Shivering, I returned to bed and tried to make up my mind about leaving, until Bella arrived with a knowing look and the news that, though it was only half past eight, “Mr. Mardent” would be pleased if I would join him for breakfast in the sitting room.
He was pacing about the room when I arrived, looking even paler than he had the day before, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. But his face lit up when he saw me, and I felt my breathing quicken in response.
“Miss Ferrars, I am delighted to see you looking so much better.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mordaunt. I slept extremely well. And you?”
“Not so well, I’m afraid; I am—not one of the world’s great sleepers. But no matter.”
There was a short silence while we settled ourselves by the fire.
“Tell me, Miss Ferrars, have you decided?—about returning to London, I mean.”
“I thought—perhaps by this afternoon’s train,” I replied, realising, as his face fell, that I was not at all sure it was what I wanted.
“I’m afraid there is no afternoon train on a Sunday. It would have to be this morning at eleven, which would leave you very little time; and in such vile weather . . . Why not wait for Dr. Straker?”
Rain spattered against the window; I thought of how bleak and cheerless Gresham’s Yard would seem on such a day—and all the fogbound, wintry days to follow. Of course, I could leave first thing tomorrow, but to depart only hours before Dr. Straker returned would seem even more pointed.
“I should be very happy to wait for Dr. Straker,” I said, “if you would be kind enough to send another wire to my uncle, just to make sure that—that he knows I am here.”
“I am sorry, Miss Ferrars, but that is impossible; the telegraph office is closed on Sundays. Of course, we could wire in the morning, but I doubt the reply would be here before Dr. Straker.”
“Then I think I should . . .” Instinct prompted me to say “take the first train home tomorrow,” but Frederic had given me his word, and I was here as their guest, with Bella, seemingly, as my personal maid; they would have every right to be offended. But still the idea of waiting for Dr. Straker prompted a cold, clutching sensation in the pit of my stomach.
“I shall stay until tomorrow,” I said at last. “As you say, the weather is too wet for travelling.”
Frederic’s hands, which had been tightly clasped on his knees, relaxed, and his face brightened again. “It rained like this for a week before we lost our house,” I added by way of distraction, forgetting I had not mentioned the landslide. He looked suitably startled and begged me to continue. No one—except my mother—had ever listened so attentively, or for so long. Frederic scarcely spoke, beyond murmurs of sympathy or encouragement, and yet his attention never wavered. When I described my ordeal on the path that night, he shivered unconsciously; I found myself speaking more and more openly as I went on, even disclosing what I had meant to conceal, my misery at Gresham’s Yard, and my dread of another winter there.
A small silence followed, in which we sat contemplating the remnants of a breakfast I scarcely remembered eating.
“I wonder,” said Frederic tentatively, “if that—your unhappiness in London, I mean—might explain your presence here. You say that, in the last days you can recall, you were thinking of wintering abroad. Let us suppose that you actually did set out on a journey of some length; we don’t know when, or where, but you told your uncle not to expect you back until the new year, let us say.
“And then—this is only my hypothesis, you understand—you suffered an accident, or a severe shock, lost your memory—all of it, I mean—and hence your luggage, though you must have retained some money. You outfitted yourself as best you could; perhaps in Plymouth, perhaps before you arrived there. Why you chose to call yourself Lucy Ashton we don’t know—a subliminal awareness, perhaps, that your mind had been badly shaken. It was at Plymouth, I suspect, that you consulted a physician, who in turn recommended you to us. The courage and determination you displayed so abundantly that night on the cliff brought you all the way here, but then the strain caught up with you, in the form of a seizure, which restored most, but not all, of your memory. As I think I mentioned yesterday, if the initial shock was—well, exceptionally frightening—that could explain why there is still a gap in your memory.
“And, if I’m right, we can even account for the telegram Dr. Straker received from your uncle, who, you say, is very much absorbed in his business and—er—not the most observant of men. What he meant to convey was ‘Your patient can’t be Georgina Ferrars because she is travelling abroad’—assuming he knows nothing of the accident, or its aftermath—but to economise on words, as one does with telegrams, he put ‘Georgina Ferrars here,’ with the most unfortunate results. Of course, it is only a theory, but it seems at least plausible, does it not?”
“It is more than plausible,” I said with a deep sigh of relief. “I am sure you are right. I have been thinking myself that the reason I went to Plymouth is because it is near Nettleford; if, as you say, I had lost all of my memory, instinct might still have drawn me to the place where I was born. Thank you, Fr—Mr. Mordaunt; that is such a relief to my mind.”
Our eyes met; I was suddenly, acutely, conscious of his hand resting on the arm of his chair, only a foot away from mine. I lowered my gaze, but my awareness of his hand remained. My breathing faltered; blood rushed to my face. His fingers spread across the fabric, seeming to reach toward mine of their own volition.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Frederic hastily withdrew his hand, even though it had not moved beyond the arm of his chair. I clasped my own hands in my lap and stared at them, willing my colour to subside and looking, I am sure, as guilty as if Bella had caught us in the most flagrant embrace, while she cleared away the dishes, pointedly averting her eyes. Frederic made some banal remark about the weather, to which I replied in kind, addressing myself to the fireplace. It seemed an age before Bella withdrew and I dared to glance in Frederic’s direction, only to catch him glancing at me, looking every bit as flushed and discomfited as I felt. He stirred uncomfortably in his chair, as if preparing to make his excuses and depart.
“Tell me,” I said, casting around for a topic, “I realise I know nothing of what an asylum is really like—how you cure your patients, I mean.” The words had scarcely left my mouth before I remembered that his father had been confined and died here; but then, he had chosen to work as Dr. Straker’s assistant.
“The truth is, Miss Ferrars, that for the most part we don’t cure our patients; all we can do is provide them with the conditions most favorable to recovery. Dr. Straker has come to believe that for the afflictions we commonly see in our voluntary patients—melancholia, nervous exhaustion, inanition, morbid anxiety, and the like—the conventional treatments are largely ineffective. He says that trying to relieve melancholia with mercury, or hydropathy, is like shooting blindfold at a target; if you fire often enough, you are bound to hit it sooner or later, but only by chance. Whereas clean air, kindness, nourishing food, exercise and occupation—and, above all, respite from the cares of everyday life—can only be conducive to healing.
“What we practise here is a form of moral therapy: we encourage every patient to take responsibility for his or her own cure. In my own case, for example, when I feel a bout of melancholia coming on, I know that there is nothing I can do—nothing anyone can do—to forestall it. I can take a glass of wine to ease the oppression, but then I am tempted to take another glass, and another; I can drug myself with opiates, but then I am fit for nothing. My only desire—in so far as I am capable of desiring anything—is to stay in bed and pull the blankets over my head, as I have done all too often, even though I know that it will only make things worse.”