by John Harwood
Even Felix, who is the kindest and gentlest of men, has been sadly afflicted by melancholia. It came upon him without warning, in the autumn of his second year at Oxford. He went to bed one night a healthy young man and woke in the grip of the most appalling horror; he felt, he said, as if he had committed a capital crime. At times his mind would race beyond control, whirling from one dreadful prospect to the next, all fraught with the most hideous anxiety; then his thoughts would slow until to think at all was like trying to wade through quicksand, and he would sink into a lethargy so profound that even to leave his bed seemed an intolerable effort. And over all was cast a leaden blackness of spirit, a thing worse than the worst pain he had ever experienced, because it consumed his entire being, suffocating all joy and hope as if he were being smothered by ashes.
After a month in this terrible state, he abandoned his studies and went home to Cornwall. It was, he said, the worst thing he could have done, because Tregannon House is a dismal place even in summer: dark and damp, with great thick walls and tiny windows. In those bleak surroundings, he sank even deeper into the pit, constantly tempted by the thought of suicide, until some instinct of self-preservation prompted him to flee the house and take passage to Naples, where within a few weeks he was his old self again. He returned to Oxford in the spring, believing himself cured, but the following autumn he felt it coming on again.
This time he did not wait for the darkness to engulf him but sailed at once for Italy, where again his spirits were restored. He has wintered abroad ever since. The English climate, he says, brings out the dark strain in the Mordaunt blood, which is why he is determined to sell the estate. Edmund, sadly, does not agree: he has some absurd idea of turning Tregannon House into a private asylum, but Felix hopes that the rift will heal once things are settled and Edmund has money in his pocket. And he is certain that with me at his side, he will never sink into melancholia again.
Felix, as you can see, has been absolutely candid; he wished me to hear the worst about his family from him, rather than from some malicious tattle-bearer, and, knowing that you are my dearest friend in all the world, asked if I would relate it to you. He very much hopes that you will allow him to call at Nettleford when he returns to Cornwall in a week or two, especially since you and Godfrey will be the sole keepers of our secret. Felix does not want to say anything to his brother until the estate is settled.
We intend to marry as soon as I am of age, and since we cannot hope for my father’s blessing, it would be a joy to Felix—and of course to me—if you would give him yours. I should love, more than anything, to be married from your house, with you and Godfrey as witnesses.
Six months does not seem so very long to wait, now. I shall have Felix’s letters to look forward to, and he will come up to London as often as the business of the estate allows; I am sure I shall be able to slip out and see him sometimes. I shall even try to be kinder to Aunt Harriet!
And now I must make an end of this long letter. We mean to live abroad—somewhere warm and light, where I pray that you will come to visit us—and travel a great deal. It is sad to think that in all of England, the only people I shall sorely miss are you and Godfrey—and Lily. I would love to keep her with me, but I know she would pine for her Arthur, and for London—she is a London girl through and through, whereas I cannot wait to leave here.
Your loving cousin,
Rosina
Portland Place
Saturday, 12 May 1860
Dearest Emily,
The worst has happened. All yesterday I waited for my father to return; no one knew when to expect him, and I dared not leave the house. I had thought that two whole days with Felix would be enough for me to live on, but from the moment I woke this morning, I was consumed by doubts, which grew worse as the hours I might have spent with him crawled by. What if he had changed his mind? What if his way of amusing himself in London was to extract pledges of marriage from foolish girls? I thought I had banished such fears forever, but they came swarming back to torment me. Five minutes—a single minute—or a line of his writing would have set my mind at rest: I stood for ages at my window, praying that he would appear in the street below, even though I knew that he would be engaged on business all day.
My father did not return until late in the afternoon. I was waiting in the drawing room, and at the first glimpse of his face, my heart turned to lead.
“Mr. Bradstone—the gentleman I spoke of—will dine here this evening; you will join us at seven and make yourself agreeable to him.”
I had forgotten all about Mr. Bradstone. My horror must have shown, for his face darkened, and he asked very sharply if I had not heard him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “but I feel my headache returning”—I am sure I looked stricken enough for it to sound plausible—“and I hope you will excuse me.”
“Headache or no, you will present yourself at seven, if you know what is good for you,” he replied, and left me without another word.
I dragged myself upstairs, feeling as if I had stumbled into a nightmare, and dressed as severely as I could, with no jewellery except a small silver cross; I had Lily pull my hair back so tightly it hurt. But nothing could have prepared me for the man my father has chosen.
Mr. Giles Bradstone is perhaps forty years old, tall and powerfully built, with a long, boney face and a leprous complexion. His nostrils flare slightly when he breathes, and his eyes are very prominent: the coldest, palest blue I have ever seen—they fix you with a look of amused contempt. He is a widower, and I can give you no better idea of the man than to say that when he told me—with, I would swear, a flicker of a smile—that his first wife (he actually said “my first wife”) died in an accident, I felt certain he had murdered her. His voice is cool and contemptuous, like his stare, and of course he is a man of business; he deals in property, like my father, and holds the same views. I kept my eyes lowered, as far as possible, but all too often he addressed me directly—just for the pleasure, I am sure, of forcing me to look at him. My father gave one of his disquisitions upon the idleness of the poor, and how much more work could be got out of them if they were not so leniently treated by the law; he had no sooner finished than Mr. Bradstone said,
“But I fear Miss Wentworth does not agree with her father.”
“I have no opinion, sir,” I replied, “beyond what scripture tells us, that it is our duty to care for those less fortunate than ourselves.”
My father shot me an angry look; Mr. Bradstone smiled and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, I know that you dislike me, but do not imagine that you can escape. Later he remarked—in reference to some business venture, but with his gaze fixed upon me—“I never allow myself to be beaten. At anything.”
When dinner was over, my father insisted I play for them, which he would never ordinarily do; he actively dislikes music. I chose the most mournful piece I could think of, but still I could feel Mr. Bradstone watching me. And when at last I dared to excuse myself, he said, “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wentworth, and I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.” His tone was just within the bounds of civility, but his eyes laid insolent claim to me, and I left with the dreadful suspicion that my loathing had aroused his interest.
As you will imagine, I scarcely slept. I was dreadfully afraid that Mr. Bradstone might be staying here, and I watched from my window until I saw him drive away in a cab. And then I kept hoping that Felix, too, might be sleepless (he is lodging in Sackville Street, near Piccadilly) and would walk past the house as he had said he might. But there was only the flare of the lamps, and the empty street, and the hourly tramp of the constable’s boots, until I sank into nightmare visions of Mr. Bradstone’s face looming out of the dark, over and over until I woke at dawn and realised the nightmare was still before me.
After breakfast came the summons I had been dreading. My father was sitting at his desk when I entered the study, and motioned me to stand before him, like a child about to be punished.
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br /> “Mr. Bradstone seems favorably impressed with you, despite your sullenness. He wishes to see you again, and when he does, you will make yourself agreeable to him.”
I realised, just in time, that my only chance of escape was to placate him.
“If you wish it, sir, I will do my best.”
He gave me a long, disbelieving stare.
“You knew yesterday that it was my wish,” he said at last. “Why did you not obey me then?”
“I do not like him, sir; I am sorry if that disappoints you.”
“It does—and you will not disappoint me again. Mr. Bradstone and I are negotiating an alliance of interests; he is in want of a wife, and a marriage between our houses will cement our association. If he should make you an offer, you will accept. Your duty is to obey me, and you will learn to like him, because I wish it.”
“And when does Mr. Bradstone return?” I asked.
“On Wednesday; he will stay a fortnight. In the meantime, you are not to leave the house—as I am told you have been doing in my absence—”
“It was only to walk, sir,” I said, praying that my face would not betray me—and wondering who had betrayed me.
“No doubt Mr. Bradstone will be happy to escort you. Until then, as I say, you are to remain indoors: I have given orders to ensure that you do. Disobey me in this, and you will be confined to your room. That is all.”
As I crossed the hall, I saw Alfred stationed like a sentry by the front door. He studiously avoided my eye.
I do not know how I managed to keep my composure in my father’s presence; by the time I reached my room, I was trembling violently. My first impulse was to escape at once through Lily’s window. But if Felix was not at his lodgings—or worse, if I was caught trying to escape with my father still in the house—I realised I had better write to him first, and send Lily to find him and bring back his reply. He and I had talked of what we might do if this should happen, and he told me that under Scots law we could marry as soon as we had lived there for three weeks. It was, I confess, more his wish than mine that we should wait until I came of age. “As soon as you are safe beneath your cousin’s roof,” he said, “I can do the honourable thing and ask your father for his blessing. The worst he can do is throw me down the stairs; if nothing else, it may lessen his wrath. But if your life at home becomes intolerable, we shall elope at once.”
Then I began to think about what I could take. I remembered Clarissa’s room stripped bare, her belongings piled on that filthy cart, my father saying, “Be warned; I will not be embarrassed a second time.” I imagined him chopping my beloved piano into pieces with an axe and flinging all of my music into the fire, and my resolve wavered. But if I stayed, and refused Mr. Bradstone, he might do all of that, and more; and once imprisoned in my room, how would I ever escape? Clarissa had been of age when she ran away—it had never occurred to me, until then, that the law had been on her side, not my father’s—but that had not blunted his fury in the slightest. And what if I had been seen with Felix? I might have to flee at a moment’s notice.
Sick with fear at the enormity of what I was doing, I chose a small valise and set about collecting things: my mother’s necklace and brooch; your letters; a ring Clarissa had given me in a fit of generosity; a few miniatures; a small dressing case; a nightgown; a shawl—already the valise was almost full. I would have to travel in the clothes I stood up in—not the morning dress I was wearing, but something in which I could run, if need be, without tripping over layers of petticoats. The only thing I could find was a plain white dress I had worn when I was sixteen: the worst possible colour for climbing over a roof, but it could not be helped. Packing seemed to heighten, rather than relieve, my terror; when Lily tapped at the door, I almost jumped out of my skin.
Lily turned very pale when she saw the valise, and burst into tears when I told her I meant to elope.
“He’ll hunt you down, miss; you know he will.”
“We need only hide for three weeks; once we are married, he cannot touch us.”
“But what if Mr. Mordaunt doesn’t marry you, miss? He might ruin you and leave you, and then—it doesn’t bear thinking of.”
“My heart tells me to trust him, Lily. He is the best and kindest man I have ever met, and I cannot stay here. I would rather fling myself from that window than have Mr. Bradstone so much as touch me.”
“Then refuse him, miss. Even if your father keeps you on bread and water, it’s better than being ruined. And if Mr. Mordaunt really loves you, he’ll wait till you’re of age.”
“He has already promised to wait for me, Lily. But I dare not stay, and I shall never be surer of Felix than I am now.”
“Then go to your cousin, miss. It’s a long way from London; you’ll be safe with her.”
I confess I was sorely tempted, and not for the first time. Nettleford beckons like an earthly paradise; but I cannot come to you. My father’s rage at Clarissa will be as nothing compared to his fury at me, and I could not bring that upon you and Godfrey. Nettleford is one of the first places he will think of; our hearts would be in our mouths every time there was a knock at the door. At least in Scotland we have only to evade pursuit for three weeks until we are safe—and then we shall come to you, and all your fears for me will be set at rest.
Later: I have heard from Felix, and we have made our plans. I shall slip out of the house very early on Monday morning, through Lily’s window if necessary; I shall know by then if the door is to be watched at night. Felix will be waiting for me in a cab; we shall drive straight to King’s Cross and take the first train north. Lily and I have shed a good many tears over each other, but I will not take her away from her sweetheart. We went through the advertisements together and found a situation for a lady’s maid in Tavistock Square; I have given her the most splendid character, and she will call upon them when she takes this to the post. Lily will write to me at Nettleford—I hope you do not mind—if she is in want of anything.
I wish I could leave sooner, but my father will be at home all day tomorrow; on Mondays he is usually gone by nine, and he will not expect to see me at breakfast. I shall lock my door behind me and leave a note on it saying that I have taken chloral after a bad night and am not to be disturbed. Lily will wait until the middle of the afternoon, and then tell the housekeeper she is worried about me. With luck, that will give us half a day’s start; I do not think they will break down the door without sending for my father, and when they do, he will find a letter saying I have run away to Paris.
I am dreadfully sorry to leave you in such anxiety, but if I am caught—I try not to think of it—I shall have no way of writing to you. Felix swears that if I am captured, he will not rest until he finds a way of rescuing me.
Pray for me; I shall let you know the moment I am safe.
Your loving cousin,
Rosina
Georgina Ferrars’ Journal
Gresham's Yard
27 September 1882
For weeks now I have weeks now I have been too low-spirited to begin a new journal. There is absolutely nothing to record, but I feel I must make the attempt, before all volition slips away from me. I spent this morning as usual making up parcels for my uncle, and the afternoon minding the shop—without a single customer—whilst he attended a sale. How the hours drag! The days are rapidly shortening, and the shop seems more dismal than ever.
I never imagined that books could be so oppressive. I loved our little library at Niton, the comforting smell of the boards, the warm colours of the spines with their faded gold lettering; but here they poison the air with mould and damp. For all my uncle’s attempts at airing the place, there are livid splotches like toadstools amongst the pages; the spores rise up and clutch at my throat. And in all this time, I have not found a single volume I would care to read.
I have tried to be content with my lot, and I know that I should be grateful to my uncle for taking me in, but to him I am simply a useful pair of hands, cheaper and more painstaking
than the boy who used to do the parcels for him. If I were to say, “Uncle, I am dying of loneliness and boredom,” he would not know what to reply; I doubt that he would even comprehend.
No—another winter of wrapping books for elderly clergymen I shall never see is more than I can bear. But what else can I do? I cannot afford to live independently unless I find an occupation. I keep telling myself that I should learn typewriting; even spending my days copying other people’s words onto a machine would be better than this. But I have done nothing about it, just as I have not written to Mr. Wetherell to ask about Aunt Vida’s will, which must surely have been proven by now—it is nearly a year since she died.
Later: I have just woken from a trance in which I was staring at my reflection in the window and trying to will it to move and speak to me, as I used to do with the mirror at Niton. If only I had a sister! If I could summon Rosina now, what would she say? She would scorn me for moping, and tell me to be bold, and take my courage in both hands, and do something, anything, to lift myself out of the slough of despond—but what?
Well, what about the two hundred pounds Mama left me? Everyone says it is wrong to spend your capital, but at least I could see something of the world—Rosina would surely want me to, and I hope Mama as well—and perhaps find a friend at last. I shall write to Mr. Wetherell—in fact I shall do so now, before my resolve weakens.
Gresham’s Yard
Monday, 2 October 1882
An extraordinary thing has happened. This morning I received a letter from a Mr. Lovell in Plymouth, explaining that Mr. Wetherell has been in poor health for some months (hence the delay in settling my aunt’s affairs), telling me that I have £212 11s 8d to my name—and enclosing a sealed packet labelled “Papers deposited by Mrs. Emily Ferrars for safekeeping, 22 November 1867; retained upon instruction of Miss Vida Radford, 7 June 1871, in re Ferrars bequest.” Inside was a bundle of letters, tied with a faded blue ribbon, addressed to my mother at West Hill Cottage, Nettleford.