The Asylum

Rosina Wentworth to Emily Ferrars

Portland Place,

Marylebone

10 August 1859

Dearest Emily,

You will scarcely believe what has happened. Clarissa has eloped! With a young man called George Harrington, the one I told you about. She was flirting quite shamelessly with him at the Beauchamps’, but I never dreamt that anything would come of it—I thought she had resigned herself to marrying that horrid dried-up Mr. Ingram—but I must try to tell you everything in order.

On Monday, my father took the early train to Manchester. He was to be away two days, and that same afternoon Clarissa left—as I believed—to spend a week with the Fletchers in Brighton. She took an immense quantity of luggage, even for her, but I was looking forward to having the house to myself, and thought no more of it until my father returned on Friday evening. I was playing the piano in the drawing room when I heard him berating one of the maids; as usual, he did not even look in but went straight to his study.

A few moments later I heard him tramping along the hall; I assumed that he was going out again, but he burst into the room, seized me by the arm, and lifted me right off my feet, waving a letter in my face and shouting, “Where is your sister?” All I could reply was, “In Brighton, with the Fletchers,” which only enraged him more, until I understood that the letter was from Clarissa, telling him that she had run away. He ordered me up to my room to await his summons. By the time Lily brought me my supper, the news was all around the servants’ hall, but she knew no more than I did.

When he called me into his study the next morning, he was his usual cold, implacable self. “Your sister’s name is never to be spoken in this house again,” he said. “Henceforth it will be as if she never existed. And be warned: I will not be embarrassed a second time.” He told me that he had dismissed Miss Woodcroft—did you ever meet her?—without a reference. “I will have no more paid chaperones,” he said. “I have written to your aunt; she will be coming to live here, and you will be in her charge until I find a suitable husband for you. In the meantime, you are not to leave the house: if I hear that you have disobeyed me, you will be confined to your room.”

He did not even raise his voice, but I have never been so afraid of him. I had always assumed—perhaps I mean hoped—that beneath that cold exterior must be

some

feeling for me, but I saw in his eyes that there is none. I am a piece of property, a negotiable security, as he would say, and that is all. It is what poor Mama must have realised, and I am sure it is what she died of. She was a failure as an investment, because she gave him daughters when he wanted sons. And now that Clarissa has run away, he is all the more determined that I, at least, will yield a profit.

He went out soon afterward, and I retreated to the drawing room, too shaken even to open the piano. I still knew nothing of where Clarissa had gone, or why, but a little later I heard the doorbell, and Mrs. Harkness came barging in, with Betsy trailing helplessly behind her. She took great pleasure in telling me that Clarissa had fled to Rome with George Harrington—“

quite

the rake, my dear, and

so

untrustworthy, and

fancy

you not knowing,

all

of London is agog”—until I could bear it no more, and showed her out myself. When I went upstairs, I found the entire contents of Clarissa’s room—clothes, ornaments, bedding, curtains, furniture, even the carpets—heaped in a great jumble on the landing, and the footmen stripping the paper off the walls—“master’s orders, miss”—because she had chosen it, I suppose. Everything was carried off in a cart, to be burnt, for all I know.

I hope that Godfrey is not overworking himself again. I should so love to see you, but I am forbidden all visitors until my aunt arrives. I shall write again as soon as I can.

All my love to you, and to dear Godfrey,

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

19 August 1859

Dearest Emily,

It is even worse than I thought: I am to be a prisoner, and I may not receive visitors or leave the house unless I am manacled, in all but name, to Aunt Harriet—of whom I shall write when I can. She will open all letters addressed to me, and I am not allowed to send anything she has not seen. I shall write you dutiful letters to ward off suspicion—do not believe a word of them, but tell me all your news.

It is Lily’s afternoon off, and she is going to smuggle this to the post. I shall write in earnest when I can.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

7 October 1859

Dearest Emily,

I have not dared to write candidly before this, for fear that Lily would be searched on her way to the post, and then I should be altogether cut off from you. But writing to you with Aunt Harriet peering—sometimes literally—over my shoulder has become intolerable.

All joy withers in her presence; not that there was ever much of it in this house, which seems more than ever like a mausoleum. You would not know to look at her that she is my father’s sister, but they are alike in that regard at least. She is gaunt and boney, and wears her hair, which is the colour of cold ashes—indeed, she

smells

of cold ashes—drawn back so tightly that it makes her look even more like a death’s head. And she dresses only in black: the dullest, drabbest, most funereal shade that money can buy. She has spent her life as companion to Grandmother Wentworth in Norfolk—a fate that would make me feel sorry for anyone else—and reminds me frequently of the sacrifice her mother is making in “sparing” her.

I tried, at first, to placate her, but she would have none of it. I have come to realise that she hates me, simply for being young, and—if I could only escape her—capable of delight. I fear that I am growing to hate

her,

though the worst I have done thus far is to practise Beethoven very loudly, knowing that she dislikes it, but she cannot say so beyond complaining that it gives her a headache, because to ask anything of me would mean that I might ask something in return.

You will not be surprised to hear that, apart from church, I have not left the house for weeks. My aunt announced when she first arrived that she would accept invitations from those she considered respectable. But wherever we went, she hovered at my side like a gaoler. And, of course, everybody wanted to know about Clarissa, and no matter how tactful the allusion, my aunt would fix the enquirer with a basilisk stare and change the subject, usually to some question of religious doctrine, and so the conversation consisted mostly of silences. I was pitied by those of our acquaintance who were truly fond of me, and gloated over by those who were not, until it became easier—though that is hardly the word—to refuse.

Apart from your letters, Lily is my only comfort. I divined from the first that my aunt would disapprove of our intimacy, and so I am always very stern with Lily—who acts the timid and downtrodden maid to perfection—in her presence. I used to think Miss Woodcroft a martinet, but now I realise how much freedom she allowed us: a freedom that was, I suppose, poor Clarissa’s undoing. If she had flatly refused to marry Mr. Ingram, my father might have allowed her to wait for another candidate. But she consented, thinking, I suppose—she would never confide in me—that, once married, she could live her own life. And then as the day drew closer, she found that she could not bear it, and there was George Harrington, who was at least young and handsome, however much of a rake he may have been.

I have asked myself many times: if she and I had been close, would she still have run away? So often I felt that I had offended her, without knowing why, and if I ventured to ask what I had done, she would deny that anything was wrong, in the tone that says you have committed a further offence by asking. You once said that you thought she envied me, but I cannot remember

why

you thought so. She was older, she was prettier, she was poor mama’s favourite; she was the centre of attention whenever we had company—but I must not write of her in the past tense. I can only pray that she is safe and happy.

Lily is waiting, so I shall seal this now. If only you could write freely in reply, I would not feel so—but what a fool I am! It has only just occurred to me that you could write to me c/o the post office in Mortimer Street for Lily to collect—if you do not mind the deception, that is. I shall guard your letters with my life.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

3 November 1859

Dearest Emily,

I have terrible news—as you may have guessed, if you saw

The Times

this morning—Clarissa is dead. It happened a week ago yesterday, when she and George Harrington were driving in the hills above Rome—their horse bolted, and they were flung over a precipice, and crushed beneath the wreck of the carriage. The article—it is only a brief paragraph—calls them Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, but there can be no doubt. My father sent for me after breakfast and said, without preliminary, “Your sister is dead, as she deserved. There will be no mourning, and no further mention of her. You may go.” His look said, as clearly as if he had spoken, “Disobey me, and the same may happen to you.”

I do not remember leaving his study, or climbing the stairs; the next thing I knew, I was back in my room, possessed by a dreadful suspicion that he had caused her death. It was only when Lily brought me the paper that the worst of my fears were allayed. Even then I wondered how long he had known, and whether he had told me only because he realised I was bound to find out.

Poor Clarissa! I have not even been able to weep for her. All I can feel is black, smothering despair.

I shall write when I am calmer.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

Tuesday, 17 April 1860

Dearest Emily,

It was such a joy to receive your letter, and to know that dear Godfrey is recovering his strength at last. Nettleford sounds enchanting—I am sure that you could not have found a better place. I should dearly love to visit you, but my father would never allow me to travel without Aunt Harriet, and I would not inflict her upon you for the world.

I know that I have said very little of myself, all these long months, but I did not want to burden you with my woes whilst you were so anxious about Godfrey. The piano, as always, has been my principal refuge: I play for hours at a stretch and have learnt most of my favorite pieces by heart, so that I seldom need a score. And Lily’s reading is much improved, though we have had to conceal the fact that I am teaching her, both from my aunt and from the other servants. But time hangs very heavily. The only exercise I have is pacing up and down my room, and yet I have grown thinner; I am often hungry, in that sick, costive sort of way, but all appetite dies in my aunt’s presence. And the shadow of Clarissa’s death is everywhere about the house, all the more darkly because I am forbidden to speak of her. So often I resented her sulks and her ill-temper; how I wish now that I had been more forgiving!

It has only just occurred to me that she and George Harrington might have been married in truth. Aunt Harriet dwells constantly upon the wickedness of those who live in sin, and plainly delights in the idea that Clarissa has gone to eternal torment. She finds a hundred ways of alluding to it, without ever mentioning Clarissa by name. But I will not believe in the God she worships. She has made him in her own image: cruel, petty, vengeful, taking pleasure in the punishments he inflicts. Even if such a being existed, it would be wrong to worship him. I still say my prayers, but I have no sense of any answering presence. Perhaps I never did.

I confess, indeed, that I have sometimes envied Clarissa, and thought: better a few weeks’ perfect happiness (as I pray she found), a brief moment of terror, and then blessed oblivion, than dragging out my days in this gilded cage. Mary Traill used to say how much she envied

me,

living in such a grand house; yet I have come to understand that I have nothing. My father owns even the clothes on my back, and if he chose, he could throw me into the street to starve.

Since Clarissa’s death, he has altogether ceased to entertain; he dines out most evenings, breakfasts early, and is usually gone by the time I come down. He no longer keeps a carriage, and has dismissed his butler and all but two of the footmen. Naylor, his new valet—a most unpleasant young man with a perpetual sneer—is now effectively in charge of the household. He (Naylor) is stooped and boney, with disproportionately long arms, and moves in a kind of lunging, spiderish fashion; Lily says that the maids all hate him but dare not show it.

But I have not yet said what is uppermost in my mind. The truth is—even to write it makes me feel as if I am looking over a precipice—I mean to run away. In six months’ time I shall be of age, but that may be too late. I know, all too well, the sort of man my father will choose for me, and if I wait until he presents me with my fate, and then refuse him, I shall be still more closely guarded. He may even try to starve me into submission—I have read of such things. My only hope of escape, so far as I can see, is to find a situation—as a governess, or a piano teacher, or—anything that will enable me to earn my own living. But

how

am I to do this, without my father or my aunt finding out? If there is anything you can suggest, I shall be eternally grateful.

I shall seal this now, before my courage fails me, and Lily will take it to the post later on. She has a sweetheart nearby—he is a footman in Cavendish Square—and contrives to snatch a few moments with him on these excursions.

All my love to you, and to dear Godfrey,

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

25 April 1860

Dearest Emily,

I have shed so many tears of joy over your letter that the ink has run all over “there will always be a home for you at Nettleford.” It is so generous of you to offer to come up to London and be my chaperone for the journey, and there is just a chance that my father will agree to let me go without Aunt Harriet. It seems that Grandmother Wentworth’s health is failing; my aunt’s way of putting it is that she has been forced to neglect her duty to her mother in order to fulfill her duty to me. The truth of the matter is that Grandmother will not have me in the house, in case I might rattle a teacup, or cause a floorboard to creak, or—worse still—speak above a whisper.

So yes, if you are quite sure, do please write to my aunt. I do understand that I must return as soon as I am summoned; I did not realise that my father could have me brought back by force. And you are right to remind me that as a governess or a companion, I would be at the mercy of strangers, especially if it became known that my father had disowned me. I promise to be quiet and to do nothing rash.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

30 April 1860

Dearest Emily,

Alas, my hopes have been dashed. Aunt Harriet says that she could not dream of burdening you with such a heavy responsibility (meaning, I fear, that she does not trust you to keep me under lock and key at all times), and that in any case it would not be seemly for me to visit you whilst my grandmother is ill. So I must try to resign myself to another six months’ imprisonment—it seems an eternity. How I shall endure it I do not know.

I will have, at least, something of a reprieve when my aunt goes down to Aylsham in a fortnight. My father is engaged in some new venture, and is here even more seldom than usual.

I shall try to sleep now, and hope to dream of you and Nettleford and freedom.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

Monday, 7 May 1860

Dearest Emily,

Aunt Harriet has been called away to nurse Grandmother Wentworth, who has taken a turn for the worse; it seems she is dying at last. I sincerely hope that she will be as slow about it as she possibly can, for all her professed eagerness to meet her Maker. I could have danced a jig in the hall as the carriage drove off, but restrained myself.

Of course, my aunt made a great fuss over who is to chaperone me and said she must speak to my father; but by a stroke of good fortune, he was away in Manchester when the news about Grandmother arrived, and he did not return until after she had gone. So it was left to me to tell him what had happened. He said nothing of chaperones, so it seems that I am to be left to my own devices while Aunt Harriet is away. Perhaps all these interminable months of being quiet and dutiful have helped to allay his suspicions: he goes back to Manchester this afternoon and will not return until Friday.

At any rate, I shall have the house to myself for the next three days and can play the piano as loudly as I like!

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Portland Place

Thursday, 10 May 1860

Dearest Emily,

These last three days have been the most extraordinary of my life. I have met—but I must restrain myself, and tell you everything from the beginning.

My elation at Aunt Harriet’s departure did not last. I woke early the following day and stood gazing out of my window, feeling as much a prisoner as ever. It was a perfect spring morning, crisp and bright, and the thought of being shut away all summer was suddenly intolerable.

Then it occurred to me that my aunt had not actually forbidden me to leave the house in her absence. Naylor was in Manchester with my father; the maids all loathe Aunt Harriet, and they would surely not betray me. I do not trust the footmen, but when Naylor is not here to chivvy them about, William and Alfred spend most of their time playing at cards in the boxroom. And so as soon as I was dressed, I went downstairs, meaning to slip out for an hour before breakfast; Lily was to bolt the door behind me and watch for my return from the drawing-room window. But as I was about to leave, I saw several cards on the tray—my aunt must have been too distracted to notice them—including an invitation to take tea in Mrs. Traill’s garden that very afternoon, with “Do come—I should so like to see you—Mary” pencilled on the back.

I had not seen Mary T. since Clarissa eloped; we were never intimate friends, but as I stood holding that card, all the loneliness and misery of these long months seemed to press in upon me, and I felt a great upwelling of anger against Aunt Harriet and my father. Why should I, who had done absolutely nothing wrong, be punished for poor Clarissa’s sins?—as if her death had not been punishment enough? Was it not monstrous of my father to seek vengeance upon his own daughter, even beyond the grave? Why should I owe such a man anything in the way of duty or respect, when I was bound to him only by fear? I resolved in that moment to accept Mary’s invitation. In the unlikely event of my aunt’s finding out, I would play the innocent: “But Aunt Harriet, I assumed you had left it up to me to reply; I thought it only polite to attend.” Besides, what more could they do to me?

And so instead of going out myself, I scribbled a note to say that I should be delighted to come so long as nobody asked me about Clarissa, and I sent Lily off to Bedford Place to deliver it. She had not been gone five minutes before misgivings came crowding in. There was, indeed, a great deal more they could do to me. My father could take away my piano, which, like everything else I regard as “mine,” is not really mine at all. He could keep me locked in my room until I came of age—perhaps even beyond that. He could dismiss Lily, and engage some coarse, brutal woman to be my gaoler. Or send me to Grandmother Wentworth’s house in Aylsham—which he would inherit—and have me kept prisoner

there.

I asked myself what

you

would advise, and I heard you saying, as clearly as if you were in the room: “Be patient; do not provoke your father’s wrath; resign yourself to another six months’ confinement; come to us at Nettleford when you are of age, and apply for a situation when you are safely here.” I made half a dozen attempts at another note, pleading a headache and asking Mary not to call as I was forbidden visitors, but a hard, stubborn knot of resistance prevented me from giving my whole heart to the task. I saw months—years—of captivity stretching before me like an endless desert; and how would I ever summon the courage to defy my father, if I dared not even pass the front door in his absence?

I was still vacillating when it came time to dress, which threw me into another dilemma: would the Traills expect to see me in mourning, which my father had forbidden me to wear? In the end, I chose a very dark grey, and set off in a state of deep foreboding. I can only think now that some good angel—some prescient instinct, at least—was urging me onward—but I must not run ahead of myself.

Just to be out of doors again was quite overwhelming. My aunt always insists upon a closed carriage, and so I had not set foot in the street since last summer. The hubbub of voices sounded extraordinarily loud, the colours dazzlingly bright, the smells so strong that at first I feared I might faint. I had meant to arrive early, so as to have a little time alone with Mary, but three o’clock was striking when we turned into the square, and as we approached the house, my nerve failed me altogether. I told Lily to go on and say that I had been taken ill, but she would not have it. “You’ve been cooped up too long, miss, and you ought to see your friends while you’ve the chance; you know it’ll do you good.”

I had assumed that there would be no more than a dozen guests, but when I was shown through onto the terrace, I thought half of London must be there: the lawn was a sea of elaborate gowns, bobbing with hats of every imaginable colour, and not a single face I recognised. If Mary had not come up to greet me, I should have turned tail and fled; she wanted to introduce me at once, but I pleaded to be left alone until I had collected myself. I accepted a cup of tea and moved away as soon as her back was turned, picking my way around the edge of the crowd until I came to a massive oak, standing close by the wall, and slipped into the shadow of the trunk.

There I must have remained for ten or fifteen minutes, sipping my tea and gazing at the spectacle, until I became aware of a man—a young man—hovering on the path a few paces away from me. I thought at first glimpse that he might be a Spaniard, because his hair was jet-black, thick and glossy, and his complexion had a faint olive glow to it. He was not especially tall, but perfectly proportioned, plainly dressed in a dark suit with a soft white shirt and stock, and a mourning band on his arm. As our eyes met, he smiled warmly, and seemed about to speak, but then his expression changed to one of embarrassment, followed by another, more tentative smile.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, approaching. “I mistook you for someone else. Felix Mordaunt, at your service.”

He was, indeed, extraordinarily handsome. I could not help smiling in return as we introduced ourselves.

“I take it that you prefer to observe, rather than to be observed, Miss Wentworth.”

“Well, yes; I have not been out of doors for many months, and was not expecting such a grand occasion. It is all rather daunting.”

“I quite agree,” he replied—though he seemed entirely at ease—“especially as I don’t know a soul here.”

“But surely you must know the Traills?”

“Well, no, I have only just met them. Our families are distantly related by marriage, you see, and I thought—or, to be truthful, my brother thought—that I should pay my respects whilst I was in London, and this invitation was the result.”

“You do not live in London, then?”

“No, Miss Wentworth. We have an estate in Cornwall; my father has lately died, and I am in town to see about his will.”

I realised, as I murmured my condolences, that I did not want to speak of Clarissa, and contrived, without telling any positive untruths, to imply that I was an only child recovering from a winter’s illness. It turned out that he really had been ill—he did not say with what—and had spent the winter abroad. I told him that I played the piano, and discovered that he, too, loves music, and plays the cello—very beautifully, I am sure, despite his protestations to the contrary. Listening to him talk is like hearing a song perfectly rendered in a nearby room, when you cannot make out the words, but the effect is more sublime than any mere words could convey. And, though I tried not to meet his glance too often, I could not help drinking in every detail of his appearance.

All too soon I saw Mary and her mother coming up the path, and all I could think was to ask how long he would be in London.

“I shall be here at least another week. And you, Miss Wentworth, will you be . . . In fact, do you think I might call upon you?”

My heart was pounding violently, and I had only a moment to think.

“I am afraid my father would not allow that,” I said, “but . . . if it keeps fine, my maid and I will take a turn in Regent’s Park—around the Botanic Gardens—tomorrow morning at about eleven.”

He had no time to reply, for the Traills were upon us.

“Rosina, we have been looking

everywhere

for you,” said Mrs. T. archly. “I see you have already made a conquest of Mr. Mordaunt. But you must come and tell me how you

are;

such a sad time it has been for you.” I caught his questioning glance as Mrs. T. led me away, sick with mortification as I realised what I had done. I had made an assignation with a young man, within moments of meeting him, in a way that he could only construe as wantonly forward, especially when Mary told him about Clarissa, as she was bound to do. He would assume that I, too, was willing to be carried off by a man I scarcely knew, regardless of the consequences.

“You must excuse me,” I said, feeling the heat rush to my face. “I am feeling quite unwell and must go home at once.”

“Nonsense; you are simply over-excited. A cooling drink is what you need. Tell me, how is your dear aunt Harriet?” Mrs. Traill had never, before this, been actively malicious toward me, and I wondered, as I stammered out my replies, if she saw Mr. Mordaunt as a possible candidate for Mary. And when at last I managed to extricate myself, I was bailed up by one acquaintance after another, all of them pointedly not mentioning Clarissa. My face remained scarifyingly hot; beads of perspiration kept trickling out of my hair, and I felt certain that the entire company were talking about me behind my back. And yet I stayed, I confess, in the vain hope that Mr. Mordaunt would come up to me, and that I would somehow—but how?—be able to set things right.

When I could bear it no longer, I went in search of Lily, who had been helping with the refreshments, and left without even attempting to thank Mrs. T. We had passed out of sight of the house, and I was assuring a disbelieving Lily that I was perfectly all right, only fatigued, when I heard footsteps hurrying up behind us. To my astonishment, it was Mr. Mordaunt, rather out of breath and looking, I thought, a little apprehensive.

“Miss Wentworth, forgive me, but I did not want to lose the opportunity of speaking to you again, in case—”

The implication hung in the air between us. I wondered how many people had seen him run after me.

“I slipped out on the pretext of smoking a cigar,” he added, as if answering my thought.

“If you really wish to smoke, Mr. Mordaunt, I do not mind. This is my maid, Lily.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Lily,” he said, bowing. She made him a most demure curtsey, but I could tell that she was smiling to herself. “I don’t in fact smoke, but it seemed—may I walk with you for a little?”

I glanced uneasily around but saw no one I recognised.

“Yes, sir, you may; but if I should ask you to leave us, please do so at once.”

“I quite understand.” He went to offer me his arm but checked himself gracefully, and we set off toward Tottenham Court Road, with Lily following a discreet two paces behind.

“The fact is, Miss Wentworth, I was very sorry to be snatched away from you like that. It seemed to me, from the few glimpses I caught, that you did not enjoy the rest of the afternoon any more than I did, but I was given no opportunity to speak to you again. Is Miss Traill, may I ask, a close friend of yours?”

“Not close, no; I thought of her as a friend, but now . . . Did she, by any chance, speak of my sister?”

“I’m afraid she did, yes, and in a less than generous spirit. All I can say, Miss Wentworth, is that I was—I am—deeply sorry to hear of your sister’s death.”

“You will understand, I hope, why I find it hard to speak of poor Clarissa. My father forbids all mention of her.”

“I am very sorry to hear it. By a strange coincidence, I was in Rome myself last winter and heard talk of a young English couple tragically lost in an accident—but forgive me, Miss Wentworth; I should not have mentioned it.”

“You needn’t apologise,” I said. “It is only that—I was not even allowed to weep for her.” My tears overflowed, and he stood awkwardly by while Lily fussed over me; she seemed to understand that he was not to blame. When I had collected myself, he offered me his arm, and this time I took it.

“This—Clarissa’s disgrace, as everyone else regards it—is why I have not been out of doors for so long,” I said.

“I cannot think of it as disgrace. I can scarcely imagine what it must be like for a spirited young woman to be so closely guarded. In your sister’s place, I should certainly have run away.”

I looked at him in surprise and gratitude; I had never heard such sentiments from a man before, and it emboldened me to speak openly of the long months of confinement, and of my yearning to escape to you at Nettleford, find myself a situation, and be free of my father’s tyranny forever. He listened closely, never seeking to bring the talk back to himself; I was conscious all the while, even through my glove and several layers of fabric, of the movement of my hand against his arm. All too soon—again—we were turning into Langham Street.

“You must leave me here,” I said, “and return to make your farewells, if only for my sake. They must think you have smoked a whole case full of cigars.”

“I shall indeed. But you will still come to Regent’s Park in the morning?”

“I cannot promise. But if I can, I will; I cannot say exactly when.”

“Then I shall happily wait all day—and the day after, if necessary—in the hope of seeing you there.”

With another captivating smile, and a bow to us both, he turned and strode off the way we had come.

“Mr. Mordaunt is a charming gentleman, is he not, Lily?” I said as we walked up Portland Place.

“Yes, miss, very charming indeed. But you must be careful, miss. Men—even gentlemen—will take advantage if—well, if you encourage them. And if your father were to hear of it . . .”

I could scarcely deny encouraging Mr. Mordaunt. “I know, I know; I promise to be careful. But I must see him again.”

She looked at me fearfully.

“But then you’ll crave to see him even more, miss. And what if your father comes back sooner than expected? Naylor’s always on the lookout; you’ll be caught for certain.”

“All I want, Lily, is a quiet hour or two’s conversation with Mr. Mordaunt tomorrow; if we wish to communicate after that, we shall write to each other, in the same way as I write to my cousin. But you are quite right; I had better not be seen. Is there a way of getting in and out of the house

without

being seen?”

“Not for you, miss, no.”

“But for you, Lily? I promise, on my heart, to keep it a secret.”

“Well, miss, I’m friends with one of the maids next door; she has the attic room along from mine, and sometimes we open our windows and talk. The roof’s not so steep, and there’s a bit of a ledge, so I

could

creep across and get in her window—not that I’ve done it, mind—”

“But then you would have to go down through the house.”

“Yes, miss, but the family’s away; there’s just the maids and the housekeeper on board wages. Only

you

couldn’t do it, miss; your gown would be all over smuts, and they’d be bound to talk—and how would you get in again?”

“Yes, I see. Well, supposing, tomorrow, you were to let me out when the coast is clear, and then say I am in bed with a headache? And then when I come back, I can say I felt better, and slipped out for a short walk—or you could watch for me from my window and run down and open the front door. I shall make it up to you, I promise.”

“And what if you don’t come back, miss? What would I do then?”

“Lily, I am not going to run away with Mr. Mordaunt after two days’ acquaintance.”

But even as I spoke, I remembered the warmth of his arm beneath my gloved hand; I imagined meeting his eyes—which are a deep, luminous, autumnal brown—and not having to look away. Was this how Clarissa had felt?

“What I meant, miss, was if you didn’t come back, I shouldn’t know what had become of you, so I should have to tell someone.”

“Lily, you surely don’t think Mr. Mordaunt capable of abducting me? From Regent’s Park?”

“No, miss, but he might persuade you to go somewhere private. You don’t know what any man’s capable of, till you’re alone with him. I don’t mean my Arthur, miss; he’s always good to me, but . . .”

I looked at her questioningly, but she said no more.

My elation at seeing Felix Mordaunt again was succeeded by a restlessness, the like of which I had never experienced. I could not settle to anything, even the piano, and went up and down stairs a dozen times, feeling I could not stand another day of captivity, let alone six months of it. I went to bed early, hoping to sleep the time away, but I was pacing my room again five minutes later, caught in a whirligig of contrary emotions. What if he was an accomplished seducer, who amused himself by preying upon foolish young women like me? I imagined him boasting of his latest conquest, or even making sport of me when he returned to Mrs. Traill’s party; I relived every detail of my humiliation there, and my face burnt more fiercely than ever. My father was bound to find out, and I should be locked away forever, as I deserved.

But then, in the depths of mortification, the image of Felix—it sounds terribly forward, but you will understand, in a little, why I speak of him thus—would come back to me in all his beauty and sunny openness, and my distrust would blow away like so much shredded paper, and all I could think was that I

must

see him again, no matter what the cost.

And so I passed one of the longest nights of my life, tossing between dread and longing. My mattress seemed to consist entirely of lumps; I would grow suffocatingly hot, and throw off the clothes, and then find myself shivering with cold. I was compelled several times to go and stand at my window in case Felix should be gazing up at me from the street, knowing that the idea was quite mad, but unable to restrain myself. And when at last I did go to sleep, I woke with a dreadful start to find the sun streaming in and Lily knocking at my door, and leapt out of bed in a blind panic, thinking I had slept away the whole morning.

And then, of course, I could not decide which gown to wear—but I shall not dwell upon the agonies of indecision I inflicted upon poor Lily as well as myself. Enough to say that I did manage to escape without being seen, and to arrive, breathless and late, at the Botanic Gardens, and that Felix was waiting, and that one look at his face was enough to dispel all of my fears.

All of yesterday, and most of today, we spent walking and talking, or sitting and talking, in the park. We found a bench in a secluded spot, away from the main walks, and subsisted upon tea and chestnuts from the coffee stall; the weather kept fine and warm, and in all that time I saw nobody I knew. I was vaguely aware that I

ought

to be afraid—mortally afraid—of discovery, but in Felix’s company I became quite fearless. It was like the moment after you have taken a glass of champagne, miraculously prolonged, when you feel the bubbles fizzing along your veins, but your head is still perfectly clear.

You will perhaps have guessed—I pray that you will not be shocked—that Felix has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted. There! I have said it. I know you will be anxious, but consider: Felix and I have spent twelve uninterrupted hours alone together, and how many couples, before they become engaged, can say as much? You will say that I cannot be sure of him; I can only reply that when you see us together, you will understand. There is an affinity between us—he felt it, too, from the moment we met—as if we have always known each other. He has the sunniest, most open countenance I have ever seen in a man. You can follow the play of his emotions from moment to moment—I am sure he would be incapable of deceit (or of pretending to like someone he did not). And he

listens,

which most men are incapable of doing with a woman for more than a sentence—but I am letting my pen run away with me again.

The obstacle is, of course, my father. Felix will have about six hundred a year after the estate has been sold up and divided, as he means to do, with his brothers. He comes of old Cornish stock—his family have held the estate for many generations—but there is a difficulty there, which I shall come to in a moment. And you know how my father affects to despise the gentry, especially those, like Felix, who have no particular occupation: he will want me to marry some rapacious man of business, like that vile Mr. Ingram. Felix insists that he has money enough and does not care about a dowry, only about my being disinherited. He wants to do the honourable thing and call upon my father, but I have persuaded him—or so I trust—that only disaster would come of it. Merely admitting that I went to Mrs. T.’s unchaperoned and met a gentleman there would be enough to have me locked away.

Felix’s lack of occupation, I should say, is not from indolence, but because he is sure that his destiny does not lie with any of the established professions. As you will see when you meet him, he would be utterly unsuited to the army, or the law, and—though I am sure he would preach a very eloquent sermon—he says he could not, in conscience, take holy orders, as there is much in established doctrine that he finds doubtful or even abhorrent. He loves music, as I think I told you—it will be such a joy to play together—and he has written a great many poems. When he first discovered Byron, he was so powerfully affected that he thought

Childe Harold

must have been written especially for him (though nowadays he prefers

Don Juan,

which I have never been allowed to possess—we are going to read it together). For years afterward, his greatest ambition was to

be

Lord Byron: he acquired a black cloak, and used to stride about the moors in it, doing his best to look like a tragic hero wrapped in a cloud of gloom.

And, though his disposition is naturally cheerful, he has had much to be gloomy about. There is—again I beg you not to be anxious; five minutes in Felix’s company will set your mind at rest—there is a disposition toward melancholia, and sometimes even madness, in his family, especially upon the male side. His mother died when he was ten years old, worn out, Felix believes, by the strain of living with his father, who could not bear to be crossed in the smallest particular. His father’s temper was uncertain at the best of times, and when the fit was on him, he could be very violent: he disinherited his eldest son, Edmund, for trying to have him certified insane, and then the second son, Horace, for marrying without his consent, which is why Felix is determined to share with them. He says that if his father had not been carried off by a seizure, he would have been disinherited in turn, and the whole estate would have gone to some distant relation in Scotland. Poor Horace is presently confined to an asylum after a complete nervous collapse—all the more distressing because he has an infant son.

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.

“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