her eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to protest, then turned on her heel and left the room. I heard her running upstairs, and then my own bedroom door slamming. My heart seemed to shrivel in an instant; I dared not run after her, and sank down on her bed, engulfed in misery.

An eternity later—as it seemed—I felt her arm steal around my shoulders. Looking up blearily, I saw that she had brought my writing case and brooch.

“Forgive me, Georgina,” she murmured, drawing me closer. “I am such a stickler for perfection, when it comes to acting a part, that I forgot myself. Of course you must take them.”

I allowed myself to be kissed but could not surrender to her embrace. She took me by the shoulders and turned me gently to face her. My happiness, I thought, is utterly in your keeping; but is the same true for you?

“I am so sorry, dearest,” she said. “It was not just . . . I know it is foolish, but I am anxious about your going; I could not bear it if anything happened to you.”

“Then come with me,” I said. “It is not too late.”

“No, that would only make it harder for you—when you come to tell your uncle that we are going to live together, I mean—and I won’t have that. And I am being foolish; I know it. Only . . . may I sleep with you tonight?”

“Of course you may,” I said, all misery forgotten. “But what about Charlotte?”

“I do not care about Charlotte; I want to stay with you, here, tonight, in my bed.”

As I was brushing her hair and gazing at her reflection in the mirror, it struck me that something about her appearance had changed since our first night together; something that for a moment eluded me. Her dressing table was the same size and shape as mine; the candles were in much the same places; we were wearing the same nightgowns; yet . . . And then it came to me: the first time, I had been overwhelmed by the resemblance; now, I was conscious only of the differences between us: the shape and set of her eyes, the exact curve of her cheekbones, the play of her expressions; and I was overjoyed at the realisation. I am not like Narcissus, I thought. We are different; and that is what draws us together. Our eyes met in the glass, and she made a small kissing gesture with her lips, as if she had divined my thought.