John Harwood - The Asylum

“Lucia,” I said, “where would you most like us to live?”

“Where would you, dearest?”

“Somewhere by the sea; but I will be happiest wherever you are happiest.”

“And I feel the same. I used to think—I remember saying to you, when we first found each other—that all I craved was to be settled in one place, to put down roots, and never have to move again. But what I really craved was this ”—she took my hand and pressed it to her breast—“and wherever we are together, that will be our settled place.”

Her breast swelled beneath my hand; my heart was suddenly pounding. She rose to her feet and into my arms; our bodies melded together; our lips met and parted, and I was filled with a sweetness beyond imagining. My hands moved of their own accord over her body, discovering, dwelling, delighting; her arms tightened around me; I felt the soft pressure of her tongue against mine; but then she drew back, keeping her hands on my waist and regarding me with huge, troubled eyes. We were both trembling violently.

“I am so sorry,” she gasped. “You must not think . . . that I do not want to; I do, but . . .”

“But . . .?”

“I was cruel to you, cruel and hateful: I have Mordaunt blood in my veins.”

“Lucia, Lucia, my darling, I don’t care whose blood runs in your veins. All that matters is that I love and adore you, and as long as you love me, too—”

“What if I should stop loving you?”

“Then I should die,” I said, more seriously than I intended. “But I would never regret loving you. And it wasn’t the Mordaunt blood; it was only because you are anxious about that packet. Remember what you said: we can face anything, so long as we are together.”

“You are so good to me,” she said. “Once I know . . . I still want to stay with you tonight, only . . .”

“Of course,” I said, kissing her gently. “Can we leave the candle burning for a little, so that I can look at you?”

“Yes, my dearest; I should like that too.”

I would have been perfectly content to stay side by side, but she took me in her arms and drew me close again, so that we were lying face to face.

“ This is our settled place,” she murmured, “and when you are home again . . .” Her eyelids drooped; a small smile played about her lips, and a few minutes later she was fast asleep. But I lay awake until the candle guttered, softly caressing my beloved, remembering that first night when I had thought no greater joy was possible, dreaming of paradise to come.

Dawlish’s Private Hotel

Tuesday, 31 October 1882

I shall be resolute and start at the beginning—perhaps it will help me to decide what I must do.

I slept badly last night—the moon was shining full on my face, but I did not want to draw the curtains—and woke with a headache and no appetite for breakfast. I felt distinctly queasy aboard the ferry, but my spirits lifted on the road to Nettleford, which took me along the coast, through open pasture like the country beyond Chale, only lower and gentler. I had always imagined Nettleford as a smaller version of Niton, with paved streets, and a post office, and an inn like the White Lion, but it proved to be a mere scattering of cottages around a disused church. Several of the cottages were plainly untenanted; smoke was rising from the chimney of another, but as I approached the gate, a dog began barking hysterically. The front door opened a little; a harsh voice commanded the dog to be silent, and a sour-faced, grey-haired woman peered out, regarding me suspiciously.

“And what might you want?”

“I am looking for the house where Dr. Ferrars lived—about twenty years ago, but perhaps you might—”

“No one of that name here,” she said, and closed the door firmly. I saw a curtain twitch as I retreated.

I went on as far as the church without seeing any other sign of life, and stopped by the lych-gate, contemplating the wilderness within. The graves were overgrown, the headstones flaking and pitted with lichen. As I stood gazing at this dismal scene, my eye was drawn by a name that looked like “Ferrars.”

I lifted the latch and pushed at the wooden gate. The hinges groaned; shards of rotting wood fell about my feet; it opened just far enough for me to squeeze through into the churchyard.

The name, I saw as I came closer, was not Ferrars but Fenner—Martha Fenner. “Departed This Life” . . . The rest had crumbled away. Many of the inscriptions were quite illegible, but beneath the opposite wall, about twenty paces away, was a much newer stone, the original pink of the marble still gleaming faintly through the lichen. Trampling down weeds, I made my way over to it.

In Loving Memory Of

Rosina May Wentworth

b. 23 November 1839

d. 6 March 1861

Dearly Beloved Cousin

Of Emily Ferrars

REST IN PEACE

Useless to dwell upon the hours of fearful speculation that followed. I arrived at Mr. Lovell’s office half an hour early, certain of only one thing: I could not return to London until I had secured that packet and found out what was in it. I paced about the waiting room, anxiously observed by his clerk, whose name I could not recall, until I heard footsteps bounding up the stairs.

Henry Lovell’s face brightened when he caught sight of me, but his smile changed to a look of concern as he showed me into his room.

“Miss Ferrars, is something wrong? You are as white as—as if you had seen a ghost.”

All too true, I thought.

“Yes, I have had a shock—something which makes it all the more imperative that I find out what is in that packet.”

“I see. But first you must take some refreshment: a glass of wine, perhaps? Tea? Some cake?”

“Thank you, I want nothing; only my mother’s bequest.”

“Then—can you not tell me what has happened?”

“No, Mr. Lovell, I cannot.”

Still he seemed to hesitate.

“Mr. Lovell,” I said, launching upon the speech I had rehearsed many times, “I am afraid I was not entirely frank with you yesterday afternoon.”

“I suspected as much. Please be assured, Miss Ferrars, that nothing you say here will ever pass beyond these four walls.”

He leant forward encouragingly.

“You asked me if I was engaged to be married, and I said I was not. The truth is, I am secretly engaged to Mr. Frederic Mordaunt, of Tregannon House—Tregannon Asylum, as it now is—at Liskeard, in Cornwall.”

He recoiled as if I had struck him.

“Miss Ferrars, you cannot be—I am afraid I don’t believe you.”

“Sir, that is most discourteous!” I replied, with all the indignation I could muster.

“I am very sorry for it, but truly, Miss Ferrars, there is no need for this—this charade. I had already decided to give you the packet.”

If he truly meant it, why had he had not said so at the beginning? Was he trying to trap me? I could not take the risk.

“My engagement, sir, is no charade. I did not tell you yesterday because I needed time to reflect. Even Frederic’s uncle, Mr. Edmund Mordaunt, does not yet know of our engagement. And so, Mr. Lovell, my mother’s condition is fulfilled. Will you now hand over the packet?”

He rose slowly from his chair, his face a welter of conflicting emotions: doubt, confusion, concern; even, I thought, disappointment.

“Yes, Miss Ferrars, I will. I only wish I knew . . .” I thought he was going to add, “whether to believe you,” but he said no more. From the top of an unstable heap of papers on his desk, he picked up a large grey envelope and handed it to me.

It struck me, as I declined another offer of refreshment, that I need not have lied to him.