The Asylum

by John Harwood

  Had she deceived Dr. Straker, too? The shock of finding Rosina’s grave, and reading her last letters, and realising (even as I fought to deny it) that Felix Mordaunt had been my father as well as Lucia’s, and that Rosina had died within days of giving birth to me—the shock of all that had brought on the seizure, just as Dr. Straker had said.

  Calling myself Lucy Ashton, and coming here on that deluded, foolhardy quest: I might as well have been acting on Lucia’s instructions.

  As perhaps I had been. I looked again at my description of Mrs. Fairfax; of how she had been singing Dr. Straker’s praises; how much she seemed to know about Tregannon Asylum. I had, indeed, heard that voice somewhere before. She had reminded me of Lucia. And if I had left those wills with Henry Lovell, as any sensible person would have done, instead of bringing them with me, Lucia could have retrieved them, and, in the person of Georgina Ferrars, laid claim to the Mordaunt estate.

  When I heard the clock strike ten, I hid everything away again and put out the light, so that Bella would not come tapping at the door. Stars glittered above the rooftop; I wrapped myself in the coverlet and went over to the window, gazing down into the moonlit courtyard.

  I knew that I ought to be consumed with rage and mortification, but I seemed to have lost the power of feeling. I might as well have been reading about someone else; someone for whom I felt a degree of sympathy, but whose fate did not directly concern me. I wondered if I would ever feel anything again. My childhood with Mama and Aunt Vida seemed quite untouched, only now immensely distant, as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope. The numbness seemed vaguely familiar.

  But I still had to decide what I should do.

  I could hand over the papers—except for the most intimate passages about Lucia (though was that not most of the journal?), which I would tear out—to Dr. Straker. That would surely persuade him that I had been telling the truth.

  But unless Felix had made a later will, I would be presenting Dr. Straker with proof that I was the rightful owner of Tregannon House. Edmund Mordaunt would be disgraced; Frederic would lose his inheritance, and Dr. Straker his kingdom. I could say that I did not want the estate, only my freedom, my name, and my own modest income; but why should he believe me? It would be safer by far to burn the papers—“Miss Ferrars” in London could do nothing without them—and lock me away in the darkest corner of the asylum.

  I could show the papers to Frederic, but again I would be gambling with my life.

  Or I could try to escape again. But with no money, no name, and no one to help me—Lucia would surely have made a conquest of Henry Lovell by now—all roads led back to Women’s Ward B. Or worse.

  Perhaps there was another way.

  I stood at the window for a long time, watching the shadows climb slowly up the opposite wall, thinking how it might be done.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, I was seated on a bench near the entrance to the voluntary wing. I had told Bella that if she should happen to see Mr. Mordaunt, I would be grateful if she could mention that I wished to speak to him. Now all I could do was wait.

  The air was chill, but I could feel the sun’s warmth on my back. Through the woodland to my left, I could see a patch of red brickwork: the ruin of the old stable, perhaps, where Frederic had heard the mysterious tapping sounds. Away beneath the wall, men were tilling the fields, just as they had been the evening before. I felt strangely, almost unnervingly calm.

  At least I know I am not mad. The thought had come to me upon waking: I might have Mordaunt blood in my veins, but I had endured five months in the family asylum without succumbing. It came to me again, like a current of warm air, as I sat gazing across the fields. I realised, too, that I did not greatly mind about being Rosina’s child and not Mama’s. No one could have loved me more dearly; if Rosina had lived, I should have had two loving mothers, as well as an aunt. I thought of the game I had played with the mirror, and the look on Mama’s face when she heard me shouting “Rosina” at my reflection, and I understood that in her place I should have done exactly the same. Her anxious, haunted expression when she thought no one was watching . . . I could well imagine her being possessed by a superstitious dread that if she made no provision, I would choose, of all the men in the kingdom, to marry a Mordaunt because she had not done so.

  And indeed she had been right to fear it. Of all places in the kingdom, I had come to Tregannon Asylum, and might, in different circumstances, have fallen in love with Frederic Mordaunt, never imagining that he was my cousin. Only I had not come here by chance, but because of Lucia—Mordaunt blood calling to Mordaunt blood?—and if I had loved her so passionately, could I really have loved Frederic with the same—?

  “Miss Ashton?”

  I sprang to my feet. Frederic Mordaunt was standing two paces behind the bench.

  “I am very sorry; I did not mean to alarm you.”

  “Yes—I mean, no, I was just—shall we walk a little?” I said.

  “By all means,” he said, falling into step as I set off, at random, toward the trees. He was bareheaded, and dressed much as I had seen him on that first morning, in brown corduroy and a white stock. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker than ever.

  “You—er—mentioned that you wished to speak to me.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mordaunt, I did. I feel—I have come to realise that I owe you an apology. I have been—unjustly harsh, and ungrateful—”

  “Miss Ashton, Miss Ashton, it is I who should apologise—”

  “But you have done so already, Mr. Mordaunt, and I ought to have accepted your apology with more grace. It is not your fault that I am here.”

  His hands unclenched; he took a deep breath, almost a sob, and turned away to hide his emotion.

  “Your generosity, Miss Ashton, means more than I can say; especially when—”

  “Especially?” I prompted.

  “Well—especially since you still believe you are Miss Ferrars.”

  “I have been thinking about that,” I said. “Now that I am more at liberty, thanks to your kindness, it is easier for me to consider the possibility that—that I may have been ill, as Dr. Straker has always maintained. As I say, it is not your fault. I must not keep you from your work, Mr. Mordaunt; I only wanted to express my gratitude.”

  “I see.” He sounded surprised, almost startled.

  “But,” I continued, “I need time to reflect, before I speak to him, and so, if you are willing—”

  “Upon my honour, Miss Ashton, I shall not breathe a word to him.”

  His colour had risen; he was studying me as intently as politeness allowed, with every appearance of adoration. I kept my own gaze demurely fixed upon the prospect before us, wondering how he would respond if I told him we were cousins.

  We were now approaching the edge of the wood. The trees were mostly oaks and alders, growing very close together; a narrow path wound its way in amongst them. Frederic began to bear away to his right.

  “Shall we walk through the wood?” I asked innocently.

  “Perhaps better not,” he said. “It is very overgrown, and you might . . . There is a very pleasant walk along the western side.”

  He sounded natural enough, but it seemed to me that he averted his eyes from the ruin, and we walked for a little in silence, following a rough track that led us across a stretch of open field and around the end of the wood, until we were out of sight of the house.

  “I remember you saying,” I ventured, “how lonely it was for you, growing up here.”

  “You remember our conversation?” he exclaimed, with another heartfelt glance, which I pretended not to see. I had allowed the distance between us to diminish, so that our shoulders were almost touching. “After all you have suffered here—I am—” He seemed about to say “overwhelmed,” but checked himself.

  “Yes, it was; I had no playmates, as I may have mentioned.”

  “And no other relations—uncles or aunts, or cousins . . . ?”

  “None living. Uncle E
dmund had a younger brother, but, like my father, Horace, he took his own life.”

  I stared at him in shock, caught my foot in a tussock, and grasped his arm to save myself from falling.

  “I did not know,” I said. “About your father, I mean.”

  “I did not like to mention it. He had been closely confined, for his own safety, but somehow . . .”

  “I am truly sorry to hear it,” I said, thinking how dreadfully inadequate that sounded. Through the cloth of his jacket, I could feel his arm quivering—or was it my hand? I steeled myself to continue.

  “And—the younger brother?”

  “The same, I fear. He—my uncle Felix—was lost overboard, on a voyage to South America, but given the family tendency, there can be very little doubt. I came upon the report of it quite recently, when I was sorting through some papers. The ship—the Utopia, she was called—was just three days out from Liverpool. He had dined as usual that evening—the weather was calm, with only a light swell running—and that was the last anyone ever saw of him.”

  “And—do you remember him at all?”

  “No, he died before I was three years old; in the summer of 1860, I believe it was. I know almost nothing about him. The subject is distressing to Uncle Edmund; he prefers not to speak of it.”

  I found that I was still gripping his arm, and hastily released it. Felix had not stayed with Clarissa; he had boarded the ship on which he had planned to sail with Rosina, and drowned himself, surely out of despair at losing her. He would never have made another will in Edmund’s favor; not when Edmund had been the agent of his ruin.

  “Miss Ashton?—I fear I have distressed you.”

  “No, no, it is only—” I took a step forward, and realised I was quite unsteady on my feet. “I should like to sit down for a little.”

  I made my way over to a fallen tree, anxiously attended by Frederic, and sat down on the trunk. A few paces to my left, a path led back into the wood; I saw Frederic glance over his shoulder, and wondered if it went to the ruined stable.

  “You must understand,” he said, “that, bleak as it must sound, these sad histories are part of the furniture of my mind. They have lost their power to hurt.”

  A brief silence followed.

  “Miss Ashton,” he said hesitantly, “what you said to me, before, has lifted a great weight from my mind. I hope you will not take it amiss if I remind you that, when you leave here, my purse will be at your disposal.”

  In fact, sir, I imagined myself replying, it is my purse, and I have documents to prove it. But only if I could prove that I was Georgina Ferrars.

  “You are very kind, Mr. Mordaunt,” I murmured, hoping I was not overplaying my part. “I should have been more gracious when you first made the offer.”

  He gave me another of his heartfelt looks, in which a sort of incredulous hope was dawning. No one, I thought, could counterfeit such transparent emotion, those rapid changes of colour . . . I felt a wild impulse to confide in him, to trust in his sense of honour and his evident feeling for me; but then I thought of my journal, of how I had trusted just those signs in Lucia (if only I could remember trusting her). I reminded myself, too, of how much he idolised Dr. Straker, and resolved to stick to my plan.

  “You spoke, Mr. Mordaunt, of when I am released. Are you confident, then, that Dr. Straker will let me go?”

  “Yes, Miss Ashton, I am—though I cannot, as you know, force his hand.”

  “But why is it, may I ask, that he will not release me now? I am not a danger to myself, or anyone else; I accept that I cannot be Georgina Ferrars, and I am prepared to wait patiently for my actual memory to return: what, then, is the obstacle?”

  “I am afraid there are several. He fears that if he releases you prematurely—his word, not mine—your actual memory, as you call it, may never return. And he still hopes that by combing through records of missing persons—which he spends a good deal of his time doing—he will discover who you really are, and restore you to your friends and family, assuming, of course . . .” He trailed off awkwardly.

  “But do you think it fair, Mr. Mordaunt, that he should keep me here, as a certified lunatic? If I am capable of living in the world, should I not be allowed to?”

  “I—speaking for myself, I agree with you. I find it impossible to think of you as a lunatic, or to imagine . . .” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “The difficulty, according to Dr. Straker, is that yours is such a rare condition—he knows of only four comparable instances, all reported from France—that he simply can’t predict how, or how soon, it will resolve. My own belief, as I said to you only yesterday, is that if you could—I hesitate to say converse with, but speak to Miss Ferrars, in a setting acceptable to you both, the spell might be broken. But Dr. Straker, as I told you yesterday, is vehemently opposed to it: he fears the shock might kill you.”

  “I cannot see why, Mr. Mordaunt. I agree with you; I am convinced that it would help me. In fact—of course I have no right to ask,” I said, meeting his eyes with all the appeal I could muster, “but would you be prepared to call upon Miss Ferrars at Gresham’s Yard, and try to persuade her to see me?”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Miss Ashton; but Dr. Straker would never agree.”

  “But supposing he is wrong? Should you not trust your own instinct? If it helps me recover my memory, and leads to my release, will he not forgive you? And have the largeness of heart to acknowledge that you were right and he was wrong? I should be eternally grateful,” I added, with another beseeching look.

  “Miss Ashton, I only wish . . . The thing is, even if I were to defy him, Miss Ferrars has said that she won’t agree to it unless we can return her writing case.”

  “But, as you said yourself, Mr. Mordaunt, if it helps me to remember what I did with it . . .”

  He was plainly torn; his hands, clasped in his lap, were trembling.

  “Something has just come to me,” I said, playing my last card. “About that writing case.”

  “Yes, Miss Ashton?”

  “‘Aunt Rosina’s will’: I don’t know what it means—the words just came into my head, but my heart insists that Miss Ferrars will understand them.”

  My heart, in fact, was beating very fast, and my mouth was dry. I had gambled on his not recognising the name.

  “I see. Do you think, Miss Ashton, that your memory is already returning? Dr. Straker will be most—”

  “Please, Fre—Mr. Mordaunt; you promised you would not breathe a word of this conversation to him, until I have had time to reflect.”

  “Of course not, if you wish it,” he said, regarding me with a sort of troubled adoration. “I shall do my utmost to persuade him—about Miss Ferrars—as if it were solely my own idea.”

  My heart sank at “do my utmost.”

  “But he will never agree; you said so yourself.” I had no need to exaggerate my disappointment.

  “You are right,” he said, after a pause. “It is time I . . . I will not go behind his back, but I shall write to Miss Ferrars—I had better make sure she is at home—regardless of his response. And I shall certainly mention Aunt—Rosina, is it?—Aunt Rosina’s will.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I am very much in your debt. And now, I think, if you do not mind, I should like to return to my room, and rest for a while.”

  He rose and held out his hand to help me up, and we stood for a moment facing each other, my hand still in his. He took a deep breath, as if about to make a declaration.

  “You must know that I—this time I shall not fail you,” he said, restraining himself with palpable effort.

  I smiled and thanked him again, and let my fingers brush across the palm of his hand as I released it, sternly repressing the thought that perhaps I was no better than Lucia.

  I had intimated to Frederic that he might find me any day at about three o’clock, so long as the weather kept fine, reading by the fallen tree. He appeared that same afternoon, looking even paler than before.

/>   “I cannot stay long,” he said, “but I wanted to tell you that my letter to Miss Ferrars will be in tomorrow morning’s post.”

  “You have spoken to Dr. Straker, then?”

  “Yes, and he was most displeased; even more so when he realised that I meant to write to Miss Ferrars, with or without his consent. He again accused me of—well, it does not matter. ‘I cannot prevent you from inviting Miss Ferrars to Tregannon House,’ he said, ‘but if any harm comes to Miss Ashton because of this, it will be upon your head. I have a good mind to move Miss Ashton back to the closed ward, for her own safety, but doubtless you will object to that, too. Very well; in the unlikely event that Miss Ferrars accepts, we will bring them together, under the most careful supervision. I repeat: upon your own head be it.’

  “Neither of us alluded to it, but the implication was clear: he agreed only because Uncle Edmund could die at any time, and as the owner, I could make things very difficult for him—I hope I am not distressing you, Miss Ashton.”

  “No, no, it is—only the thought of being confined again; I could not bear it.”

  “I would not allow that, I assure you, unless you were to become—so violently agitated that there was no alternative. Indeed, I went further: I pressed him once more to lift the certificate. But there he is adamant. ‘If I did that,’ he said, ‘Miss Ashton would be off to London on the next train. She would go straight to Gresham’s Yard and make a scene. Miss Ferrars would summon a constable, and Miss Ashton would be hauled off to Bethlem. I hardly think she would consider that an improvement, do you?’”

  “But I accept that I cannot be—” I stopped, realising that I had tied his hands by pledging him to secrecy.