by John Harwood
Last Sunday was the longest of my life. I had intended to feign illness, and keep to my room to avoid my father, but there was no need of feigning; I was sick with dread and could eat nothing all day. I had, at least, the consolation of knowing that Lily had made a great impression upon the people in Tavistock Square, a widowed physician and his daughters, who live very quietly, and do not seem to move in any of the circles Clarissa and I used to frequent; they said she might start with them as soon as she liked. But such was my disordered state of mind that, when Lily offered to take my clothes to Felix’s lodging, I tormented myself all the while she was gone with visions of Felix running away with her instead of me—all the more unpardonable as I would never have escaped without her help.
Lily and I said our farewells that night. At five o’clock on Monday morning, I dressed, put on my cloak, and crept downstairs. Alfred had not taken up his post until eight the previous day, but the front door is always locked overnight, and Naylor keeps the key, so I had decided to leave by way of the area below. I stole across the first-floor landing—my father’s room is just along the corridor—and went on down into the gloom of the hall. The blood pounding in my ears sounded appallingly loud; I thought I saw movement in the shadows behind a pillar, but nothing emerged. Moving as quickly as I dared, I entered the foyer and passed through the narrow door that opens onto the servants’ staircase; I had to leave it ajar to see my way down.
The only light came from a frosted pane of glass above the area door; the rest of the passage was in darkness. I had slipped the upper bolt, and then the lower, and was turning the handle when a voice at my back said, “You can’t do that, miss; master’s orders.”
Naylor was standing a few feet away. The light fell upon his pale, smirking face, red lips parted in triumph. I wrenched open the door and darted up the steps; his hand seized my shoulder and came away with my cloak, in which he became entangled, gaining me precious seconds in which to open the area gate and slam it behind me. I heard Naylor shouting at the top of his voice; I saw Felix beginning to run toward me from a hansom twenty yards away; I heard the clash of the area gate and the thud of Naylor’s boots close behind me.
“Run to the cab!” cried Felix as he passed, but I could only turn and watch. He planted himself squarely in Naylor’s path; Naylor, who was at least a head taller, tried to dodge around him, but Felix stuck out a foot and tripped him. He was up again in a moment, flailing savagely; one blow struck Felix across the mouth and sent him staggering back. Naylor seized him by the collar and made to fling him to the ground, but Felix twisted from his grip with a rending of cloth, and it was Naylor who fell heavily; I heard the crack of his head striking the cobbles. A paper fluttered from Felix’s torn coat pocket as he turned toward me, and this time I did not hesitate. We ran side by side for the cab, and Felix lifted me bodily in.
“Victoria Station, the boat train, fast as you can!” shouted Felix as he jumped up beside me and the cab jolted forward. Looking back through the window, I saw Naylor picking himself up off the pavement, and another man emerging from the house.
“Let us hope he heard that,” said Felix, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief. Two minutes later we were rattling along Weymouth Street, with no sign of pursuit.
We had intended to breakfast at King’s Cross and take the ten o’clock express to Edinburgh, but Felix thought it would be too dangerous to wait, with the hunt already up. If my father dismissed my note about running away to Paris as a blind, the Scottish express might be the next thing he thought of. Worse still, the paper Felix had lost was a letter from his solicitor. And so we took the first available train to Leicester, travelling as Mr. and Mrs. Childe, and made our way north from there in a series of steps, arriving very late in the afternoon at Dunbar.
From the moment we set out, it seemed absolutely right and natural to be sitting hand in hand with Felix; I never once felt—and have not since—that I was travelling with a man I barely knew. Felix kept a wary eye on the platform whenever we stopped, but my anxiety diminished as London receded behind us, until I felt only a sublime assurance that all would be well. I slept much of the way from York to Newcastle: a sleep of utter contentment in which I dreamt I was lying in Felix’s arms, and woke to find it true.
Dunbar, as you may know, is right beside the sea, very popular in the summer, but in May almost deserted; the coast is very wild and beautiful. The man who brought us from the station happened to know of this cottage, which sounded perfect: about a mile farther up the coast, a little way from Belhaven village, looking toward the sea. I wanted to drive out and see it at once, but Felix said we should think about it first, and so we took rooms in a lodging house near the castle.
And now for my confession. I have hesitated a great deal over whether to tell you, but I resolved this morning that I would. If our situations were reversed, I would want you to speak freely and trust in my love, knowing that I would never judge you harshly; and so I should place the same trust in you.
Felix had said on the train that he thought I ought to stay in a separate lodging until our three weeks were up, but I refused to be parted from him. “We may be snatched away from each other at any moment,” I replied, “so every moment together is precious.”
“But we must keep apart until we are married; you are under my protection, and I would never want you to regret—to feel that I took advantage of you.”
We said no more at the time, but in the evening, after we had dined—we were the only guests in the house, and took our supper in front of our sitting-room fire—he returned to the subject. His arm was around my shoulders, as it had been much of the day; my fingers were twined through his hair; every so often he would kiss my temple, or my cheek, and whenever our lips met, my breathing would quicken and I would twine myself closer still, and then Felix would sigh, and quiver, and gently draw back.
“You know,” he said, “if we take that cottage, it will be even harder to keep apart, living alone under the same roof.”
“I do not want to keep apart from you,” I said. “My reputation is lost forever, so far as people like the Traills are concerned, and I do not care a jot. The proprietor thinks we are married; we are pledged to each other; I am wearing your ring; and if my father should trace us; well, I do not want to die without knowing . . .”
“But my darling, even at the very worst—suppose I were to be arrested for abducting you, and assaulting Naylor, and you were carried off to your father’s house by force—it would be terrible, but we would only have to wait until you were of age; he wouldn’t dare harm you.”
“My father is capable of anything; he thinks the law applies only to lesser mortals. I have never quite shaken off the fear that he murdered Clarissa. Not with his own hands, of course, but by hiring footpads to force their carriage over that cliff. I shall never forget the look on his face when he told me she was dead.”
“But the authorities said it was an accident. You remember I heard talk of it myself in Rome: a young couple tragically lost when their horse bolted.”
“I shall try to believe it. I can only pray that she died happy—as happy as I am now,” I added, moving closer again. “So let us take that cottage tomorrow—we will be safer away from the town—and have no more talk of keeping apart.”
“Rosina—you do understand what that means?”
“Not—not exactly, but I think I can imagine. I have trusted you with my life; why should I not trust you with—in every way?”
His arms tightened around me, but then he drew a long breath and disengaged himself, his expression suddenly sombre.
“Rosina, there is something I must say to you. I meant to tell you when we next met in London, but there was no time . . .”
“Anything, so long as you are not married already.”
“No, not that, but . . . I have not always lived celibate. If only I had known we were to meet, I should never have looked at another woman, but alas . . . I have made no promises, and broken no vows, but
I have been—intimate before this; I wish with all my heart I had not. So you must think on whether you still wish to marry me. No matter what you decide, I shall protect you with my life so long as there is blood in my body—”
“All I desire of you,” I said, “is to be certain that you love me with your whole heart, and that there is no other attachment—nothing in your past that could ever come between us.”
“I swear it by all I hold sacred. If there is anything—anything at all—you wish to ask of me, you have only to ask it—only—”
“Only?”
“Only that—if you really can forgive me—might it not be better to begin life together anew, without looking back?”
He rose, made up the fire, and left the room, murmuring something about the landlady and breakfast. I realised, staring into the red glow of the coals, that he had told me nothing I had not already divined. But if I knew everything about every woman he had ever embraced, would I feel any more secure in his love? Or would that knowledge prey upon me, no matter how firmly I tried to push it away, until I grew jealous of every kiss, every caress . . . ?
A coal burst in a shower of sparks, vanishing upon the instant. “You are right,” I said as his shadow fell across the couch. “Let us begin anew.”
Felix had warned me that the act might be painful; I had always vaguely assumed (I suppose because of all the talk of sin and shame) that it would have to be done in complete darkness, but we left the candles burning, and came to it so tenderly, and so gradually, that the pain was no more than momentary. We made love until dawn (now I truly understand why it is called making love), so rapturously, and with such exquisite caresses, that I feared we might wake the landlady with our cries. Marriage—between people who truly love and adore each other, I mean—must be like a secret society (I can write this, since you and Godfrey belong to it): how could anyone be ashamed of such delight, such ecstasy of body and soul, the heart overflowing with love?
We woke in each other’s arms, and drove out to Belhaven in a daze of happiness. I had never seen countryside so beautiful, or colours so rich and radiant; everything—the songs of birds, the scents of blossom, the tang of the sea—seemed so alive, like the first day of spring after a long drab winter, but infinitely more so.
And the cottage itself is ideal—only a hundred yards from the shore, and hidden from its neighbours by a coppice of trees. A woman from the village comes in the mornings; the rest of the time we have the house to ourselves and can do exactly as we please. Felix knows how to make tea and fry a beefsteak: we supped last night in bed, upon bread and cheese and potted meat and cake, and were utterly content.
I must finish here; we are about to walk into the village to catch the afternoon post. I dare not read this letter over, and can only remind myself that if I were in your place, I would want to know everything. We are to be married—I have only just thought to mention it, such is my conviction that we are married already—on Monday, the fourth of June, in Dunbar, if we are not discovered. I should have loved to have you and Godfrey for our witnesses, but it is such a long way, and perhaps you may feel—I must not entertain such thoughts, or I shall lose my nerve, and tear this up instead of posting it. May we come to you at Nettleford, as soon after the fourth as will suit? I long to embrace you, and will write again very soon. Have no fear for me, dearest cousin; I am blessed beyond measure.
All my love to you, and to dear Godfrey,
Your loving cousin,
Rosina
Kirkbride Cottage,
Belhaven
Wednesday, 23 May 1860
Dearest Emily,
I burst into such tears of joy when I read your letter that Felix thought something terrible must have happened! Your loving words mean more than I can say until I embrace you on the ninth. And to know that Lily is safe in Tavistock Square—truly, my cup runneth over.
We have been here nine days now, without the slightest alarm. No one else knows where we are, except for Mr. Carburton, Felix’s solicitor, who is to write care of the post office in Dunbar. Because of the letter he dropped in the struggle with Naylor, Felix decided he must write to Mr. Carburton to explain the circumstances of our elopement, and warn him against believing anything my father may say. If my father should call at the office, Mr. Carburton is to tell him that we will shortly be married, but nothing more.
Felix has also written to his brother, as he feels is only right, though Edmund is bound to disapprove of our marriage, believing as he does that no Mordaunt should ever marry. Edmund remains bitterly opposed to the sale of Tregannon House, despite Felix’s assurance that the proceeds will be equally divided—which is all the more generous of Felix, since he has had to borrow against his own share and is anxiously awaiting the deed of sale. Mr. Carburton will forward the letter, as Felix does not want Edmund to know where we are until we are married.
But that is the only cloud on our horizon, and most of the time we scarcely notice it. The weather, for the most part, has kept wonderfully mild and sunny: we walk for miles along the coast, with scarcely another human being in sight. Those last fearful days at Portland Place already seem like a distant nightmare, apart from the odd superstitious moment when I have to pinch myself to make sure I am truly awake, and free, and happy beyond my wildest imagination. Felix has the most extraordinary vitality; he scarcely needs to sleep, and often I wake to see him scribbling verses by candlelight, or gazing at the stars. And then, if he hears me stirring, he turns to me with a look of such delight that my heart overflows. His mind teems with ideas: sometimes his thoughts tumble over one another so fast that I cannot keep up with what he is saying, but I feel I always understand the music, even when I miss some of the words. He dreams of finding, or even founding, a community—apparently there are several like it in New England—built upon love and respect, a brotherhood of the spirit, he calls it, in which women would enjoy the same rights as men, and property would be held in common, for the benefit of all. To me he seems the very embodiment of that spirit, always so ardent and loving, filled with the joy of life.
Until the ninth—Felix sends his warmest and most heartfelt thanks for your invitation, and joins with me in hoping that all is well with you and Godfrey—
Your loving cousin,
Rosina
Kirkbride Cottage,
Belhaven
Friday, 25 May 1860
Dearest Emily,
Alas, I spoke too soon. I was unwell yesterday morning and so did not accompany Felix when he walked to Dunbar to see if the deed of sale had arrived yet. He returned, looking very grave, with a disturbing letter from Mr. Carburton, enclosing another, even more distressing, from Edmund. My father, it seems, went straight to Marylebone police station on the morning of our escape and had warrants sworn against Felix for abduction and assault. He then stormed into Mr. Carburton’s office, demanding to know where we were. Mr. Carburton, of course, knew nothing of what had happened (he did not receive Felix’s letter until Friday), but he was sufficiently alarmed to write to Edmund at Tregannon House, telling him of my father’s visit. This was Edmund’s response:
Dear Felix,
I have long despaired of your profligate ways, but I never imagined you capable of such an outrage as this. To have abducted an heiress (even if she accompanied you willingly, it is still abduction), and assaulted the loyal servant who sought to defend her honour: these are acts so heinous that I can only suppose—I might almost say hope—that you have altogether lost your reason. I have been in communication with Mr. Wentworth, whose wrath would scarcely be appeased by seeing you hanged, and pleaded the only thing I could plead: that you ought to be confined as a lunatic rather than as a felon, but he is adamant, and will not rest, he says, until you are locked up in Newgate.
There is, nevertheless, a faint chance of your avoiding the disgrace of a prison sentence. You must ensure that this foolish young woman is returned to her father’s house at once—unless, as I greatly fear, you have already debauched
her. If Mr. Wentworth refuses to take her back, then I suppose we must make provision for her. You yourself, however, must not accompany her to London, but return home at once. Maynard Straker has very kindly offered to come down and examine you as soon as he is summoned; assuming—I cannot see how there can be any doubt of it—that he is prepared to issue a certificate, we can declare you unfit to plead, and arrange for your confinement here.
As for your unconscionable scheme of selling the roof from over our heads: I have written to Mr. Carburton, apprising him of the facts of the matter, and advising him not to act upon any further communications from you, or to advance you any further funds, as you are plainly not of sound mind.
I urge you, once again, to arrange for Miss Wentworth’s immediate return to her father, and to present yourself here without delay. Fail in this, and I dare not answer for the consequences.
Your affct brother,
E. A. Mordaunt
Mr. Carburton, for his part, advises Felix to “consider very carefully whether you still wish me to draw up a deed of sale, since your brother will certainly contest your fitness to sign this or any other document pertaining to the sale of the estate. This would place me, as a trustee of the Mordaunt estate, in a most invidious position, since I cannot, of course, act for one member of the family against another. I do most earnestly counsel you to come to terms with your brother before you proceed.”
“What does he mean, ‘come to terms with your brother’?” I asked. The day was overcast, the fire unlit; our little sitting room seemed, for the first time, cold and drab.
“He means—though being a lawyer, he will not say so plainly—that he agrees with Edmund: he thinks I am as mad as my father and should meekly present myself to his friend Straker to be certified and shut away like poor Horace—as soon as I have delivered you to the nearest police station, that is.”