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Chapter X

Posted on Sunday, 10 September 2000

Excerpt from letter to Miss Catherine Morland from the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney, dated 4 December.

As you can see, my sweet, I am back at Woodston, I think for the winter. While I truly enjoyed the company of my friends, I confess that all the traveling back and forth to Hertfordshire has been tiring, and that it is good to be home. It would only be better if you were here. The drawing room is still cold and empty and waits for its mistress to fit it up. I know you will do so charmingly, my love. Perhaps by spring, when the apple-trees are in bloom, you will be here to see them. I miss you and think of you constantly, as I hope you think of me. Your letters are my joy and my consolation.

We are settled here very comfortably at Mr. Hurst's house in Grosvenor-street and mean to stay here through the winter. My brother Charles remains in town as well, although he is an inmate at Mr. Darcy's very elegant town house, along with Miss Darcy. She is such a delightful girl! If you were to meet her, Jane, you would love her as Louisa and I do. And so accomplished! She plays the pianoforte so beautifully, and her voice is so sweet! We have been much at Mr. Darcy's house, as you can imagine, and have spent a great deal of time with her. I believe my brother is growing quite attached to her as well, and Mr. Darcy looks upon the match with great approbation. Louisa and I greatly look forward to a time when we shall call Miss Darcy our sister, and I venture to predict that time is not far off. I have rarely seen Charles so happy as he is now. But who would not be happy, an inmate in Mr. Darcy's home? It is in the first style of elegance, and his plans to order new furniture for the drawing room have me in raptures. However, Charles directs me to express his regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country. Louisa sends her best love.

I cannot account for Caroline's silence! You know I wrote to her from Longbourn to tell her I was coming to town. I have now been here a week and have not heard from her. It is all so very strange! But I suppose it is possible that the letter was lost by some mischance. My aunt is going to-morrow into that part of town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street.

I called in Grosvenor-street yesterday as I planned, and was fortunate enough to find my friend at home. I did not think Caroline in spirits, but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. I enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy, that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall soon see them here.

Excerpt from letter to the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney from Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, dated 20 January.

We continue here in town as comfortably as ever. The only thing missing in our felicity is the presence of our old friend Tilney. I understand that your nice sense of duty dictated your presence in your parish at the Christmas season, but surely now you may join us? We are engaged nearly every evening. Can I tempt your with the promise of balls and the theatre and musical evenings? If not, I confess I quite despair of you. Bingley, as you might guess, is enraptured by the beauties of London, and I speak not of parks and edifices. Nay, despite your concern for his heart, I am confident that Miss Jane Bennet has not made a permanent mark upon it. He speaks of returning to Netherfield, but I have so far been successful in discouraging such schemes. The longer he stays away from Longbourn, the better it is for him. You know how it is with Bingley -- out of sight, out of mind. Jane Bennet will soon be forgotten, like the endless parade of beauties before her who captured his affections. Your kind inquiries after my own heart are much appreciated but misplaced. Like Bingley, I suffered no permanent injury from my acquaintance with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Indeed I rarely spare her a thought.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Miss Jane Bennet, dated 1 February.

My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better judgment, at my expence, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me, but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the mean time. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal, apology for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it, I need not explain myself farther; and though we know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet it should seem by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy: your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.

Excerpt from letter to the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney from Mr. Charles Bingley, dated 15 February.

My hasty remove Netherfield necessary but regrettable. My business town needed my attention and I must stay. Only regret my acquaintance Miss Bennet cut short. She such a (blot) young lady. I have not known any girl like her before. Did not you (blot) her the loveliest lady ever beheld? She danced with such grace and elegance. And her figure--well, one can only say was (blot). Suppose not compare to Miss M. but must allow my partiality. I think about her often--Miss B., not Miss M.--and the way her hair (blot) in candlelight. No ladies in town with (blot) like hers! Hope you come to town. Would like to talk about Miss B. with you. Darcy good friend but such a (blot) that when I speak of Miss B. he changes the subject. Do not pretend to understand.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Catherine Morland from the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney, dated 1 March.

I have had letters from both Darcy and Bingley. Darcy assures me that Bingley has suffered no hurt by his sudden removal from Hertfordshire, but Bingley's epistle can only be termed wistful. Well, I suppose it could also be termed ungrammatical, blotted, and careless, but those negatives serve only to contribute to the charms of Bingley's correspondence. I can hear you now, my sweet one, protesting that I grant my friend indulgences that I censure in your sex. But I said to you once before that I hold it as a truth that ladies write letters no better than gentlemen. I will, however, allow that ladies are more dependable correspondents. Darcy writes letters that I once heard described as "long and charming" but I am afraid they serve only to concern me. Darcy has been privy to our circumstances--has been a sympathetic listener when I have described my unhappiness at being separated from you--yet he can inflict this same pain on Bingley by keeping him away from his own beloved. His behaviour is quite beyond my understanding. Darcy tells me that Bingley thinks not of Jane Bennet but I question his confidence. I confess I am in a quandary, my love. I must trust that Darcy, being on hand, can judge Bingley's circumstances better than I, who remain at such a great distance.

Excerpt from letter to the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney from Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, dated 15 March.

Your concerns about our friend can only do credit to your strong affections, but fear not for him, no matter what he writes. I assure you that he has not mentioned Miss Bennet to me these four weeks. Perhaps he fancied himself in love with her while he was in Hertfordshire but that is all over. We must congratulate our friend on the safety of his affections and his fortune. Tilney, you saw Miss Bennet yourself. She showed no symptoms of particular regard toward Bingley. She welcomed his attentions, naturally--what young lady would not?--but I saw no more true regard in her mien than did you. Is this not true? You, whose heart has been captured, are eager to confer the same felicity upon your friends. We must be grateful for such kindness, but do not credit an attachment where there is none. Knowing his warm heart, would you have Bingley forced by honour into a loveless marriage with a woman who is cold to him? I know you could not be so cruel. -- I leave in a few days for Kent to make my annual visit to my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Naturally I shall pass your compliments to her toad-eating parson as I know you are such old friends. Direct correspondence to me at Rosings Park for the nonce. I hope to make the stay as short as possible. My cousin Fitzwilliam accompanies me so all the company shall not be uncongenial.

Excerpt from letter to the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney from Miss Eleanor Tilney, dated 10 April.

I have a piece of news for you that I am sure you will find surprising. I am to be married. I know what you are thinking, dearest Henry--how could your sister marry anyone other than John White, whom she has declared to be the only man she could love? Let me explain. I marry John, who is no longer a mere Mr. White but has become Viscount Whiting through the premature death of a second cousin. The title brought with it a large fortune and an estate, Windlestrae, which is only twenty miles from Woodston. His first action after learning of his accession was to visit my father and ask for my hand in marriage. Oh, Henry, could my felicity be any greater? -- to be John's wife, and to be so near you? We are to marry the fifth day of May. I know you will forgive the nature of this letter, dearest, dearest Henry. My thoughts fly in a thousand directions--but the foremost was that I must share my joy with you.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Jane Bennet from Miss Elizabeth Bennet, dated 12 April.

Less than a week and I shall be with my dearest Jane. I have enjoyed visiting Charlotte here in Hunsford, and seeing her content, but how I have missed you! I hope we shall have a chance to talk together--but I suppose my aunt will have many engagements planned for us. She is always so kind that way. What news I have to impart can wait until we are at Longbourn. I am sure that London will provide us with many other diversions before we are to go home. Expect Maria and me in Gracechurch-street in time for dinner Saturday.

Excerpt from letter to Miss Catherine Morland from the Rev. Mr. Henry Tilney, dated 20 April.

Eleanor is to be married, to Viscount Whiting of Windlestrae. I know you must be surprised, but I hasten to add that her partiality to his lordship is not of recent origin. He is a friend of mine from Oxford, though when I knew him he was simply John White, a son of the untitled branch of the Whitings. He met Eleanor when I invited him to pay a visit to Northanger one summer while I was a fellow. A law student, however fine his connexions, did not satisfy the General's nice requirements for Eleanor's prospective husband as to situation and fortune; thus he was unable to secure her hand, though he won her heart. However, the untimely death of a cousin has elevated him to the peerage and a fortune. My sweet, we must rejoice for Eleanor. My only regret is that I shall not be present at their joining. The old vicar died a few months ago, and the General has not named his successor, so Mr. Taylor shall perform the ceremony in his capacity as a long-time friend of the family. Despite Eleanor's warning, I think I shall ride over to the church on the appointed day. The General cannot bar me from the church.

Chapter XI

Posted on Sunday, 10 September 2000

Henry dismounted outside the church and tied the horse's reins to a rail near the water-trough. He could see the General's chaise at the church gates, some distance in front of him; a footman opened the door and helped the General step down. The General waved the footman away and turned back to give his hand to his daughter. Henry hung back, not wanting to cause a commotion if the General were to see him before the ceremony began.

Even from that distance, Eleanor was radiant. She wore a silk gown, white as always, simple yet elegant in style, and a straw hat with white ribbons that tied beneath one ear. She carried a bouquet of spring flowers, their bright colours as joyous as the bride's face. The General bowed low, then offered her an arm. As she turned away from the chaise, she caught sight of her brother, watching her with a proud, loving smile. Unprepared to see him, she gasped aloud; the General's eyes followed hers and his self-satisfied expression melted into anger.

No avoiding it now, he thought grimly, and walked up to the gate, reaching it the same time as the General.

"You are not welcome here," the General said haughtily, barring the gate with his body.

"You cannot deny me," said Henry quietly. "In this house," indicating the church, "you are not the master."

"Father," protested Eleanor, pulling at the General's arm, "let him come in. I want him there. It is my wedding day, sir, surely you will grant me this indulgence?"

The General's face softened and he smiled down at his daughter. "Very well. I can deny you nothing today, my child, when you have made me so happy and proud." He glanced back scornfully at Henry, sniffed audibly, and stood away from the gate. "You'll wait here till we go in," he added, and Henry nodded agreement.

Eleanor smiled at him and again took her father's arm, and they proceeded into the church. Henry waited a few beats and followed, slipping into the rear pew. The small church contained few people, and nobody seemed to notice him except Mr. Taylor, already in his place at the gate to the chancel, who caught Henry's eye and nodded to him with a smile. The arrival of the rector of Woodston surprised him not at all.

The General placed his daughter's hand into Lord Whiting's and added an obsequious little bow that made Henry roll his eyes in disgust. Good Lord, he cannot even be joyful that his daughter marries where she loves; he cannot see past Whiting's title.

His disgust soon dissipated in the beauty of the ceremony. His heart was full of joy for his sister, for the happiness in her eyes as she lifted them to her groom, for the smile that graced his lordship's handsome face as he gazed back at Eleanor. They had waited long, had Eleanor and John, and had loved one another truly, and today that faith and love would have their reward.

When the newlyweds and their witnesses went to sign the register, Henry left the church, mounted his horse, and rode toward Northanger at a gallop. He knew that he did not have to tell Eleanor where to meet him. He had a wait, however; the General must have importuned her to greet the assembled guests, mostly mere acquaintances whom the General wished to impress by presenting them to his newly-titled daughter.

But she did come, to the shady, damp, cool path that had been their mother's favourite walk. He heard her before he saw her, heard her rushing feet, heard her cry his name, and then Eleanor flung herself into his arms.

They held one another for a long moment, then Henry released her and inspected her, smiling. "Well, your ladyship, you look every inch the Viscountess!"

"Oh, Henry! Surely you are not going to use my title!" Eleanor was truly anxious. "Father could not wait for me to sign the register before he was calling me 'your ladyship.' I hate it. I just want to be Eleanor, and be John's wife."

"Dearest Eleanor! Forgive me. After all the time we have been separated, as soon as I see you I fall into my old, regrettable habit of teasing you, when I should be congratulating you. Your scruples do you credit, but do not forget that without your title, you could not be John's wife." He lifted her chin with his hand. "Your dress and your title are very fine, my love, but the most beautiful thing about you today is the joy in your eyes. I wish you and Whiting every happiness." He kissed her cheek.

A single tear ran down Eleanor's face as she whispered, "I thank you, dearest, dearest Henry!" They embraced again, and then Lord Whiting's voice was heard calling his wife.

"I am down here, my love," she called, wiping her eyes.

The Viscount came into view, pushing a few impertinent branches out of the way. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Henry, with a trim figure and long legs that perfectly displayed his closely-fitted coat of blue superfine and dove-coloured pantaloons. He carried his hat, revealing well-cut, pomaded fair hair, carefully brushed into the latest style.

"Good heavens, Whiting," said the very impressed Henry. "You are looking prosperous! Quite the contrast from the last time I saw you!" He fingered the lapel of the Viscount's coat appreciatively. "Weston?"

"But of course," said his lordship neutrally. "There are advantages to wealth and a title, my dear Tilney, and I plan to take full advantage of them." He smiled at his wife. "The first and most important was securing your sister's hand. The rest are just trappings." He lifted Eleanor's gloved hand to his lips.

"Well said, brother," Henry declared. "No one has to know that as a student of the law, you owned a great coat that rejoiced in a mere three capes."

"I shall deny it to my grave," Lord Whiting assured him.

"And the great coat?"

"Given to one of the grooms."

"Excellent." Henry shook his new brother's hand with a smile. "Welcome to the family, my lord. May God have mercy on you."

"As long as the General has had mercy on me, I am content." He paused a moment, then added, "And I am glad you are here, Tilney. You've made Eleanor very happy."

"I dare say not as happy as you have made her, but I could not miss it. I am just glad that the General did not take it into his head that you must be married in town. As it is I can ride home to Woodston tonight."

Eleanor shook her head impatiently. "He wanted the wedding in London, but I protested, and he at last acquiesced." She looked shyly up at her brother. "He has become quite accommodating since my engagement."

"I am sure he has," said Henry dryly.

"Which puts me in mind of something," said Eleanor. She glanced at her husband, who nodded encouragingly. "As I said, Father denies me nothing these days. Please let me--and John--speak to him on your behalf."

"About what, Eleanor?" asked Henry tightly. "The display at the church gate told me all I need to know of the General's mind in regard to my place in the family."

"Perhaps we can at least persuade him to give his permission for you to marry Catherine."

Henry's head lifted and he looked intently at his sister. "Could you do that, do you think?"

"There is no harm in trying. John and I travel to Windlestrae this evening, then on to Brighton tomorrow. If I make him angry, it does not signify. He no longer has power over me."

"Eleanor, my kindest, most generous--" At a loss to say more, Henry simply folded her back into his embrace, making her laugh merrily.

"Come back to the house, then. No time like the present." Eleanor linked one arm through Henry's and the other through her husband's, and led them back to the Abbey.

Inside, a footman answered Eleanor's question with the intelligence that the General was in his study, and the trio approached the study door, which stood partly open. Eleanor raised her hand as if to knock, but stopped when she heard the General's voice ring out in tones of fury.

"No, Taylor, I certainly shall not give my permission for Henry to marry that Morland chit! I owe it to my family's good name, and the memory of my wife, to keep him from making connections that can only be considered disgraceful." Mr. Taylor's voice could be heard murmuring, then the General cried, "No, sir, I do not believe that my wife would have wanted it! Although I told her this would happen when she brought the brat home. He was likely born on the wrong side of the sheets, or the product of some unholy alliance of the lower classes. I predicted that some day he would seek out his own kind, yet for Mary's sake I took the child in, brought him up, gave him everything I would have given my own blood, and this is how he repays me, by allying my name with trash! I will not have it, sir!"

Eleanor, her eyes wide, glanced back at Henry. His face had paled and grown still like a marble carving. He pushed past her, though she tried to stop him, and entered the study.

Mr. Taylor stood by the side of the General's secretary, his head bowed deferentially, while the General glared at him. They did not immediately notice Henry's entrance, but eventually they both turned to look at him. Mr. Taylor's face immediately showed alarm. "Mr. Tilney--" he started, but Henry interrupted him, his eyes fixed on the General's.

"Did I hear you correctly, sir?" he said, his voice low but perfectly clear. "Did I hear you say that I am not of your blood?"

Mr. Taylor again tried to speak, but the General raised his hand to stop him. "No, Taylor, it is time he knew. I took you in, Henry, a foundling, left at the church by God knows whom. My wife brought you home, and I raised you as my own, at her bidding. Were it up to me you would have been sent to one of the cottages."

Henry felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. His vision whirled and buzzed, his heartbeat like a timpani drum, and he was unsure that his legs would continue to support him for much longer.

Mr. Taylor approached him, put an arm around his shoulders, and continued kindly, "Henry, I remember when your mother brought you home. She had just lost an infant son of her own, and then she found you--it was as if Providence had given her a gift to make up for the child taken away. She always thought so."

Henry, his grief too new to countenance such kind comfort, turned away from Mr. Taylor with a moan of anguish. He yanked the door open and went out into the passage at a near-run. He ignored his sister, who stood weeping in her husband's arms, and the cries of his curate to return. The General stood behind his secretary, his arms folded and his eyes as cold and stern as any opponent had ever seen them on a battlefield.

Eleanor found him in her bedchamber, staring up at the portrait of her mother. He had dragged a chair in front of the portrait and slouched there, long legs sprawled out in front of him carelessly. One hand aimlessly rubbed his mouth, and his eyes held an expression of deep sorrow that pierced her heart. She moved behind the chair and placed her hands on his shoulders.

Henry covered one of her hands with one of his, squeezing gently. "No matter what he says, you will always be my sister."

"And you my brother." She fell silent, stroking his hair and waiting for him to voice his thoughts.

"I look like her, Ellie!" he cried, his pain obvious in the use of her childhood nickname, which she had left behind upon her mother's death. "Everyone says I have the look of the Drummonds!" Eleanor leaned over and kissed the top of his head, comforting him with gestures, as she had no words to do so. "It all makes sense now," he said after a moment. "There were so many things I never understood. I wondered why she was so insistent that I take orders. I once asked her, and she smiled and said it was in payment for a miracle. I suppose she meant that she found me in the church after her infant son died. And when she--when she lay ill, that last day, she called my fa--General Tilney to her and begged him to provide for me as he always had. She did not ask on your behalf, or on Frederick's, and I thought that strange; yet I attributed it to the fever."

"She always loved you," said Eleanor with some emotion. "She loved you, Henry, do not doubt that."

"I would not," he said. "She loved us all. Even General Tilney; she loved him as best she could, as a dutiful wife." He took a deep, ragged breath. "She was one of the best women who ever lived."

Eleanor still stroked his hair. "She was."

Finally he pulled himself from the chair and turned to smile at the Viscountess. "I am glad that this revelation did not come before your marriage. It hurt me so to leave you here alone all these months after my estrangement from the General; to think that it might have been permanent would have wounded me grievously." He held out his arms, and she moved into them, and they held one another tightly.

"I can almost think that Mamma orchestrated it all," said Eleanor. "She left you as my protector, my confidant, and my friend, almost as long as I needed you." She smiled up at him. "Not that I have no further need of you, dearest Henry."

"You have Whiting now. You need no other protector, my love. And we shall see one another often! Windlestrae is so close to Woodston, you shall never be rid of me."

"You must bring Catherine to visit me in my new home. You will marry her now, will not you?" Henry did not immediately answer, and Eleanor pulled herself from his embrace. "Henry Tilney, you will not keep that poor girl waiting any longer! There is no good reason for you not to marry now! You have no need of the General's consent!"

"Then whose consent should I seek?" he asked her gently. "How can I offer myself to Catherine now? I know not what sort of people I come from--the General is correct; my natural parents were in all probability poor and ignorant, and of uncertain character as well. The Morlands would not allow our marriage without the consent of the man whom they thought was my father; how can they consent to allow their daughter to marry a man of unknown birth?"

Eleanor was indignant. "Your natural parents may have been of low birth, but you were raised as a gentleman, given an education--you have a good profession, a fine home, and the assurance of a considerable fortune someday. Any parents worthy of the title should count themselves blessed that you addressed their daughter!"

"Perhaps," he said softly. "But I cannot do it. I cannot disappoint Catherine again, or myself. It is best that she does not know about this until--until I know who I am."

"I know who you are," said Eleanor with a smile. "You are Henry, and that is all that matters." She stroked his cheek affectionately. "Oh! what a Henry you are!"

Henry laughed and kissed her on the forehead. "Thank you, Eleanor. But I must find the truth before I can ask the Morlands for their daughter's hand."

"How do you intend to go about seeking the truth?"

Henry turned back to Mrs. Tilney's portrait and gazed up at it. She looked back down upon her children lovingly. "I am going to Rebecca's cottage. If anyone knows anything, it will be she."

At the edge of the Northanger grounds were ranged a group of small cottages for the use of pensioned servants of the Abbey. Henry made his way to one of them, returning the cheerful greetings of those he met on the way, who fondly remembered the pleasant nature and warm condescension of young Mr. Henry.

He stopped at the last cottage and gently knocked on the door. After a few moments, it was opened by a gray-haired woman whose face split in a delighted if somewhat toothless grin. "Mr. Henry, I declare!" she cried. "It has been months and months since you've been to the Abbey! I suppose you're here for Miss Eleanor's wedding--the Viscountess, I should call her, now."

"She would not like it if you did, Becky," he said, smiling fondly at his old nurse.

"Oh, she's a grand lady now, Miss Eleanor is. I knew she would be, someday. She was meant for it, if you follow me."

"I do, and I agree with you completely." He hesitated, then asked, "May I speak with you a moment, Rebecca?"

"Of course, sir! Come in, come in!" She opened the door wider to permit him entrance, and he went inside. The cottage was neat and clean, if not richly furnished, and Henry felt instantly at peace. He recognized some items from Rebecca's chamber at the Abbey, where he and Eleanor and even Frederick had always run after being scolded by their mother or chastised by the General. It had been a place of refuge to all of them, and in the tiny cottage, Henry felt wrapped once again in that warm comfort that he had always felt in Rebecca's presence.

She was bustling around now, putting water on the fire to boil and spooning tea into a brown pot. "You will take tea with me, Mr. Henry? Of course you will, you always do when you come to visit old Becky. Some bread and butter, too, with butter all the way out to the crust, the way you always liked it." She went off to the tiny kitchen.

He took a seat next to the fire, across from Rebecca's own chair, marked by the presence of a sewing box and a large bag of very small articles of clothing. She was making baby clothes, either for the poor of the parish or for Eleanor, he thought in some amusement. Becky always plans ahead!

She came back in with a tray, and he rose to help her, but she waved him off. "No, no, Mr. Henry. I like waiting on you and Miss Eleanor and Mr. Frederick. It makes it seem like old times." She handed him a cup of sweet, milky tea, and a plate with bread and butter; nursery supper. He smiled to himself at Rebecca's perfect confidence in his preferences being the same that they had been as a boy.

Rebecca sat across from him with her own tea and gave a contented sigh. "It's so nice having you all home. Miss Eleanor was by t'other day, and Mr. Frederick yesterday." She blew on her tea gustily and took a sip.

Henry set down his cup and plate on a small table and asked, "Did you know that I was adopted, Rebecca?"

Her eyes grew wide over the top of the teacup. "He told you, didn't he?"

"Who, Becky?"

The nurse was visibly agitated. "The General! She made him promise not to tell, but he did, didn't he?"

"It was accidental. I overheard the General talking to Mr. Taylor about it." He pulled the crust from the bread and added bitterly, "I was the only one who did not know, apparently."

"You were not meant to know. Mrs. Tilney, may she rest in peace, never meant for you to know, nor Mr. Frederick nor Miss Eleanor. She didn't want you to feel that you were not a part of the family." Rebecca leaned toward Henry and pointed firmly. "You were as much her child as the ones she gave birth to, Mr. Henry. Don't let anyone tell you different."

"I know that," he said, and she nodded and leaned back in her chair, satisfied. "But I have to know," he continued. "I have to know from whence I came. Were you at the Abbey when my moth--when Mrs. Tilney brought me home?"

"I was," she said. "I nursed your brother from the time he was weaned, and you and your sister the same." She sighed. "It was like a miracle. She said the Blessed Virgin gave you to her to replace the baby who died. Your mother always had a bit of the papist in her," she added apologetically. "It came from that French school she went to, you know." Henry simply nodded. Rebecca continued to speak. "They didn't know if Mrs. Tilney would live through the labour. It was early, you know, much too early, and it went on and on for hours. Mr. Frederick just clung to me and cried. He couldn't know what was going on, poor mite, but he knew something was wrong with his mamma. The baby finally came, and he was so tiny--he would practically fit in his father's hand. He lived only a few hours, and they had him buried and gone before your mother could get out of bed. The General--he was only a Colonel then--thought it would help her not to see him, not to know, but the poor thing was wild with grief. She was supposed to stay in bed, but she slipped away one afternoon, nobody knew where she went--we thought she was sleeping, and next thing we knew she came home with this basket with a baby inside it. A fine, healthy little man, all bright eyes and dark curls, a couple months old I guessed. The Colonel didn't want to keep you, not at all, but your mamma was so excited and happy he couldn't bear to disappoint her and send you away."

Henry tried to imagine the General, young and in love with his beautiful wife, tenderly allowing her to keep an unknown child and agreeing to bring it up as his own although every feeling revolted--it was a new aspect of the General, and one he would keep in mind whenever he felt bitter toward the man who had raised him.

"I have something for you." Rebecca rose and went across the room to a large trunk that stood against one wall. "I've saved them for you all these years. I had a feeling you would ask questions one day." She pulled a few things out and set them aside, then finally brought forth a basket and a white wool blanket. She brought them over to him. "This is the basket that you were found in, and the blanket you were wrapped in. I put them aside for you, in case you ever wanted to see them."

Henry took the items in his hands almost reverently. He imagined the scene--his foster mother in the tiny church, weeping and praying for the soul of her dead son, asking the Blessed Mother to relieve her heartache somehow, then hearing his cries, finding the basket--it was so small! Had he once fit in there? He lifted the blanket. My mother knitted this, he thought in wonderment. My natural mother. An unloving mother could not have made such a warm and lovely thing. Both of my mothers touched this blanket, and this basket. He turned the basket over, looking for some sign of the two women who had loved him, and noticed, to his amazement, that there were tiny initials etched in the bottom of it--E.B.

Henry returned to the Abbey just in time to see the Whitings off on their first trip to Windlestrae as man and wife. He embraced Eleanor, ignoring the General's baleful glance; the Viscount extracted Henry's solemn promise to visit them when they returned from their wedding-trip, and at last the chaise rolled away.

Henry put the blanket in his saddlebag and strapped the basket to the saddle. He glanced back at the house, wondering if he should take the coward's way out and simply ride back to Woodston without speaking to the General. But Henry had already stood firm in the face of the General's anger during their exchange after Catherine had been sent away, and with Eleanor no longer an inmate of the Abbey, there was no reason to avoid another confrontation.

The General was in his study, frowning over a letter. He glanced up at Henry's knock on the half-open door, stared at him a moment, then waved at him to enter.

"I wished to tell you that I am returning to Woodston, sir," said Henry in tones of barest respect.

The General gazed up at him steadily. "You wish to retain the living, then? I assure you I have no intention of rescinding it. And you may rest assured as well that all provisions of my wife's marriage-articles regarding your eventual inheritance shall be observed. And you may continue to use the name Tilney. I gave it to you when you arrived in this house, and it remains yours."

The older man's pompous magnanimity grated on Henry. He knew perfectly well that the General had no power to rescind the living even if he wanted to, nor to circumvent Mrs. Tilney's marriage-articles, but for Eleanor's sake, and his foster mother's, he forced out a few words of thanks.

"I do not scruple at telling you that I did not want you in this house, raised with my heir as an equal. But my wife wanted you here, and so I gave her permission to raise you. And I did the best I could for you, Henry. I sent you to Oxford, gave you a good living, built you a parsonage--how many squires would have done half as much, eh? How many fathers, for that matter? Not many men have the power to provide so well for a younger son, let alone an unrelated ward."

"I express my thanks once again for your generosity, sir," said Henry stiffly.

"I did it not for your sake. Make no mistake about that." The General glanced away, a strange expression softening his stern features. "I did it for Mary, and for no one else."

"I also wish to tell you that I still intend to marry Catherine Morland when her parents allow it, or when she comes of age."

The General continued to read his letter, and did not look at Henry. "You are free to be a fool if you like it. I no longer care whom you marry. Neither one of you will have admittance to this house."

No longer able to stomach the General's presence, and afraid of what he might say if he stayed, Henry abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the study.

As he exited the house, a voice called his name, and he turned to see Captain Tilney standing by the doorway. The sight of his foster brother excited all of Henry's wariness; their relationship had never been warm, although in the past few years it had devolved into a kind of grudging tolerance of one another. However, Henry feared that the knowledge of his true situation in the family might awaken the old animosity between them, and he braced for an attack, either verbal or physical.

But Captain Tilney's expression held no animosity. He said, "Henry, I want you to know that, when Northanger is mine, you and your family will always be welcome here."

This was so unexpected that Henry had no words to immediately respond, and Captain Tilney continued to speak. "My mother accepted you as her son, and that is good enough for me. You were raised here, and as far as I am concerned, Northanger is your home and you are still a member of this family."

"Thank you, Frederick," said Henry, all astonishment. He extended his hand, and the other man took it. Captain Tilney nodded and said, "Well, then, goodbye," in a curt, dismissive manner so exactly like the General's that at another time Henry would have found it laughable.

He rode back to Woodston and fell into bed, exhausted from the emotions and events of the day. However, the same emotions that fatigued him did not permit him to sleep, and for the first time, he felt utterly alone in the world. Eleanor had her husband, Catherine was far away, and he had no one in whom to confide. He remembered something and jumped out of bed, lit a candle, and went to his library. He sifted through the untidy jumble on his secretary until he found a letter from Darcy, who had written that he had returned to town and issued yet another invitation to join him. I'll do it, he decided suddenly. I shall go to town and see my friends. And with that thought, he was at last able to sleep.

Chapter XII

Posted on Wednesday, 20 September 2000

The servants withdrew, and Darcy sipped his port and leaned back with a sigh. "Now, Tilney," he said to his friend, who sat gazing morosely into the depths of his own glass, "tell me what weighs so heavily on your mind."

Henry did not meet his eye. "I recently found out that I am not a Tilney, not by blood. I was a foundling. Mrs. Tilney found me in the church near Northanger when I was an infant and convinced her husband to raise me as his own." He swirled the wine around the glass and finally took a sip. "I have never had any affection for the General, so that is no loss, but to learn that everything I have felt and been told since childhood is a lie--I feel as though I am mourning my mother all over again."

"You are mourning the family you had, which is no longer whole. Your mother is dead, you have been cast out, and your sister has married."

"And now I know that I was never really a part of the family," Henry added bitterly.

"That is not true. I only met Mrs. Tilney once, but she left quite an impression upon me. She loved you as her own blood."

"But I am not her blood. I know not who my parents were. How can I expect the Morlands to give their permission for me to marry Catherine now, without knowing my parentage?"

Darcy considered for a few moments. "Had the General made any inquiries into your real parentage?"

"No. He assumed that I was gotten in an unholy alliance, as he called it, and inquired no further into the matter."

"That is the most likely circumstance. But a good squire would know if any of his tenants or servants had produced a bastard or a child whom they could not support. The General may have his faults, Tilney, but even you must admit that he manages his estates very well."

Henry nodded. "That is true. So you think that my parents were not from the villages around Northanger?"

"I think it very likely." He surveyed his friend appraisingly. "I have known you a long time, Tilney. I would say that you must be the son of a gentleman. Perhaps born on the wrong side of the blanket, but a gentleman's son nonetheless. Blood always tells, as my cousin Fitzwilliam says of his horses."

Henry burst out laughing. "You compare me to a horse? Your notion of friendship is strange indeed, Darcy!"

Darcy smiled. "I made you laugh, which was my intention. This grave and gloomy man is not the Henry Tilney I know."

"No, he is not. I shall endeavour to be more cheerful, for your sake. Tell me of your trip to Kent! Did Collins wait upon you? I know how you enjoy his obsequious attentions." He paused a moment, then added, "Did you see Mrs. Collins? Is she well?"

"Mrs. Collins is very well. I think she was happy to have her sister and her friend with her."

"Her friend?"

Darcy took a long swallow of his port and said without emotion, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet was visiting at the parsonage, along with Miss Maria Lucas."

"Indeed! Did you see much of Miss Bennet?"

"Lady Catherine had them to dinner at Rosings Park a few times. And Fitzwilliam and I called at the parsonage occasionally. He seemed to find the company there more pleasant than the company at the great house."

Henry smiled. "And how did you find the company there, Darcy?"

"It was...most congenial."

Henry studied his friend's face, but as usual it showed nothing. Darcy finished his port and rose. "Come, let us join the ladies." He was clearly in no humour for confidences, so Henry let the subject drop for the time being.

They proceeded into the drawing room, where Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley sat over their needlework. Darcy moved behind his sister's chair, placed his hands gently on her shoulders, and whispered in her ear. Henry smiled at the obvious affection between the siblings. Darcy had always been kind to Georgiana, even when she had been an annoying little girl pestering her big brother and his friends. He still marveled over how that tomboyish child had grown into an elegant, if somewhat shy, young woman.

Now Miss Darcy smiled up at her brother and said, "Yes, of course I will play for you, Fitzwilliam!" She put aside her embroidery and sat at the pianoforte. She played a piece by Mozart, one of Henry's favourites, which he suspected Darcy had specifically requested. The light, cheerful piece soothed him, and between the music and the mellowing effects of the brandy thrust into his hand by his friend, he felt his tense muscles relax and his mind empty.

When the piece was finished, they all applauded politely. "Thank you, Miss Darcy," said Henry. "That was a delightful performance. Your brother tells me how much you practice, and it shows in your increased proficiency."

Georgiana blushed at his praise, but she had known Henry a long time and was comfortable with him. Her nose wrinkled and she said, "'Miss Darcy'? Why do you no longer call me 'Georgiana'?"

"Why do you no longer call me 'Henwy'?" he teased her, imitating her childhood lisp. "I shall tell you why, because you are a grown-up young lady and the mistress of this house, so I must call you 'Miss Darcy'."

She laughed. "So when Fitzwilliam marries and brings a new mistress to this house, what shall you call me then?" Darcy looked around at her sharply, but no one noticed.

"I shall address that question when it is necessary to do so, and not a moment before!"

Georgiana laughed, and asked her brother if Mr. Bingley and his sisters would be joining them for tea.

"I believe Bingley is engaged with his sister and the Hursts this evening."

"Miss Bingley means to keep Mr. Bingley busy," said Miss Darcy ingenuously. "I overheard her telling Mrs. Hurst that they must, to keep him away from Gracechurch-street." She looked perplexed. "I know not what she meant by that."

An old memory loosened itself from the back of Henry's brain: Elizabeth Bennet's voice saying, When I am in town, I stay with my aunt and uncle in Gracechurch-street, near Cheapside. He said consideringly, "Do you know if they were speaking of a Miss Bennet?"

"Yes! I remember that Miss Bingley mentioned to Fitzwilliam that a Miss Bennet was staying at her uncle's home on Gracechurch-street, but that was some time ago. Are you acquainted with her?"

"I am." He glanced over at Darcy, who had picked up a newspaper and seemed to be ignoring the conversation. "Darcy, do you know if Miss Bennet is still with her aunt and uncle?"

Darcy did not look up from the paper. "I understood that Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Lucas were to visit in Gracechurch-street for a time on their way back from Kent. I believe Miss Bennet was already with her aunt. I know not if they are still there." He folded back a new page.

She must still be there, mused Henry, if Bingley's sisters mean to keep him away. Aloud he said, "Does Bingley know that Miss Bennet is in town, Darcy?"

"I know not."

"Did you tell him?"

"I did not." Darcy still gave the newspaper the greater share of his attention.

Henry watched him a moment, then said, "I believe I shall pay a call on the ladies at Gracechurch-street. Darcy, would you care to accompany me?"

"I do not consider our acquaintance sufficiently advanced to demand morning calls. And they may already have returned to Hertfordshire."

"Nonetheless, I shall present myself and see. Do you know the number?"

"Miss Bingley does," piped up Georgiana. "She told me that she called there."

Henry smiled at her. "Thank you, Miss Darcy. I shall call at Gracechurch-street tomorrow, but first I shall look in at Hurst's establishment. Besides, I should like to see Bingley. Perhaps he would care to accompany me."

Darcy raised his head and gazed at Henry for a long moment, opening his mouth as if to say something; he paused, clamped his mouth shut resolutely, and returned to the newspaper.

"Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hurst are walked out, but Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are at home," intoned the stately Fosset, and conducted Henry up to the painfully elegant sitting-room.

The ladies eyed him balefully. Mrs. Hurst said in glacial tones, "I am sorry that my husband is not here to receive you, Mr. Tilney, but he is gone to White's, along with Charles."

"I am sorry to have missed him," replied Henry. Polite untruths thus disposed with, he took the seat indicated. "However, I am glad to have found you at home. I understand that the Miss Bennets are presently at their uncle's house in Gracechurch-street. I should like to call upon them and pay my respects; have you the number?"

"I wonder that you find such a call necessary," said Caroline. "Mr. Darcy has not." She snickered and added, "Even with the fresh attraction of Miss Eliza joining the Cheapside party. Though I know not if they are still there."

"I am surprised, Miss Bingley," said Henry, his face perfectly composed. "You and Miss Bennet were so intimate in Hertfordshire that I assumed you would be correspondents."

Caroline flushed and glared at him. "That was an unfortunate acquaintance, and one I have chosen not to continue. I could not countenance Jane Bennet's designs upon my brother."

"I dare say that Bingley had similar designs upon Miss Bennet."

"Oh, Charles is such a simple creature! He knows not his own heart. He has already developed a new attachment here in town," she added archly.

Henry was all astonishment. "To whom?"

"His time as an inmate at Mr. Darcy's establishment threw him a good deal into a certain young lady's company, and they grow quite attached to one another."

"Good Lord! Surely you don't mean Georgiana?" Henry burst out laughing.

"And why not?"

"She is barely sixteen, the merest child!"

"Perhaps to you, but I assure you not to Charles."

Henry tried to consider the matter objectively, as was his custom. Georgiana Darcy perhaps appeared a child to him because he retained the charming memory of a grubby little girl persistently following him and Darcy round Pemberley. But Georgiana was now a handsome young woman--not as pretty as Jane Bennet, perhaps, but with a great deal to recommend her, both in her person and her fortune. And after all, Georgiana was not much younger than Catherine Morland. I suppose it is possible that Bingley has developed a tendre for Georgiana. And naturally Caroline would wish to promote such a match, as it would throw her in Darcy's way.

Miss Bingley watched him with a catlike expression of triumph. At last Henry said, "Nonetheless, I would like to call on the Miss Bennets, if you would be so kind as to provide me with the direction."

"Only if you promise not to tell Charles that Miss Bennet is in London."

"I cannot make such a promise until I have made my own evaluation of the circumstances."

"Mr. Darcy feels as we do. Would you circumvent his desire?"

"Darcy does not think for me, and I will act only in reference to my own opinion. Will you give me the number, madam?"

Caroline defiantly held his gaze for a long moment, then finally looked away. "Very well. I have it in my diary." She crossed to a small writing desk, flipped through a book, and wrote something on a scrap of paper, which she handed to Henry. "Be sure to give Jane our best love."

"Certainly. And I am confident that Miss Bennet shall perfectly comprehend the full worth of the sentiment." He bowed coldly and left them.

Elizabeth rose and moved forward to greet him. "Mr. Tilney!" she cried, holding her hands out to him. "This is an entirely unlooked-for pleasure!"

Henry clasped her hands in his and smiled down at her, startled to realize that he had missed her. How strange! On such a short acquaintance! But he said only, "When I learned that you and your sister were in town, I determined to pay a call. Miss Bingley was kind enough to provide me with your direction."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "I had thought perhaps that Miss Bingley had misplaced the direction, or forgotten it. She has certainly not been here, not since she called on my sister several months ago."

Henry thought it best to change the subject. "How is your sister, and all your family?"

"Very well, I thank you. Jane and Maria Lucas--she is staying with us--have gone out with my aunt to make their final purchases. We return to Hertfordshire tomorrow."

"You will be glad to be home, I am sure. I understand you were visiting the Collinses in Kent before you came here. How does Mrs. Collins?"

"Charlotte is very well." She considered for a moment. "Surprisingly so. She is...happy, I think."

"I am glad."

Elizabeth gazed at him questioningly. "Forgive me, Mr. Tilney, but how did you know I had been in Kent?"

"Mr. Darcy told me."

"Mr. Darcy did?" Elizabeth blushed suddenly, and Henry wondered at it, but then she added, "And may I inquire after your family, and Miss Morland?"

Henry took a deep breath and forced himself to answer civilly. "They are all very well, I thank you. My sis--my sister was married recently."

"How delightful! And will her marriage clear the way for yours, do you think?" She was laughing, unaware of the pain she inflicted.

Henry opened his mouth to say something innocuous, but instead blurted out, "I know not if Catherine and I shall ever marry." Horrified at revealing himself so completely, he rose hastily and said, "Miss Bennet, forgive me. I should not have come here today. I am in no fit humour for paying calls."

Elizabeth stood also and put her hand on his arm to prevent his departure. "Mr. Tilney, I consider you a friend and I hope you consider me one. You clearly are in need of a sympathetic ear, and you have found it. Pray sit here and tell me what has happened. Have you quarreled with your Catherine?"

"No, no, nothing like that." He allowed her to guide him to the sofa, where she sat next to him, her dark eyes steadily on his.

"I told you that Catherine's parents required my father's consent, or the decent appearance of it, before they would allow our marriage." Elizabeth nodded. "Well, it turns out that the General is not my father. I was a foundling, raised by the Tilneys. I know not who my parents were."

"Was there no evidence of your birth family, a note or some such?"

"No. Only the basket in which I was found, and the blanket that wrapped me. My old nurse saved them for me."

"Perhaps they could provide a clue."

"There are initials on the bottom of the basket, but they could be anyone's--my mother's, my father's, a servant's, the basketmaker's." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I know not what to think anymore. Everything I've known and believed these six and twenty years has been proven wrong in a moment."

Elizabeth started. "How many years? May I ask your age, sir?"

"I was six and twenty in August. Or sometime around August. My nurse told me that they had to guess the date of my birth."

Elizabeth stood suddenly. "I thought you and Mr. Darcy were of an age."

"No, Darcy is nearly three years older than I." He watched her pace the room, shaking her head and murmuring unintelligibly to herself. "Lizzy, please tell me, what is it?"

"You said the basket had initials on it. What are they?"

"E.B. Why do you ask?"

Elizabeth stopped pacing and stood in front of him. She reached out and touched his face. "Why did I not notice?" she whispered. "You are just like him!"

"Like whom? Lizzy, I expect sense from you at least!"

Elizabeth gazed down at him, dark eyes into dark eyes, soul into soul, blood calling to blood. She took his hand, swallowed, and said, "Henry, I think I know who your father is."

Elizabeth and Henry determined between them to tell no one of their suspicions until Mr. Bennet's opinion could be ascertained, so when Mrs. Gardiner, Jane, and Maria learned that Mr. Tilney would accompany the young ladies back to Longbourn, they exclaimed in surprise and asked many questions that Elizabeth could not answer. Seeking to escape their well-meaning interrogation, she finally fled to her room; as she prepared for bed, Jane came in and asked her sister if she wished to confide in her. Elizabeth expressed her confusion at the question, and Jane said gently, "Has Mr. Tilney sought your hand, Lizzy?"

"No. Nothing like that. Jane, if I could tell you I would, but this is not my story to tell. When we return to Longbourn, you may have the answers to your questions."

"Very well. I would not ask you to betray a confidence."

Darcy's surprise was equal to the ladies' when Henry told him that he traveled to Hertfordshire the next morning. "What does this have to do with Miss Elizabeth Bennet?"

"I cannot tell you. Perhaps nothing at all."

"You have not--you have not proposed to her, have you?"

Henry was naturally disquieted by such speculation. "Certainly not."

Darcy passed a hand over his face, as if in relief. "You remain faithful to Miss Morland, then?"

"As ever, yes."

"I am glad of it." Darcy did not mention the business again, but when the time came for Henry to leave, Darcy rose early to see him off.

Henry grasped his friend's hand warmly. "I wish I could tell you what takes me to Hertfordshire. If the matter is settled as I think it will be, you will understand. I will write when I have news."

"I trust your discretion, Tilney. You must have good reason for your rectitude. Please accept my best wishes for a safe and pleasant journey."

"I thank you." He mounted his horse and rode to Gracechurch-street. Wrapped up in his own thoughts, he had none to spare for Mr. Bingley, who continued in Grosvenor-street blissfully ignorant of the nearness of the young lady he had favoured not long before.

Henry's horse pranced restlessly as he waited for the last of the ladies' baggage to be loaded into Mr. Gardiner's carriage. The weather was good, the roads in repair, and the party soon found themselves at the town of ----- where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them. They were surprised by Kitty and Lydia Bennet, who had come with the carriage and had ordered a nuncheon from the inn. Those two young ladies were equally surprised to find Mr. Tilney of the party, and Lydia said immediately, "He must be in love with you, Lizzy!"

"Lydia! Hush!" commanded Jane; Lydia remained silent for a moment, then burst forth with a constant stream of village gossip that simply could not wait for Longbourn.

Neither Henry nor Elizabeth ate much of the nuncheon, though Henry quietly paid for it all. The girls piled into the carriage, Henry mounted his horse, and they all set off for Longbourn. Lydia told stories of balls and officers all the way, only pausing to watch Mr. Tilney, admire his seat, and opine that if he were only wearing regimentals, he would not be an ill-looking gentleman at all.

At last they arrived at Longbourn, and Mr. Bennet came out to greet his daughters. He noted Henry's presence with surprise, but welcomed him. Elizabeth had thought it best if she explained the circumstances to her father before Henry spoke to him, and Henry had agreed; thus she whispered in her father's ear and pulled him into the library, while Henry paced nervously outside.

Mrs. Bennet, mindful that Mr. Tilney was great friends with Mr. Bingley, herded the others into the drawing room, where several Lucases were already waiting to greet Maria. At last the library door opened and a pale Elizabeth beckoned Henry inside.

Mr. Bennet stood behind his untidy desk, all his prior joviality gone. "Young man," he said in a low voice, "I know your kind. If you come here to make sport of my private misfortunes, then you are not the man I thought you were."

Henry's face was grave, though internally his emotions were loudly at war. "I know what you must think of me, sir. I confess that I am often guilty of failing to give an incident its due weight. But the loss you suffered, Mr. Bennet--your wife and your son--it staggers me. I know not if I could have borne up under such a strain. And I beg you to believe that I would never find humour in such a circumstance. I could not do so."

Mr. Bennet looked at him keenly but remained silent. Henry felt emboldened to continue. He glanced down at the artifacts that Rebecca had given him. Were they sufficient proof? They had to be; they were all he had. He handed the blanket to Mr. Bennet. "This is the blanket in which I was wrapped when my mother--my foster mother found me. Is it familiar to you, sir?"

The older man inspected the item for a moment. "I remember a blanket like this one," he said. "Elizabeth--my first wife--worked on it for so many nights while she was expecting Thomas." He caressed the knitted wool, holding it to his face a moment, as if remembering the softness of the hands that had fashioned it. "There was as much love as wool in that blanket. She planned for the baby, sewing his gowns and knitting tiny slippers. She was so happy to be a mother." He laid the blanket gently on the desk.

Henry's heart went out to the older man, and the pain in his eyes; how many times he must have been disappointed in the search for his son! No wonder he is not willing to commit himself on the evidence of the blanket. But the basket--it must be proof enough. It must be. "Do you recognize this basket, sir?" asked Henry, proffering it. "I was found in this basket. It has the initials 'E.B.' on the bottom. Those were your wife's initials, were not they?"

Mr. Bennet turned the basket over in his hands for a moment. "I know this basket. It was made by a Meryton artisan, an elderly man of great skill, who died not long after. He would carve the owner's initials in the bottom of each basket, as so many of the women hereabouts owned them, there was no other way to tell them apart. I procured it for my wife soon after our marriage. I thought it might be useful to her when she took food to the sick and poor. She was a good, generous woman, my Elizabeth." He glanced up at Henry. His gaze bore into the younger man searchingly; Henry felt that he was taking his measure somehow, felt the weight of judgment that shone out from the keen, dark eyes.

When Mr. Bennet finally spoke, his voice was quiet, without a trace of its usual ironic tone. "You have a look of your mother," he said. "Around the mouth, and the planes of your face. And you have her hair, so fine and yet so abundant. I do not know why I have not noticed it previously. I have been searching for you these six and twenty years, looking for my lovely Elizabeth's features in every young man, and somehow I did not see them in you."

Henry remained silent, arrested by those dark eyes, so like his own, so full of tenderness. They had both forgotten Elizabeth, who stood by the door with her hands crossed over her mouth, silent tears streaming unchecked down her face.

"Your mother loved you a great deal," Mr. Bennet added, his voice breaking. "She was so proud of you. When you held up your head, when you reached for a shiny bauble--" His composure finally collapsed. "My son!" he sobbed, dropping the basket and holding out his hands helplessly toward Henry.

And Henry did the only thing he could do: he stepped around the desk and embraced his father.

Chapter XIII

Posted on Tuesday, 31 October 2000

Mr. Bennet held his son for a long moment, then released him and looked him over with a smile. "Here you are at last, Thomas," he said quietly. "You have grown into a handsome man indeed. You take after your mother, fortunately. But I must not call you Thomas. You have been Henry too long to change now."

Henry smiled at this evidence of the return of his father's customary demeanour. "I think so, sir."

"Well, if I slip sometimes and call you Thomas, I hope you will forgive an old man for being sentimental."

Henry laughed. "Father, call me whatever you like, and I do not consider you an old man by any reckoning." Mr. Bennet's eyes grew wider upon hearing himself addressed as "father," and he turned his head slightly; wishing to spare him any embarrassment, the conscious Henry turned to his sister with a smile. "Well, Lizzy? I think not even Darcy can censure me for using your Christian name now!"

Elizabeth wiped away her tears, smiled, and said, "No, he cannot." She went to Henry and they embraced.

"From the first time that we met I felt a connection to you," she said. "But I confess I never dreamed that you were my brother."

"I felt it as well, do you remember? I thought perhaps I had met you previously." Henry smiled down at his sister and kissed her on the cheek.

"You two are a great deal alike," observed Mr. Bennet paternally.

"We are the most like you, Papa," laughed Elizabeth. "Oh, this is delightful! Sir, I congratulate you!"

"If you were not such a bold, forward miss, the discovery should never have been made," declared her father. "Thus I thank you, Lizzy. Now, shall we tell the others?"

"Not until the Lucases have gone," warned his daughter. "The business will be common gossip soon enough. Let us keep it in the family as long as possible. Besides, the Lucases are not likely to consider this good news."

"Ah, yes, I trust Mr. Collins will be disappointed in his hopes of inheritance now." Mr. Bennet's dark eyes twinkled at Henry, who smiled faintly but felt uncomfortable at the thought of the disappointment of Mrs. Collins' hopes.

They stayed in the library for another half-hour, Henry and Elizabeth hand-in-hand while their father told them stories of Henry as an infant, and told Henry about his mother and asked him about the people who had raised him.

"The oddest circumstance of all in this odd story," Henry mused, "is that I actually resemble my foster mother somewhat. Everyone always said that I had the look of the Drummonds. How Mrs. Tilney must have laughed!"

"What's that?" asked Mr. Bennet, startled. "What was Mrs. Tilney's maiden name?"

"Drummond. Her name was Mary Drummond."

"And who was her father, do you know?"

Henry filled in all the details he could recall of his foster mother's family.

Mr. Bennet shook his head, then laughed. His children stared at him, but finally he said, "My first wife's maiden name was Elizabeth Drummond. I believe that she was the cousin of Mrs. Tilney. Elizabeth's father was a younger son; the brothers quarreled, and the two branches of the family had nothing to do with one another afterward. The older brother was Mrs. Tilney's father. No wonder you were thought to resemble her, Henry! The two Miss Drummonds were reckoned a great deal alike." He fumbled in the drawer of his secretary until he located the miniature of the first Mrs. Bennet. He unwrapped it and passed it to his son. "That is your mother."

Henry took the miniature and looked down at it with a smile. "Yes, sir, they were very like. And from what you have told me, they were alike in disposition as well as looks." His eyes did not move from the painting as he spoke. "Mrs. Tilney often had a great deal to bear in her marriage, but I believe that General Tilney valued her sincerely, and loved her as well as he was able." He handed the miniature back to his father.

"I assure you that your mother was loved dearly," said Mr. Bennet with some emotion. "Loved, valued...treasured. Such was her worth." He gazed at the miniature for a time, then re-wrapped it and stowed it in a drawer. "Well, even those good-natured, gossiping Lucases must have gone away by now. Henry, why don't I present you to your step-mamma and your sisters?"

But the Lucases had not gone away; in fact, Mrs. Bennet had invited them to dine with the family, hoping to have an announcement about the marriage of her second daughter with which to torture Lady Lucas. She waited expectantly, but no such announcement seemed to be forthcoming; however, they were a large, noisy party, and she was soon distracted by being doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other, retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases.

After the Lucases had left, Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and see how everybody went on; but her father prevented her in the scheme. He called the family into the drawing room and said, "You all know that Longbourn is entailed to the male line, and thus was bound to pass into Mr. Collins' hands when I die."

"Oh, do not talk about the Collinses," cried Mrs. Bennet fretfully. "I was quite put out with Lady Lucas at dinner, constantly calling to Maria to ask how Mrs. Collins did, how she got on with her poultry and her housekeeping. She knows that I must one day give up my home to her daughter, and she rubs my nose in it! And when I think that Lizzy could have been married to Mr. Collins--"

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Bennet impatiently. "But Lizzy had the good sense to refuse him, and even you must admit, Mrs. Bennet, that Mr. Collins' only claim to your good favour was his eventual inheritance. You will allow this?"

Mrs. Bennet stared at her husband sullenly. "Yes."

Mr. Bennet was enjoying himself hugely. "Very well. Now, if I were to produce a son to inherit the estate instead of Mr. Collins, would you then regret his loss to Charlotte Lucas?"

"But you do not have a son, and Mr. Collins must inherit. Oh, I beg you, Mr. Bennet, do not tease me so!" She pulled out her handkerchief and sniffled into it.

"I do not tease you, Mrs. Bennet. I have a son. You know that."

"But he died, or something, did not he?"

Jane looked perplexed. "Papa? What do you mean?"

"I have not spoken of this to you girls, except Lizzy. Before I married your mother, Jane, I had another wife."

Even Kitty and Lydia, who had paid almost no attention to the proceedings, looked up and exclaimed at this news.

Mr. Bennet continued to speak. "The first Mrs. Bennet bore me a son. He was taken from us in infancy, and I have not seen him since. Not until today." He smiled at Henry. "It turns out that Mr. Tilney here was not born Henry Tilney, but Thomas Bennet II. You need no longer despise Mr. Collins for the iniquity of inheriting Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet. From today, you may despise him entirely on his own merits."

The news shocked Mrs. Bennet into silence, though it caused her daughters to exclaim all at once. Henry sat quietly, smiling at Elizabeth, who reached out and took his hand.

"We shall have dowries!" exclaimed Lydia. "Oh, Papa! Will you give me ten thousand pounds, like Miss King? I shall have my pick of the officers!"

"And I know who you shall pick!" exclaimed Kitty, causing her sister to laugh merrily.

Mrs. Bennet still said nothing, but simply stared at Henry. Finally she burst out with, "Oh! Mr. Tilney! You have saved us! We shall not be turned out to starve in the hedgerows after all!" She regarded him again for a moment and added, "Shall we?"

Henry exchanged an amused glance with his father. "Nay, madam. No one shall starve in the hedgerows while I have a say in it."

"Oh! Mr. Tilney!" She went to him and kissed him on the cheek, a salute which he received with great good nature. "And here I thought you had come to marry Lizzy!"

Henry replied with perfect gravity, "No, ma'am, I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I am sure you will agree that under the circumstances I cannot marry Lizzy."

"Oh, no, no, that would not do at all!" She tittered nervously. "Lord bless me, what a scandal that should be! I shall find another husband for Lizzy, you may depend upon me, Mr. Tilney--but I may call you Henry now, may not I? Oh! I am all a-tremble! What news this is, Mr. Bennet!" She continued to flutter her handkerchief and bless herself for some time, which her family, accustomed to such behaviour, ignored.

Jane went to her brother and took his hands in hers. "I am very glad that you have found us, and that we have found you," she said with a smile. "I know you have made Papa very happy."

"Thank you, Jane," he replied, accepting a kiss from her as well. "I am happy to be part of your family, as well." Bingley is a fool, he thought, gazing at Jane's serene, glowing countenance.

"I have read the tale of the Prodigal Son," said Mary placidly. "It brought great joy to his family when he returned, and your return brings great joy to me, sir."

Henry said gravely, "I thank you, Mary." She nodded and smiled at him, reflecting that a clergyman was precisely the sort of brother she would have wished for, had she ever thought to wish for one before.

Lydia, for her part, was struck by a new idea. "Oh! Papa! Now we can afford to go to Brighton for the summer, cannot we? Henry can come with us!"

"Brighton?" asked Henry in some surprise.

"The -----shire is encamped there this summer," Lydia explained. "It will be so dull here without them. Mamma wants to go, do not you, Mamma? Do not you want to go to Brighton?"

"If one could go to Brighton!" sighed Mrs. Bennet. "A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever."

"And my aunt Philips is sure it would do me a great deal of good," added Kitty.

"It is said that sea-bathing can cure many ills," mused Mr. Bennet aloud.

Mrs. Bennet was quick to encourage such a view. "To be sure, Mr. Bennet! I am persuaded it should do us a world of good, and our daughters too."

"I dare say it cannot cure our daughters of their chief ill, Mrs. Bennet," her husband responded, passing out of the room and beckoning his son to follow him, "because even sea-water, healthful as it is, cannot cure them of their natural silliness, nor make me more reconciled to it."

Henry exchanged a grin with Elizabeth and followed his father out of the drawing-room and into the library.

"I do not like to tear you away from the bosom of your family, Henry," said Mr. Bennet dryly, "but my patience was surely tried. Will you have a brandy?"

Henry accepted the drink and for the first time looked around the room. Bookshelves lined every wall, rising from floor to ceiling. "You have an extensive library, sir."

"Yes, well, it has been a long time in the making," agreed Mr. Bennet, taking the chair opposite Henry. He sipped his drink and added, "You may borrow any volume you like."

"Thank you, sir, that is generous."

"They will all be yours one day. At least I know they will go to someone who will appreciate them, as Mr. Collins would not have." He took another sip of brandy and added, "Had I not inherited Longbourn, I would probably have stayed a Fellow at Oxford. It was a life that suited me well." He was quiet a moment, then added, "No, I would have married once I met Elizabeth. Perhaps I would have entered your profession. Think you I would have made a good clergyman, son? Perhaps I would have met Lady Catherine de Bourgh and gotten the preferment at Hunsford. I am not sure I should be so diligent in pursuing the tithes as my cousin, although I flatter myself that my sermons would be somewhat more learned."

Henry laughed in agreement with his father's witticism, and a short silence followed which Henry finally broke with, "Father, Lydia mentioned my sisters' dowries--"

His father raised an impatient hand. "Lydia spoke out of turn. That freckled, impertinent King chit came into an inheritance and naturally all the officers began to court her, and it quite put my youngest' nose out of joint. A little disappointment in love will do her good, I dare say."

"Nonetheless, I should not like my sisters to have their happiness possibly ruined by a lack of fortune," said Henry, thinking of Bingley and Jane. He added, "They do not need a large fortune. They are daughters of a gentleman, and that alone will recommend them to liberal-minded people, although I dare say some kind of settlement is usually expected."

"I can give them nothing," said Mr. Bennet bluntly. "You must join me in breaking the entail if we are to take anything from the estate."

"Gladly, sir. I would see my sisters provided for."

"As I have failed to do," his father added dryly.

"I was not criticizing you, sir," replied Henry with some embarrassment.

"Perhaps you should, Henry. Perhaps you should."

"Perhaps, Father, but I shall not. I would not presume to criticize circumstances that I do not fully comprehend."

"Well said, Henry." Mr. Bennet sipped his brandy and added, "If you are truly determined on this course, I will set my brother Philips to work on it."

"I am, sir."

"Very well. But then what shall you do? I would not have you sell off part of the land, or mortgage your own future for the sake of your sisters' present."

"I have a small fortune of my own, sir, that came from my foster mother on her death, and her marriage-articles provided me with a rather large inheritance upon the General's death. And my living is a very good one. To sell a piece of land will not affect me overmuch. I am more concerned that such a sale will diminish your income."

"Once my daughters are in the care of their husbands, a little less income will not affect me greatly. Well, when the business of the entail is taken care of, we shall look everything over and see what we can do for the girls."

"Very good, sir." They sat together in companionable silence for a time, then Henry said thoughtfully, "Father, there is one circumstance in all of this that I cannot understand. Why was I taken from you? For what purpose? There was no blackmail, no demand of payment for my return, was there?"

"There was not. Your mother and I waited daily for such a demand. I would have paid anything for your return. Anything. They could have had Longbourn entire."

"Then what was the motive?"

Mr. Bennet sighed heavily. "I have considered this matter for six and twenty years, Henry. I have examined it from every angle. Your mother clung to the hope that you were taken by some unfortunates who could not have children of their own, people who would give you a good home and love you. I took some comfort in that thought myself, but now I know that is not the case. Your foster parents gave you a good home, yes, but you came to them entirely through fortunate chance. When I think where you might have been left--" he shook his head, unable to continue. After a moment he said in a low voice, "There is only one person who would have benefited by your removal from my home, Henry. That is my cousin Collins."

"Collins?" cried Henry. "Not William Collins! He would have been an infant himself!"

"No, not William Collins. His father." Mr. Bennet sighed and took another sip of brandy. "James Collins was a truly unpleasant man, Henry. He was illiterate and miserly, yet affected to live like a gentleman and never quite succeeded. He was born a Bennet, but he took the family name of a distant, childless cousin who promised to leave him his estate in return. His wife, a tradesman's daughter, brought no prestige to the marriage, but did bring a large fortune. Thus his grandfather disinherited James and entailed the estate upon me--a distant relation--and my male heirs. James could not inherit; only his son could inherit Longbourn, and only if I died in default of heirs male. And I assure you that James is sufficiently resentful to have had my son kidnapped so that his son could inherit. It would have been revenge enough to his disordered mind."

Henry was silent through this recitation. "But if James Collins had received a fortune from the cousin, and from his wife's family, why would he be so desperate for his son to inherit Longbourn?"

"Avarice," said Mr. Bennet. "He never had enough. Rather than put his fortune in the Funds where it would have been relatively safe and produced a good income, he speculated with his cousin's money, and his wife's, and lost most of it on 'Change. But even before that, he always wanted more. His wife was not a bad woman, though somewhat timid, and a bit vulgar. I always felt sorry for her. She died when William was a boy, and James became even odder, hoarding what little money remained to him and keeping his son in total subjection. He would send me harassing letters occasionally, which I at first found highly diverting as you might imagine; but they quickly grew tiresome, and I cut the connection for good. There was some money that Mrs. Collins' father settled on her that James could not touch, and that money put the boy through public school and Oxford and permitted him to earn his living as a gentleman, as earn his living he must."

"I never thought I should feel sorry for William Collins," Henry mused aloud.

His father laughed. "No matter how idyllic his childhood, William Collins would never be a sensible man. When you knew him at Oxford, did he take advantage of any of the social opportunities he encountered?"

Henry had to admit that he had not.

"Then you need not feel badly. Enjoy his lack of sensibility, and count yourself blessed for such amusing relatives." He gazed at his son with a slight smile. "Perhaps you consider yourself less deserving of Longbourn than Mr. Collins?"

Henry laughed. "No, sir."

"I am glad to hear it."

Just then came a light knock on the door of the library, and Elizabeth entered upon her father's summons. "Henry, did you ask Papa?"

"Was I to ask him something?" asked a very perplexed Henry.

"I am surprised at you!" cried Elizabeth. "Have you forgotten Miss Morland?"

Catherine! Good Lord, I have not spared her a thought today! Embarrassed, Henry immediately grasped his sister's meaning and turned to his father. "Sir, there is a young lady whom I wish to marry. The General did not consider her worthy of his name, and though her parents had no objection to my suit, they were unable to sanction the match in the face of his disapprobation. We have been apart for more than a year, but my affection for her has not diminished. May I obtain your permission for the marriage, and present it to her parents?"

Mr. Bennet regarded his son with faint amusement. "Tell me about this young lady, Henry. Is she silly and ignorant, like most girls?"

Henry laughed. "She is quite ignorant, sir, though not as much as she was formerly, and she is only occasionally silly."

"That is unfortunate. I am not sure I should relish domestic harmony in so unusual a form, but if it suits you that is very well. I suppose I should ask all those tiresome questions about her family and prospects?"

"Her father is the rector of Fullerton parish, in Wiltshire, and is the patron and incumbent of another parish, I cannot recall the name at present, which he will resign to his eldest son when he is old enough to take orders. Mr. Morland has an independent fortune as well, and his situation is entirely comfortable, but Catherine is one of ten children, and can expect only three thousand pounds."

"Excellent. I feared you had fallen in love with an heiress. That would not have done at all. You have my permission to marry, Henry. And my blessing."

"I thank you, sir!" Henry exchanged smiles with Elizabeth as Mr. Bennet took the seat behind the secretary and pulled out a sheet of paper and ink. He moved a few things out of the way so that he could lay the sheet flat, and observed aloud, "I did mean to clear this off. You will be ashamed of your father, I fear."

"Not at all. My secretary looks much the same, I am afraid."

"You take after me, then. That is well." Mr. Bennet wrote contentedly as his children looked on.

Henry spent the next two days becoming acquainted with his new family, and like his father, he found the Bennet women irritating and diverting by turns. Lizzy, most like him in temper and taste, was his favourite, but he also loved Jane's sweetness, and learned to appreciate Mary's steadfast application, Kitty's eager, unformed mind, and Lydia's good-humour. He regretted the heedless, hoydenish behaviour of the two youngest, but it was rather too early to cast himself in the role of The Cruel Big Brother, so he observed them silently and made a note to himself to speak to Mr. Bennet about it.

As Elizabeth had predicted, the news spread rapidly round the neighbourhood and was the sole topic of conversation in every drawing room and at every dinner table. The Lucases soon waited on the Bennets to offer their congratulations, and only Lady Lucas was seen to look upon Henry with anything less than perfect goodwill.

There was some discussion about which surname Henry should use; he was unwilling to completely abandon Tilney, out of respect to the people who raised him, in particular his foster mother. He tested various hyphenated versions of Bennet and Tilney but only succeeded in confusing everyone, and at last his highly diverted father bid Henry to continue on as Tilney for the time being, trusting that the matter would eventually sort itself out.

Mr. Philips was put to work on the process of breaking the entail, and legal papers were sent from Meryton on nearly a daily basis. Once they were brought by Mr. Philips' new clerk, a spotty, bespectacled young man who stood uncomfortably in the drawing room turning a shabby hat over in his hands and staring at Mary as she practiced on the pianoforte. That young lady took his homage in her stride, approving of his sober appearance and considering his quiet attentions as her due as the most accomplished young lady in the neighbourhood. Her younger sisters made open sport of the young man, and even Henry was diverted, though out of consideration for Mary's feelings he kept his amusement to himself.

Henry debated writing to Catherine to acquaint her with his situation, but decided that such a monumental piece of news was best delivered in person. Though it pained him to leave his father and sisters so soon, his heart was pulled toward Fullerton, and he felt that Catherine had waited long enough.

Henry touched the pocket of his coat one last time, reassured by the crackle of paper within it, the letter from his father to the Morlands granting his permission for Henry's marriage to Catherine. He turned to say goodbye to his father and his two eldest sisters, who had risen early that morning to see him off.

"Goodbye, Father," he said, shaking Mr. Bennet's hand. "I shall write as soon as I have the Morlands' answer."

"Very good, son. I wish you a pleasant journey."

"I thank you, sir."

Mr. Bennet held Henry's hand between his own for a moment, then dropped it with a rather sheepish smile. "Go on, then. Do not forget to bring your bride to Longbourn to be frightened by her stepmamma-in-law."

"You may depend upon it." Henry turned to his sisters with a smile. He kissed Jane and then Elizabeth, who embraced him and whispered, "Henry, I can hardly wait to meet Catherine."

"You will love her, Lizzy, and she will love you."

"She loves you, and that is sufficient to recommend her to me."

Henry laughed, mounted his horse, and with a last wave to his family rode off toward Catherine.

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