John Harwood - The Asylum

And even Felix had not lied. “I have been intimate before this.” If he had added “with your sister,” then of course I should never . . . but he had not known; he could not have known she was my sister, any more than Clarissa could have known that I, of all the women on this earth . . . Lily had warned me, as you would surely have done if I had waited for your reply, instead of rushing headlong into Felix’s arms. My father could not have forced me to marry Mr. Bradstone. I had deceived myself.

If it had not been for this monstrous coincidence . . . but no; not entirely. That first intimate smile, when he first caught sight of me at Mrs. Traill’s: the memory I had tried so hard to suppress, for fear it would make me jealous. “I do beg your pardon. I mistook you for someone else.”

He had been drawn to me because I reminded him of Clarissa.

I was still standing motionless, staring down at her, when I heard the front door open, then the sound of whistling in the hall. Felix appeared in the doorway, smiling his warmest smile and saying, “My darling, I am so . . .”

The smile faded and died.

“Caroline,” he stammered at last. “What—what on—”

“She is not Caroline,” I said. “She is Clarissa; my sister, and the mother of your child.”

His face crumpled; lines appeared where none had ever been, like cracks opening in a wall at the point of collapse; he seemed to shrivel beneath my gaze, until the last remnants of the man I had loved had crumbled into dust.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out; he took a step toward me, stretching out his arms in a gesture of hopeless appeal.

“Do not touch me!” I said in a voice I scarcely recognised. “You have no claim upon me:

she

is your wife. I am going upstairs to fetch my things; I do not wish to speak to either of you, ever again.”

Felix made another attempt to speak; for a moment I thought he would try to grasp my arm, but his hand fell away, and I left the room without a backward glance. My hands were steady, my eyes perfectly dry; I went up the stairs like an automaton, gathered the few remaining things I had not packed—including ten guineas in gold that Felix had given me to keep in case of an emergency—put on my travelling-cloak, and closed the lid of the valise.

He was waiting, ashen-faced, near the foot of the stairs when I came down.

“Rosina, I beg of you—”

Again he made as if to touch me, and again his hand fell nervelessly to his side. I was aware of Clarissa hovering at the edge of my vision, but neither of them spoke again, and a moment later I had closed the front door behind me.

I did not weep then, and have not since. Tomorrow I shall take the train to London, and thence to Plymouth. It means I shall be with you a day early; I hope you will not mind. I do not know what I shall do—only that I should like to see you first.

There is no point in posting this. Perhaps I shall burn it—or keep it to remind me of my unutterable folly.

Georgina Ferrars’ Journal (continued)

I HAVE BEEN THROUGH everything in the packet, and shaken out the envelope, but there is certainly no letter from Mama. Perhaps there were other papers left behind after she died, which were then lost with the house. That must have been what Aunt Vida meant when she was dying: “Things you need to know. I wrote it all down, but that’s at the bottom of the cliff now.”

Poor Lucia! There is no denying it: Clarissa, not Rosina, was her mother. Mama left me the letters because she did not want me to marry a Mordaunt—because of what happened to poor Rosina—that is all. Rosina died three days after I was born, and that is what strained Mama’s heart, just as Aunt Vida said—or would have said, if only she had felt able to.

But how did Rosina die? Did she take her own life, as I fear? I shall not think of it. I must think of Lucia, and of what I am to do.

I could burn the letters, and tell her that Mr. Lovell refused to hand them over. And say nothing about the tombstone.

And the wills? And Rosina’s marriage certificate? Could I burn those as well?

It almost looks as if Mama believed we had a claim upon the Mordaunt estate. There is a copy of the will Felix made in Belhaven, “in anticipation of my marriage to my beloved fiancée, Rosina May Wentworth,” leaving his entire estate to her. And a copy of Rosina’s own will, made at Nettleford on the twelfth of December 1860, leaving everything to “my beloved cousin Emily Ferrars, in accordance with the sealed instructions to be opened by her in the event of my death”—but no trace of any instructions.

If Felix Mordaunt is still alive . . . But no, Edmund Mordaunt inherited the estate. Felix must have changed his will again before he died.

Unless he really did go mad, like his brother Horace, and is locked away at Tregannon Asylum.

Must I tell Lucia? She is bound to suspect—the thing I will not think of—and then I will surely lose her.

But if our happiness is built upon a lie . . . I am hopeless at deception. She will sense that I am keeping something from her, and press me until I confess, and then it will be worse than if I had told her the truth in the first place.

No; if I try to deceive her, the shadow will come between us, and I will lose her anyway.

But what if I am wrong? Suppose Clarissa was not her mother? If she sees those letters, Lucia will leap to that conclusion, just as I did. I am clutching at straws, I know, but if there is one chance in a thousand . . .

I must try to discover what became of Clarissa—and Felix—before I go back to London. Of course I could ask Henry Lovell to find out—but no, not after telling him I was engaged to a man I have never even met.

If anyone knows, it will be Edmund Mordaunt. Liskeard is only twenty miles off—it cannot be more than half an hour by train. And if Tregannon Asylum is close to the town, I could go there in the morning and still be home tomorrow night.

But even if he is at home, and agrees to see me, I cannot tell him why I want to know, without giving away Lucia’s secret. And I am forgetting those wills. If he has looked up Rosina’s will—supposing there was some sort of claim on the property—he is scarcely going to welcome a Miss Ferrars. Or agree to keep our secret. I think I must go as Lucia Ardent; but no, not without asking her.

L.A. Her initials are on the valise. Laura? Lily? Lucy Ashton. The name just popped into my head.

Of course! I will say that I wish to consult Doctor—what was his name?—Straker, as his patient. Then I can tell him as much as I need to, under a pledge of secrecy. He has known the Mordaunt family all this time; if I throw myself upon his mercy, perhaps I can persuade him to be frank with me. Even if he refuses, I shall be no worse off.

I shall take all of my things with me in the morning; that way, as soon as I have seen Dr. Straker, I can return to London at once.

Part Three

Georgina Ferrars’ Narrative

KNEELING IN THE DUST, with my writing case clasped to my breast, I reached instinctively for the chain around my neck—and found, of course, neither chain nor key. Both catches were locked. I grasped the cover and tugged reluctantly, thinking I would have to break the stitching, before it struck me that keeping the case intact might help to secure my release. And so I spent an age prying at the locks with a hairpin I had managed to bend into a hook. My hands shook so badly that I cut myself several times; by the time I had both catches open, the blue leather was stained with blood.

I took out my journal, along with two bundles of letters in a hand I did not recognise, a packet containing what appeared to be legal documents, and a solicitor’s card, with an address written on the back—“C. H. Lovell, Yealm View Road, Noss Mayo”—and began to read. I was still crouched on the floor, with the last of the daylight filtering over my shoulder, when I heard a distant gong, and had to cram everything back in its hiding place in a mad rush and set the room to rights before Bella came to find me. I must have eaten—if I ate at all—in a kind of trance, for the next thing I recall is being back in my room, with the door bolted again, and Rosina’s last letter in my hand.