The Asylum
Page 30
She stared at me, horror stricken—or so I would have sworn.
“I knew, I knew, I knew you would have shared. But my mother said you would be bound to find me out. And now I shall be sent to prison for years and years—as I deserve.”
She burst into heartrending sobs and buried her face in her hands. I knew better than to trust in this show of contrition, and yet I longed to comfort her, and felt cold and heartless for restraining myself.
“Lucia,” I said when she was quiet again, “why did you not go on the stage, as you said you wanted to? You are a consummate actress; you could have made your fortune, and been admired for your talent, instead of lying and deceiving your way through life.”
“I wish I had,” she said, “but it is too late now.”
“How much of my money did you steal?” I asked.
“Only your allowance. My mother said I must not risk going to see Mr. Lovell until . . .”
She lowered her eyes and let the words trail away.
“That was your mother—Mrs. Fairfax—the woman who tried to befriend me in Plymouth.”
“Yes,” she said faintly.
“And where is your mother now?”
“In London. At the hotel where we—the one in Great Portland Street.”
“Where you went every day on those walks of yours. To plan how you might ensnare me.”
“And now I must pay for my wickedness. Oh, how you must hate me!”
“No more tears,” I said firmly. “I hated you last night, when I said he might tear your heart out for all I cared, but that is gone now, like the fortune you set out to steal. As for sending you to prison: your mother’s fate is not for me to decide, and if Mr. Mordaunt decides to have her charged with blackmail, she must take the consequences. But for myself, I should rather see you on the stage than in a cell.
“You will write me a full account of every wrong that you and your mother have done me. You will promise, in writing, never to commit another crime. Mr. Mordaunt will witness your signature. And you will keep Mr. Lovell informed of your whereabouts. Fail me in any particular, and your confession will go to the police.”
“I promise,” she said in a very low voice. “If I may have pen and paper, I will begin at once.” Her face was ashen; she looked utterly spent.
“You should rest now,” I said, “and begin in the morning.”
“I am truly sorry, Georgina. If only—I wish I had been worthy of your love. I shall try to deserve your trust.”
“I wish I could believe you,” I said. I rose stiffly to my feet, suddenly aware of my bruised and aching body, and stood looking down at her. She held my gaze with dark, pain-filled eyes, the very picture of remorse, and it seemed for a moment that I could truly remember, could see and feel her trembling in my arms, on our last night together in Gresham’s Yard. But then my mind was shrouded again, as if a curtain had fallen between us, and I left the infirmary without looking back.
About the Author
JOHN HARWOOD is the author of two previous novels of Victorian Gothic suspense. Aside from fiction, his published work includes biography, poetry, political journalism and literary history. His acclaimed first novel, The Ghost Writer, won the International Horror Guild's First Novel Award. He lives in Hobart, Australia.