The Asylum

Georgina Ferrars’ Journal (continued)

I HAVE BEEN THROUGH everything in the packet, and shaken out the envelope, but there is certainly no letter from Mama. Perhaps there were other papers left behind after she died, which were then lost with the house. That must have been what Aunt Vida meant when she was dying: “Things you need to know. I wrote it all down, but that’s at the bottom of the cliff now.”

Poor Lucia! There is no denying it: Clarissa, not Rosina, was her mother. Mama left me the letters because she did not want me to marry a Mordaunt—because of what happened to poor Rosina—that is all. Rosina died three days after I was born, and that is what strained Mama’s heart, just as Aunt Vida said—or would have said, if only she had felt able to.

But how did Rosina die? Did she take her own life, as I fear? I shall not think of it. I must think of Lucia, and of what I am to do.

I could burn the letters, and tell her that Mr. Lovell refused to hand them over. And say nothing about the tombstone.

And the wills? And Rosina’s marriage certificate? Could I burn those as well?

It almost looks as if Mama believed we had a claim upon the Mordaunt estate. There is a copy of the will Felix made in Belhaven, “in anticipation of my marriage to my beloved fiancée, Rosina May Wentworth,” leaving his entire estate to her. And a copy of Rosina’s own will, made at Nettleford on the twelfth of December 1860, leaving everything to “my beloved cousin Emily Ferrars, in accordance with the sealed instructions to be opened by her in the event of my death”—but no trace of any instructions.

If Felix Mordaunt is still alive . . . But no, Edmund Mordaunt inherited the estate. Felix must have changed his will again before he died.

Unless he really did go mad, like his brother Horace, and is locked away at Tregannon Asylum.

Must I tell Lucia? She is bound to suspect—the thing I will not think of—and then I will surely lose her.

But if our happiness is built upon a lie . . . I am hopeless at deception. She will sense that I am keeping something from her, and press me until I confess, and then it will be worse than if I had told her the truth in the first place.

No; if I try to deceive her, the shadow will come between us, and I will lose her anyway.

But what if I am wrong? Suppose Clarissa was not her mother? If she sees those letters, Lucia will leap to that conclusion, just as I did. I am clutching at straws, I know, but if there is one chance in a thousand . . .

I must try to discover what became of Clarissa—and Felix—before I go back to London. Of course I could ask Henry Lovell to find out—but no, not after telling him I was engaged to a man I have never even met.

If anyone knows, it will be Edmund Mordaunt. Liskeard is only twenty miles off—it cannot be more than half an hour by train. And if Tregannon Asylum is close to the town, I could go there in the morning and still be home tomorrow night.

But even if he is at home, and agrees to see me, I cannot tell him why I want to know, without giving away Lucia’s secret. And I am forgetting those wills. If he has looked up Rosina’s will—supposing there was some sort of claim on the property—he is scarcely going to welcome a Miss Ferrars. Or agree to keep our secret. I think I must go as Lucia Ardent; but no, not without asking her.

L.A. Her initials are on the valise. Laura? Lily? Lucy Ashton. The name just popped into my head.

Of course! I will say that I wish to consult Doctor—what was his name?—Straker, as his patient. Then I can tell him as much as I need to, under a pledge of secrecy. He has known the Mordaunt family all this time; if I throw myself upon his mercy, perhaps I can persuade him to be frank with me. Even if he refuses, I shall be no worse off.

I shall take all of my things with me in the morning; that way, as soon as I have seen Dr. Straker, I can return to London at once.