The Asylum (18 page)

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.