The Asylum

by John Harwood

  I had assumed that there would be no more than a dozen guests, but when I was shown through onto the terrace, I thought half of London must be there: the lawn was a sea of elaborate gowns, bobbing with hats of every imaginable colour, and not a single face I recognised. If Mary had not come up to greet me, I should have turned tail and fled; she wanted to introduce me at once, but I pleaded to be left alone until I had collected myself. I accepted a cup of tea and moved away as soon as her back was turned, picking my way around the edge of the crowd until I came to a massive oak, standing close by the wall, and slipped into the shadow of the trunk.

  There I must have remained for ten or fifteen minutes, sipping my tea and gazing at the spectacle, until I became aware of a man—a young man—hovering on the path a few paces away from me. I thought at first glimpse that he might be a Spaniard, because his hair was jet-black, thick and glossy, and his complexion had a faint olive glow to it. He was not especially tall, but perfectly proportioned, plainly dressed in a dark suit with a soft white shirt and stock, and a mourning band on his arm. As our eyes met, he smiled warmly, and seemed about to speak, but then his expression changed to one of embarrassment, followed by another, more tentative smile.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said, approaching. “I mistook you for someone else. Felix Mordaunt, at your service.”

  He was, indeed, extraordinarily handsome. I could not help smiling in return as we introduced ourselves.

  “I take it that you prefer to observe, rather than to be observed, Miss Wentworth.”

  “Well, yes; I have not been out of doors for many months, and was not expecting such a grand occasion. It is all rather daunting.”

  “I quite agree,” he replied—though he seemed entirely at ease—“especially as I don’t know a soul here.”

  “But surely you must know the Traills?”

  “Well, no, I have only just met them. Our families are distantly related by marriage, you see, and I thought—or, to be truthful, my brother thought—that I should pay my respects whilst I was in London, and this invitation was the result.”

  “You do not live in London, then?”

  “No, Miss Wentworth. We have an estate in Cornwall; my father has lately died, and I am in town to see about his will.”

  I realised, as I murmured my condolences, that I did not want to speak of Clarissa, and contrived, without telling any positive untruths, to imply that I was an only child recovering from a winter’s illness. It turned out that he really had been ill—he did not say with what—and had spent the winter abroad. I told him that I played the piano, and discovered that he, too, loves music, and plays the cello—very beautifully, I am sure, despite his protestations to the contrary. Listening to him talk is like hearing a song perfectly rendered in a nearby room, when you cannot make out the words, but the effect is more sublime than any mere words could convey. And, though I tried not to meet his glance too often, I could not help drinking in every detail of his appearance.

  All too soon I saw Mary and her mother coming up the path, and all I could think was to ask how long he would be in London.

  “I shall be here at least another week. And you, Miss Wentworth, will you be . . . In fact, do you think I might call upon you?”

  My heart was pounding violently, and I had only a moment to think.

  “I am afraid my father would not allow that,” I said, “but . . . if it keeps fine, my maid and I will take a turn in Regent’s Park—around the Botanic Gardens—tomorrow morning at about eleven.”

  He had no time to reply, for the Traills were upon us.

  “Rosina, we have been looking everywhere for you,” said Mrs. T. archly. “I see you have already made a conquest of Mr. Mordaunt. But you must come and tell me how you are; such a sad time it has been for you.” I caught his questioning glance as Mrs. T. led me away, sick with mortification as I realised what I had done. I had made an assignation with a young man, within moments of meeting him, in a way that he could only construe as wantonly forward, especially when Mary told him about Clarissa, as she was bound to do. He would assume that I, too, was willing to be carried off by a man I scarcely knew, regardless of the consequences.

  “You must excuse me,” I said, feeling the heat rush to my face. “I am feeling quite unwell and must go home at once.”

  “Nonsense; you are simply over-excited. A cooling drink is what you need. Tell me, how is your dear aunt Harriet?” Mrs. Traill had never, before this, been actively malicious toward me, and I wondered, as I stammered out my replies, if she saw Mr. Mordaunt as a possible candidate for Mary. And when at last I managed to extricate myself, I was bailed up by one acquaintance after another, all of them pointedly not mentioning Clarissa. My face remained scarifyingly hot; beads of perspiration kept trickling out of my hair, and I felt certain that the entire company were talking about me behind my back. And yet I stayed, I confess, in the vain hope that Mr. Mordaunt would come up to me, and that I would somehow—but how?—be able to set things right.

  When I could bear it no longer, I went in search of Lily, who had been helping with the refreshments, and left without even attempting to thank Mrs. T. We had passed out of sight of the house, and I was assuring a disbelieving Lily that I was perfectly all right, only fatigued, when I heard footsteps hurrying up behind us. To my astonishment, it was Mr. Mordaunt, rather out of breath and looking, I thought, a little apprehensive.

  “Miss Wentworth, forgive me, but I did not want to lose the opportunity of speaking to you again, in case—”

  The implication hung in the air between us. I wondered how many people had seen him run after me.

  “I slipped out on the pretext of smoking a cigar,” he added, as if answering my thought.

  “If you really wish to smoke, Mr. Mordaunt, I do not mind. This is my maid, Lily.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Lily,” he said, bowing. She made him a most demure curtsey, but I could tell that she was smiling to herself. “I don’t in fact smoke, but it seemed—may I walk with you for a little?”

  I glanced uneasily around but saw no one I recognised.

  “Yes, sir, you may; but if I should ask you to leave us, please do so at once.”

  “I quite understand.” He went to offer me his arm but checked himself gracefully, and we set off toward Tottenham Court Road, with Lily following a discreet two paces behind.

  “The fact is, Miss Wentworth, I was very sorry to be snatched away from you like that. It seemed to me, from the few glimpses I caught, that you did not enjoy the rest of the afternoon any more than I did, but I was given no opportunity to speak to you again. Is Miss Traill, may I ask, a close friend of yours?”

  “Not close, no; I thought of her as a friend, but now . . . Did she, by any chance, speak of my sister?”

  “I’m afraid she did, yes, and in a less than generous spirit. All I can say, Miss Wentworth, is that I was—I am—deeply sorry to hear of your sister’s death.”

  “You will understand, I hope, why I find it hard to speak of poor Clarissa. My father forbids all mention of her.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it. By a strange coincidence, I was in Rome myself last winter and heard talk of a young English couple tragically lost in an accident—but forgive me, Miss Wentworth; I should not have mentioned it.”

  “You needn’t apologise,” I said. “It is only that—I was not even allowed to weep for her.” My tears overflowed, and he stood awkwardly by while Lily fussed over me; she seemed to understand that he was not to blame. When I had collected myself, he offered me his arm, and this time I took it.

  “This—Clarissa’s disgrace, as everyone else regards it—is why I have not been out of doors for so long,” I said.

  “I cannot think of it as disgrace. I can scarcely imagine what it must be like for a spirited young woman to be so closely guarded. In your sister’s place, I should certainly have run away.”

  I looked at him in surprise and gratitude; I had never heard such sentiments
from a man before, and it emboldened me to speak openly of the long months of confinement, and of my yearning to escape to you at Nettleford, find myself a situation, and be free of my father’s tyranny forever. He listened closely, never seeking to bring the talk back to himself; I was conscious all the while, even through my glove and several layers of fabric, of the movement of my hand against his arm. All too soon—again—we were turning into Langham Street.

  “You must leave me here,” I said, “and return to make your farewells, if only for my sake. They must think you have smoked a whole case full of cigars.”

  “I shall indeed. But you will still come to Regent’s Park in the morning?”

  “I cannot promise. But if I can, I will; I cannot say exactly when.”

  “Then I shall happily wait all day—and the day after, if necessary—in the hope of seeing you there.”

  With another captivating smile, and a bow to us both, he turned and strode off the way we had come.

  “Mr. Mordaunt is a charming gentleman, is he not, Lily?” I said as we walked up Portland Place.

  “Yes, miss, very charming indeed. But you must be careful, miss. Men—even gentlemen—will take advantage if—well, if you encourage them. And if your father were to hear of it . . .”

  I could scarcely deny encouraging Mr. Mordaunt. “I know, I know; I promise to be careful. But I must see him again.”

  She looked at me fearfully.

  “But then you’ll crave to see him even more, miss. And what if your father comes back sooner than expected? Naylor’s always on the lookout; you’ll be caught for certain.”

  “All I want, Lily, is a quiet hour or two’s conversation with Mr. Mordaunt tomorrow; if we wish to communicate after that, we shall write to each other, in the same way as I write to my cousin. But you are quite right; I had better not be seen. Is there a way of getting in and out of the house without being seen?”

  “Not for you, miss, no.”

  “But for you, Lily? I promise, on my heart, to keep it a secret.”

  “Well, miss, I’m friends with one of the maids next door; she has the attic room along from mine, and sometimes we open our windows and talk. The roof’s not so steep, and there’s a bit of a ledge, so I could creep across and get in her window—not that I’ve done it, mind—”

  “But then you would have to go down through the house.”

  “Yes, miss, but the family’s away; there’s just the maids and the housekeeper on board wages. Only you couldn’t do it, miss; your gown would be all over smuts, and they’d be bound to talk—and how would you get in again?”

  “Yes, I see. Well, supposing, tomorrow, you were to let me out when the coast is clear, and then say I am in bed with a headache? And then when I come back, I can say I felt better, and slipped out for a short walk—or you could watch for me from my window and run down and open the front door. I shall make it up to you, I promise.”

  “And what if you don’t come back, miss? What would I do then?”

  “Lily, I am not going to run away with Mr. Mordaunt after two days’ acquaintance.”

  But even as I spoke, I remembered the warmth of his arm beneath my gloved hand; I imagined meeting his eyes—which are a deep, luminous, autumnal brown—and not having to look away. Was this how Clarissa had felt?

  “What I meant, miss, was if you didn’t come back, I shouldn’t know what had become of you, so I should have to tell someone.”

  “Lily, you surely don’t think Mr. Mordaunt capable of abducting me? From Regent’s Park?”

  “No, miss, but he might persuade you to go somewhere private. You don’t know what any man’s capable of, till you’re alone with him. I don’t mean my Arthur, miss; he’s always good to me, but . . .”

  I looked at her questioningly, but she said no more.

  My elation at seeing Felix Mordaunt again was succeeded by a restlessness, the like of which I had never experienced. I could not settle to anything, even the piano, and went up and down stairs a dozen times, feeling I could not stand another day of captivity, let alone six months of it. I went to bed early, hoping to sleep the time away, but I was pacing my room again five minutes later, caught in a whirligig of contrary emotions. What if he was an accomplished seducer, who amused himself by preying upon foolish young women like me? I imagined him boasting of his latest conquest, or even making sport of me when he returned to Mrs. Traill’s party; I relived every detail of my humiliation there, and my face burnt more fiercely than ever. My father was bound to find out, and I should be locked away forever, as I deserved.

  But then, in the depths of mortification, the image of Felix—it sounds terribly forward, but you will understand, in a little, why I speak of him thus—would come back to me in all his beauty and sunny openness, and my distrust would blow away like so much shredded paper, and all I could think was that I must see him again, no matter what the cost.

  And so I passed one of the longest nights of my life, tossing between dread and longing. My mattress seemed to consist entirely of lumps; I would grow suffocatingly hot, and throw off the clothes, and then find myself shivering with cold. I was compelled several times to go and stand at my window in case Felix should be gazing up at me from the street, knowing that the idea was quite mad, but unable to restrain myself. And when at last I did go to sleep, I woke with a dreadful start to find the sun streaming in and Lily knocking at my door, and leapt out of bed in a blind panic, thinking I had slept away the whole morning.

  And then, of course, I could not decide which gown to wear—but I shall not dwell upon the agonies of indecision I inflicted upon poor Lily as well as myself. Enough to say that I did manage to escape without being seen, and to arrive, breathless and late, at the Botanic Gardens, and that Felix was waiting, and that one look at his face was enough to dispel all of my fears.

  All of yesterday, and most of today, we spent walking and talking, or sitting and talking, in the park. We found a bench in a secluded spot, away from the main walks, and subsisted upon tea and chestnuts from the coffee stall; the weather kept fine and warm, and in all that time I saw nobody I knew. I was vaguely aware that I ought to be afraid—mortally afraid—of discovery, but in Felix’s company I became quite fearless. It was like the moment after you have taken a glass of champagne, miraculously prolonged, when you feel the bubbles fizzing along your veins, but your head is still perfectly clear.

  You will perhaps have guessed—I pray that you will not be shocked—that Felix has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted. There! I have said it. I know you will be anxious, but consider: Felix and I have spent twelve uninterrupted hours alone together, and how many couples, before they become engaged, can say as much? You will say that I cannot be sure of him; I can only reply that when you see us together, you will understand. There is an affinity between us—he felt it, too, from the moment we met—as if we have always known each other. He has the sunniest, most open countenance I have ever seen in a man. You can follow the play of his emotions from moment to moment—I am sure he would be incapable of deceit (or of pretending to like someone he did not). And he listens, which most men are incapable of doing with a woman for more than a sentence—but I am letting my pen run away with me again.

  The obstacle is, of course, my father. Felix will have about six hundred a year after the estate has been sold up and divided, as he means to do, with his brothers. He comes of old Cornish stock—his family have held the estate for many generations—but there is a difficulty there, which I shall come to in a moment. And you know how my father affects to despise the gentry, especially those, like Felix, who have no particular occupation: he will want me to marry some rapacious man of business, like that vile Mr. Ingram. Felix insists that he has money enough and does not care about a dowry, only about my being disinherited. He wants to do the honourable thing and call upon my father, but I have persuaded him—or so I trust—that only disaster would come of it. Merely admitting that I went to Mrs. T.’s unchaperoned and met a gentleman th
ere would be enough to have me locked away.

  Felix’s lack of occupation, I should say, is not from indolence, but because he is sure that his destiny does not lie with any of the established professions. As you will see when you meet him, he would be utterly unsuited to the army, or the law, and—though I am sure he would preach a very eloquent sermon—he says he could not, in conscience, take holy orders, as there is much in established doctrine that he finds doubtful or even abhorrent. He loves music, as I think I told you—it will be such a joy to play together—and he has written a great many poems. When he first discovered Byron, he was so powerfully affected that he thought Childe Harold must have been written especially for him (though nowadays he prefers Don Juan, which I have never been allowed to possess—we are going to read it together). For years afterward, his greatest ambition was to be Lord Byron: he acquired a black cloak, and used to stride about the moors in it, doing his best to look like a tragic hero wrapped in a cloud of gloom.

  And, though his disposition is naturally cheerful, he has had much to be gloomy about. There is—again I beg you not to be anxious; five minutes in Felix’s company will set your mind at rest—there is a disposition toward melancholia, and sometimes even madness, in his family, especially upon the male side. His mother died when he was ten years old, worn out, Felix believes, by the strain of living with his father, who could not bear to be crossed in the smallest particular. His father’s temper was uncertain at the best of times, and when the fit was on him, he could be very violent: he disinherited his eldest son, Edmund, for trying to have him certified insane, and then the second son, Horace, for marrying without his consent, which is why Felix is determined to share with them. He says that if his father had not been carried off by a seizure, he would have been disinherited in turn, and the whole estate would have gone to some distant relation in Scotland. Poor Horace is presently confined to an asylum after a complete nervous collapse—all the more distressing because he has an infant son.