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Chapter XIV

Posted on Thursday, 30 November 2000

Henry slowed the horse's pace and directed him into the drive leading up to the inn. He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to the boy who ran to meet him. The boy led the horse away for food and water, and Henry went inside in search of sustenance of his own. He was soon established in a private dining-room, and bread, cheese, cold meat, and a pitcher of ale were brought. His hunger was quickly assuaged, but he lingered over his ale, remembering the last time he had been at this inn, the night before he asked Catherine to marry him.

All through the long ride from Longbourn he had thought of Catherine, of her dark curls and her large, light eyes, sometimes blue, sometimes grey--an attractive contrast that had struck him upon their first meeting at the Lower Rooms at Bath. He had found her sweet and pretty and unaffected, and as Mr. King had whispered to him that Miss Morland had no acquaintance in Bath, he had exerted himself to be charming. She did not respond in kind to his nonsensical flirtation, but considered his words and answered him seriously. He had been diverted, but not particularly taken with her. She was just another girl.

Then Eleanor had come back from the Pump-room one day and said to him, laughingly: "I know a secret, Henry. I met a young lady today who holds you in very high regard."

He had been intrigued, but did not want to let Eleanor see; she would have teased him to no end. "And who would that be, dear sister?" he responded lightly.

"Why, Miss Morland! 'Oh, Miss Tilney, how well your brother dances! Did you think his partner pretty? I was so sure that he was gone from Bath, and so surprised to see him again. Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?' With the implication being, of course, 'For if you are there, Miss Tilney, I am sure that your brother shall be in attendance as well.' She could not stop talking of you."

"Of me? Miss Morland?" The thought had fascinated and diverted him, and he brooded about the house for the rest of the day, not noticing Eleanor's smile as she watched him. Henry had not given much thought to marriage, and had certainly not come to Bath to seek a wife, or so he had told himself. He had come to be company for Eleanor, and to deflect the General's overwhelming energies away from her, a job he had given himself after Mrs. Tilney's death when he noticed Eleanor wilting under her father's oppression. But Woodston could be a lonely place; there was no resident squire, no neighbours of education and wealth except Mr. Taylor, who was busy with his own family. The villagers were good people, though hardly knew what to say to him, burdened by the double hardship of addressing both the rector and the squire's son at the same time. There were too many solitary evenings when he longed for companionship, and though he had not made a deliberate decision to search for that companion, he was not adverse to the idea should he encounter her. And here was a girl who was interested in him, and he knew that Catherine Morland was not sufficiently worldly to be interested because of his situation and fortune; she was interested in him for himself. The idea was entirely novel, and entirely bewitching.

By the time of the cotillion ball the next evening, he had been nearly bursting with impatience to see Catherine again. He sought her on purpose as soon as he entered the crowded ballroom; she was standing behind Mrs. Allen, with her fan over her face, but when he addressed her, she smiled happily and gave ready acquiescence to his request for a dance.

While they were working their way down the set, her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her and talked to her without pause. Henry watched them in growing annoyance. He overheard a bit of their conversation: Thorpe said something about "the prettiest girl in the room." From her blush it appeared that the compliment had been paid to Miss Morland, though Henry thought objectively that her friend Isabella Thorpe in truth owned the title. Catherine's intimacy with Miss Thorpe troubled him; he had immediately pegged the older girl as one of the legion of heartless flirts who populated the Rooms, admitting the attentions of any man who showed an interest. Watching Catherine speak with Thorpe, Henry wondered how much of Isabella's influence had worked upon her.

At last Thorpe was borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies, and Henry was surprised to find that he was relieved, and even more surprised to find himself questioning Catherine rather closely about the obligations of marriage, though he couched his questions in the language of flirtation. She seemed confused by his comparison of marriage to dancing, and did not understand the metaphor behind his words.

He pressed on, unable to help himself. "Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" He watched her face carefully.

Catherine considered his words for a moment. "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with."

"And is that to be my only security? alas, alas!"

"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides," gazing up at him shyly, "I do not want to talk to anybody."

Henry was a little surprised at his relief at her words, but he managed to speak with the same light tone. "Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage." Her ingenuousness was refreshing. Listening to her wide-eyed descriptions of the joys of Bath was like walking in a field at dawn, freshly after a hard rain; clean and sweet, with all the promise of growth and beauty, reaching up to the giving warmth of the sun.

When they reached the bottom of the set, Henry felt a hand on his arm and turned to see the General. "Who is that young lady? Who is your partner?" the older man demanded in a harsh whisper.

"Miss Catherine Morland," Henry replied in a low voice.

"Who is her family?"

"She is in Bath under the protection of Mr. and Mrs. Allen, sir."

The General retreated, and Henry turned back to Catherine, whose cheeks were blazing and whose gaze was anchored firmly to the floor. Henry moved closer to her and said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father."

Catherine's answer was only "Oh!" -- but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. Her eyes followed the General through the crowd with some attention, an attention that could only be interesting to Henry.

In his chamber after the ball, when he was alone with his thoughts, he wondered why the General had demanded to know his partner's name; he usually took little interest in such things. Had Eleanor said something? Or was there something in his own demeanour that had betrayed his interest in Miss Morland? He put out the candle and lay down, locking his hands behind his head and staring into the darkness. You are placing too much importance on this girl, Tilney, he scolded himself. You barely know her. You have danced with her twice, spoken with her a few times, and you are already considering her as your partner for life! That firm, common-sense thought was swiftly betrayed by another: Fortunately, you have the opportunity to become more closely acquainted with her, on your walk tomorrow. Sleep did not come quickly that night.

Henry swallowed the last drop of ale and paid the innkeeper. His horse had been fed and watered, and was prancing restlessly in the grip of a stable boy. "Ready to run, lad?" said Henry softly, rubbing the creature's neck. "So am I." The stableboy boosted him into the saddle, and he tossed the boy a coin and turned the horse onto the road to Salisbury.

He set the horse's pace at a comfortable trot and allowed his thoughts to roam ahead, not even taking notice of the ancient ring of stones off to the side, a sight that would normally command his full interest. His thoughts had leapt ahead to Fullerton, and at the same time back to Bath.

His misgivings about Catherine seemed justified when he and Eleanor were on their way to Pulteney-street to meet her for their country walk. Henry noticed Eleanor staring at a passing gig, and glanced up himself, only to see that Catherine was a passenger in the gig--and John Thorpe the driver. He turned back, unable to believe his own eyes, and saw Catherine turned around in the gig looking back at him. Rubbing my nose in it! He was angry with her, both because she had broken their engagement and because she was driving with Thorpe, though he did not like to admit to himself that he was jealous of her driver. They presented themselves at Mr. Allen's nonetheless and were told that Miss Morland had driven out. Eleanor felt for a card, but had none about her, not having equipped herself for paying calls. She asked if there had been a message left for Miss Tilney, and was told there was none, and not knowing what else to do, they simply went away.

Henry was quiet as they walked. Eleanor glanced up at him keenly, and said, "I am sure it is just a misunderstanding, Henry. Miss Morland is not at all the sort of girl to be purposely rude." Henry merely bowed. Eleanor continued, "After all, it is nearly an hour after the time we agreed upon last night. I daresay she thought it too dirty for a walk after all the rain."

"It is not too dirty for a drive, apparently," said Henry in a tight voice.

Eleanor laughed. "Apparently not. Well, we can still have our walk, and when next we meet Miss Morland, I am sure she will explain herself as properly as we could wish."

"Perhaps," he said, and lapsed back into silence. His anger did not abate; he told himself that he was angry for Eleanor's sake, that he thought at last she had found a friend, but he knew that he was really angry at Catherine for going off with Thorpe so quickly, despite her protestations in the dance. How he would have enjoyed taking Catherine out for a country drive in his curricle! But it could hardly be proper to do so, even with the nominal chaperonage of Catherine's brother and Isabella Thorpe in another gig. Yet she had accepted such an invitation from Thorpe--from John Thorpe! That swaggering, blustering fool! Well, if such a man was more to her taste, better to find out now than later.

The following night at the theatre, he saw Catherine on the other side of the room, in a box with the Allens and the Thorpes. She was laughing at the play, and looked so young and pretty that he could not help admiring her, just for a moment. Then he saw Thorpe eyeing her with satisfaction and turned away in disgust. He watched the play with feigned attention, wondering if she had seen him; finally he looked over at the box and met Catherine's gaze. She was no longer laughing. He bowed, coldly, and turned back to the stage, determined to give her no more notice; but he was always aware of her there, glowing on the edge of his vision, and able to stand it no longer, he glanced over again. Her head was drooping, her pretty eyes fixed on her lap, where her hands were worrying her fan. Her friends took no notice of that misery, laughing at the play and talking amongst themselves. Henry felt his anger rise again, at Catherine for deserting him, at her friends for not recognizing her pain, at himself for being the author of that pain, and at Thorpe out of sheer jealousy. Such sensations were all very new, and very unpleasant to Henry.

When the plays concluded, he murmured an excuse to the General and made his way to their box, telling himself that it was best if he knew directly whether Catherine still had regard for him, or whether that regard was now reserved for Thorpe. He greeted Mrs. Allen with an external calm that he hoped did not betray his confused emotions. Mrs. Allen seemed unconcerned, as usual, but Catherine clutched at her friend's arm as she expressed her apologies at missing their appointment. "Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?"

This was better, but two days' worth of ire would not be so easily washed away. He said politely, "We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our passing you in Argyle-street: you were so kind as to look back on purpose."

"But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not--Oh! you were not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you."

Was there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. Reserve was no longer possible in the face of such sweet artlessness. He could no longer doubt Catherine's feelings; he had only to sort out his own.

Henry was not accustomed to being adored. In his experience, he was the less-rich friend, the younger brother; what sensible young lady, given the choice, would choose Henry Tilney over Fitzwilliam Darcy or Charles Bingley or Captain Frederick Tilney? But Catherine's regard for Henry shone from her beautiful eyes, lifted to his whenever he spoke. And the more time he spent in her presence, the more he became intoxicated by that regard. In finding himself irresistible to her, he found her irresistible as well.

Henry spurred his horse to a gallop as he rode through Salisbury, barely glancing at the spire of the cathedral that loomed over the other buildings, turning onto the road to Fullerton and slowing down to a trot once again. Only nine more miles to Catherine.

Those sweet days of growing affection had been troubled only by the General's sudden attentions to Catherine. The day after Henry had met Catherine at the theatre, the General had said to him at breakfast, "You know, Henry, it is high time you married."

Henry had been in the process of taking a sip of coffee, and he managed not to choke upon it. "Why-why do you say so, sir?"

"I think a clergyman should marry whenever he can. It sets the example in his parish. And I think you would not mind the companionship, eh boy?" To Henry's utter horror, the General added a lascivious wink to this statement. Eleanor stared at her plate resolutely, unwilling to enter such a discussion.

"Well, I--"

"And I do not have to tell you to choose your wife carefully, now do I? The Tilney name is not to be bestowed upon the unworthy."

"No, sir, I think--"

"That Morland girl, now--she is pretty enough. You think so too, Henry, do not deny it. I saw you talking to her at the theatre last night. She would do well for you, I think. Speak quickly if you are interested. There are many others who would take your place."

Henry and Eleanor exchanged astonished gazes at this statement. The General had forbidden Eleanor's marriage to John White, a perfectly respectable man whose only failing was his lack of a large fortune. They had both witnessed lectures to Frederick to find a wife with a fortune commensurate with his own. Yet he had practically commanded Henry to marry Catherine Morland, a clergyman's daughter! Such behaviour was incomprehensible, as were the General's obsequious attentions to Catherine, and his command to Eleanor to invite her to accompany them back to Northanger Abbey.

Henry regretted having to leave Catherine almost as soon as they arrived at the Abbey, but his parish required his attention; and he would be back in only two or three days. But when he returned, he had found Catherine lurking about the gallery by his mother's apartment. She started and cried out when she saw him, and her demeanour was guilty; Henry started out with every good intention, to cover both their embarrassment at the encounter by making general conversation, but her remarks led him to ask more pointed questions that finally drew out of her the suspicions about the General, suspicions that were so foolish and inconceivable that they stunned him. Henry told himself that he had performed a necessary office and that Catherine needed to be made aware of the severity of her transgression; but her tears as she ran from him made him feel like an ogre. In frustration, he uttered an oath, whirled about, and slammed his fist into the wood paneling of the gallery, earning nothing for his action but swollen knuckles. His face burned as he remembered how he had teased Catherine with an invented Gothic story on the way from Bath to Northanger; he should have known then how the silly novels she had read had affected her. Northanger was until recently the only home he had ever known, but looking around him with Catherine's eyes, he realized that the house, however comfortable and modern, contained much to stimulate an overactive imagination. You have forced Catherine to examine her conscience, Tilney, he told himself bitterly. Best examine your own. You know her ignorance of the wider world and are in a position to educate her, yet instead you feed that ignorance for your own amusement. You are in no position to stand in judgment. That evening, he tried to be especially kind to Catherine, and saw her blossom under his compassion into the sweet, unaffected girl he had met in the Lower Rooms, before Isabella Thorpe and Mrs. Radcliffe had worked their dark magic upon her. And it was then, in his anxious solicitude, in his real wish for the return of her comfort, that he knew for certain that he loved her.

A week later, Catherine was at Woodston, gazing about her with a smile of pure delight and carrying in her arms one of his terriers, which one of the small Taylors had bestowed with the unlikely name of Ruby Begonia. Catherine belonged in his house; it was already hers, from the cold, disused drawing-room to the half-grown shrubbery to the canine inhabitants, who were quickly her slaves. The house had been waiting for Catherine to bring it to life. When the chaise rolled ponderously away that evening, Henry knew that it was only a matter of time until Catherine Morland returned as Catherine Tilney.

But he did not feel comfortable making an offer while Catherine remained at Northanger. He would wait until she returned to her parents' protection, then present himself to the Morlands and request permission to marry their daughter. That was how a gentleman comported himself. And he could not hurry her return to Fullerton, not when her companionship was so welcome to Eleanor. He would be patient. But on his next trip to Woodston, as he ate his solitary meals and brooded by himself in the sitting-room, thinking how pleasant it would have been to have had Catherine's company, how her eyes would have sparkled in the firelight while he read aloud to her, he wondered if he were not being overly nice. He prowled the house restlessly, his steps turning time and time again to the drawing-room, seeing it fitted up with paper and paint and draperies, Catherine comfortable in a chair by a brightly-burning fire, a book in her hand and Ruby at her feet, a welcoming smile upon her face as she turned to greet his entrance. As if the dog knew his thoughts, he felt a tiny paw on his leg and looked down to find her begging for attention. He picked up the fuzzy creature and held her nose to his own. "Ruby, would you like me to bring you home a mistress?" he asked her genially, and was rewarded with an enthusiastic face-licking. Well, Tilney, he laughed to himself, you can continue mooning over Catherine like some sort of benighted Valancourt, or you can offer for the girl. He determined that when he returned to Northanger he would do just that, propriety be d---ed. He had little doubt of what her answer would be.

The next day he set out for Northanger, and never had twenty miles passed so quickly beneath his horse's hooves. As he drew close to the Abbey, he saw several horses approaching, and on recognizing the General's bay saddle-horse, he pulled up and greeted him heartily.

The General glowered at him. "We are paying a visit to Lord Longtown. You will accompany us, Henry."

Henry was all astonishment. "Lord Longtown? All of us? Eleanor and Miss Morland as well?"

"I have sent the Morland chit away, and none too soon. I am thankful you were not caught." He pointed to Henry menacingly. "You will think of her no more."

"You sent her away? What can you mean, sir?"

"I put her in a post-chaise and sent her back to Wiltshire. She was not what she appeared to be, Henry. We have all been taken in. Fortunately, that young Thorpe warned me in time."

"Thorpe?" Henry cried. "What does Thorpe know of Catherine that we do not?" A dreadful suspicion grew. "You thought she was rich, did not you? That is why you promoted a match between us! Did Thorpe give you that information as well?"

"He did," said the General. "He was taken in, as we were. His sister became engaged to the Morland boy, and when the settlements were being arranged, they made the unpleasant discovery that the family are a forward, scheming, bragging race, without a fraction of the fortune they boast of. The girl claimed to be the Allen's heir, but that turned out to be false as well. Thorpe broke up the match between his sister and young Morland when he learned all."

"With all respect, sir, you are a fool." The General's face grew red and he opened his mouth to speak, but Henry went on. "James Morland broke his engagement with Isabella Thorpe because she was dangling after Frederick! The Thorpes are the grasping family, sir, not the Morlands, and Isabella Thorpe sought your fortune as surely as John Thorpe sought the Allens' in a match with Catherine. She never claimed to be the Allens' heir. You let your own avarice be guided by Thorpe's, and I hope you are ashamed of your actions."

"How dare you speak to me thus!" roared the General. "Have you forgotten yourself?"

"I have not forgotten myself, sir. You have. You have forgotten all sense of honour and what is due to your good name. You directed me to win Catherine Morland's heart, and I believe that I have, as surely as she has won mine." He turned his horse about. "I am returning to Woodston, sir, and tomorrow I shall ride to Fullerton and offer Miss Morland my hand in marriage. The demands of honour as well as affection allow nothing less."

"Go, then," warned the General, "and know you shall never have admittance to my house again."

Henry galloped away without another word. He knew himself to be right, and could only regret that he had not had the opportunity to see Eleanor before he left. He returned to Woodston, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, and on the afternoon of the following day, he had begun his journey to Fullerton.

He rode for hours, then stopped at an inn along the way, not wanting to appear before Catherine to beg for her hand travel-stained and weary. On the next day, he presented himself anxiously at the parsonage, unable to take his eyes from Catherine's face, which paled at first seeing him and then flushed when her mother entered the room. Henry had been surprised and pleased at the welcoming words of Mrs. Morland, wishing that his own parent were as reasonable and kind. But he needed to talk to Catherine, to explain his father, and first to explain himself. He suggested a walk to the Allens', and consciously asked Catherine to show him the way. Miss Sarah Morland had said, "You may see the house from this window, sir," and he knew that the young lady probably meant well; thus he simply bowed, and was grateful when Mrs. Morland bade her eldest daughter to accompany him.

They walked down the path to the Allens' until they entered a small copse of trees that hid both houses from view. Henry stopped walking, and Catherine turned back and gazed at him questioningly.

"Miss Morland," he said, "you must know that I did not come here only to call upon the Allens." She nodded mutely. "I did not even come here only to ascertain your safety, though I am glad you are well." She blushed and looked down at her gloved hands, tangled in the strings of her reticule.

"Catherine," he said softly, stepping toward her. "Catherine, look at me."

She raised her head, her eyes enormous. Henry held out his hand. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly reached out and placed her hand in his. He raised it to his lips. "Dearest Catherine," he murmured. "Somewhere between the Lower Rooms and Northanger, you captured my heart. May I hope that I have captured yours as well?"

She gasped, and squeaked out, "Oh, yes!"

He smiled. "I hoped so, but after the way you were driven from the Abbey--" he stopped, unwilling to ruin this moment with unpleasant memories. "Make me the happiest man in the world, Catherine. Tell me you will be my wife."

"Oh!" she cried, and then almost as an afterthought, added, "Yes!"

Henry looked both ways; they could not be seen, either from the parsonage or from the great house. He stepped closer to Catherine and hesitated for a moment, then said thoughtfully, "Catherine, I do not like that hat."

"Oh!" she cried in surprise, reaching up to touch it.

"It is very pretty, indeed," he added, "but the brim is so large that I cannot get close enough to kiss you. And right now I want to kiss you very much. Thus, I cannot approve of such a hat, however pretty. I am sorry to pain you, my sweet."

Catherine stared at him for a moment; then, her eyes never leaving his, she reached up, undid the ribbons that secured the hat under her chin, and removed it.

Henry smiled, pulled her close, and kissed her at last. He had wanted to kiss her that night at the theatre, when she had rumpled poor Mrs. Allen's dress in her eagerness to communicate her regard for him. He had wanted to kiss her countless times since. And here she was, soft and warm in his arms, with no impertinent hat brim to foil him, and Henry Tilney was not a man to waste such an opportunity.

With such a pleasant memory to carry him, it was no wonder that Henry was smiling as he reined in his horse outside Fullerton Parsonage.

He swung one leg over the horse's neck and slid from the saddle, grunting a little as his boots struck the gravel. He had been riding most of the day, and his joints were stiff and sore. The sound of the door opening caught his attention, and he turned to see Catherine and her sister Sarah run outside, both laughing.

Sarah saw him first, and stopped short, staring at him in astonishment. "Miss Morland," he greeted her with a bow that was only slightly stiff. He turned to her sister and said, "Hello, Catherine."

She would not come closer to him, but stood watching him from several feet away.

"I shall tell Mamma and Papa that Mr. Tilney is here," said Sarah, and slipped inside the house.

Catherine and Henry gazed at each other for a moment. Finally Catherine said, "Are you real?"

Henry smiled. "I am real, my sweet. And I am glad to see you."

She moved closer and reached out to grip the sleeve of his coat. "I have had this dream so many times." She rubbed the material thoughtfully for a moment, then wrinkled her nose and said, "But in my dreams, you do not smell of horse."

Henry laughed and touched her chin. "Now that is the common-sense Catherine I love. Forgive my dishevelment, but I have ridden long hours to reach you. Am I forgiven if I tell you that I bear good news?"

Before Catherine could answer, the parsonage door opened again and two of Catherine's younger brothers ran out, shouting hellos. Henry greeted them with a smile and asked if they would be so kind as to water his horse. They took the reins happily and led the horse toward the stable.

Catherine said consciously, "Will you come in, Henry?" He followed her inside the house and into the small drawing-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Morland were waiting for them.

Henry greeted Catherine's parents respectfully and took the seat that Mrs. Morland begged him to take. The three of them watched him expectantly. He took a deep breath and said, "I have an extraordinary story to tell you. I know that you were not able to give your permission for my marriage to Catherine because General Tilney had refused his. The truth is, General Tilney is not my father."

Catherine exclaimed, and her parents exchanged surprised glances. Henry added hastily, "I know how this sounds, but allow me to explain." He told them his story, how he had been taken away from his birth parents and raised by the Tilneys, and they listened with great attention.

Catherine listened to Henry's story with increasing discomfort. He was the heir to an estate! He might marry anybody! It had been more than a year since he had seen her-did he still love her? Was he come to Fullerton to break the engagement? Her heart was constant, and she thought his was as well--his letters had certainly indicated as much--but she could not be sanguine. Henry had offered for her under very different circumstances, as a second son with a small fortune. Such a change in a young man's circumstances was not unknown, but she had never encountered such a change, and she had read too many novels where the heroes contracted bad marriages in their careless youths and knew only misery from it. With such thoughts whirling through her mind, she came to a determination as she listened to him, an awful determination that rent her heart.

"And so Mr. Bennet has kindly given his permission for my marriage to your daughter," Henry finished, drawing a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and passing it to her papa. "I hope I may persuade you to do so as well."

Mr. Morland opened the letter and read it with great attention. He passed the letter to his wife, and said, "Well, Mr. Tilney, that is an extraordinary story indeed. And so you are now the heir to Longbourn?"

"That is correct, sir."

"And you will retain your living?"

"Yes, I plan to live at Woodston."

Mr. Morland exchanged another glance with his wife. "You know that Catherine's expectations have not changed, and are not likely to do so."

"That does not signify to me, sir." Henry smiled at Catherine, and she wavered in her determination for a moment, but then hardened her heart. She would do what was best for Henry. Catherine had a sense of honour as well.

"Papa," she said quietly, "may I speak with Mr. Tilney alone for a moment?"

Her father hesitated, then said, "I dare say that would be a good idea. Very well." The elder Morlands rose and passed from the drawing-room.

When the door was closed behind them, Henry grinned at Catherine and said, "That was very clever of you, my sweet. You obtained some time alone for us. Let us not waste it." He moved as if to take her in his arms, but the well-read Catherine could not be put off by such an animated expression of regard. She put up her hands as if to ward him off, and he stopped, his face reflecting his astonishment.

She rose hastily and moved to the other side of the room. She felt thoroughly miserable, but with a heroic effort, her chin rose high in the air as she spoke. "Mr. Tilney," she said formally, "I know your sense of honour would prohibit you from breaking a prior engagement, but in light of your new circumstances, if you wished to be released from our engagement--" here she stopped, trying to strangle a sob but unable to do so-- "please feel that you may do so honourably, and I assure you that I would not censure you in any way." A single tear rolled down her cheek as she spoke these last words.

In the few seconds when she had determined to offer Henry the opportunity to end the engagement, Catherine had imagined two possible outcomes. Either Henry would fling himself at her feet, avowing his love and begging her not to deny him his heart's desire, or he would look his relief for a moment, thank her coldly for her consideration, and leave, never to darken her door again. She had read of both. Her fear that Henry would take the latter course rendered her unable to look at him for a moment--she pictured a future for herself as a wizened spinster, perhaps living as the companion to an old, blind woman. Or perhaps she might take the veil. Finally she gathered the courage to raise her head, and saw through her tears that her beloved had done neither. He was watching her, smiling broadly, and he held his arms out to her and said, his voice full of affection and laughter, "Sweet Catherine, how I have missed you!"

Catherine did not stop to question the capricious vagaries of fate that resulted in this strange circumstance. She ran into those outstretched arms, felt them close around her, and rejoiced. Horse smell and all, he was still her Henry.

Henry closed his eyes and laid his cheek against the top of Catherine's head. Her hair smelt of lavender, and he breathed deeply. He had missed her terribly, this adorable girl who had his heart so firmly in her keeping. "I appreciate your sacrifice, dearest," he said softly into her hair, "but you needn't fall on your sword. If they made me a Duke you would be my Duchess."

Catherine tipped her head back and looked up at him anxiously. "Truly?"

"Truly."

She smiled through her tears, and he whispered, "Now kiss me quickly, Catherine, before your parents come back."

Catherine laughed, then complied. The happy couple enjoyed a few moments of perfect felicity; then Henry, who despite the distraction at hand had a weather eye out for the door, released her. When the Morlands re-entered the drawing-room, they found them standing with their hands clasped, smiling at one another.

Mr. Morland cleared his throat. "So, Catherine, is everything settled?"

"Yes, Papa," said Catherine, her eyes shining.

"Then your mother and I have no objection. You may marry Mr. Tilney."

"Oh, Papa!" cried Catherine, releasing Henry and running to kiss her father. There were embraces and handshakes all around, and Catherine's brothers and sisters were called in to join in the congratulations, and in the midst of all the celebration, Mr. and Mrs. Allen were announced. They were quickly acquainted with Catherine's happiness, and their congratulations were added to the general tumult.

"You must come to Fullerton to dine tonight," Mrs. Allen said to Mrs. Morland, "and bring dear Miss Morland and Mr. Tilney with you."

"I thank you, ma'am," said Henry, "but I must ride to Salisbury and bespeak a room at the inn. I should have done so on the way here, but I was anxious to arrive," he added with a smile for Catherine.

"An inn!" cried Mr. Allen. "Nonsense, sir! You shall stay at Fullerton."

"That is very generous, sir," said Henry in some surprise. "I thank you!"

"We cannot have Miss Morland's fiancé staying at an inn. Do not you agree, Mrs. Allen?"

"Oh, yes. I have a new gown that I should like to have Mr. Tilney see. I am sure you will agree, sir, that the muslin is very fine indeed. And it was a prodigious bargain."

"I should be very happy to inspect your gown, ma'am," said Henry gravely, and so the matter was settled quite satisfactorily.

Two weeks later

It was a fine, warm June day, and the bees buzzed busily about Catherine and Henry as they walked through Mrs. Allen's garden. Butterflies flitted from branch to branch, their colourful wings reflecting the brilliance of the flowers. Henry selected various blossoms as they walked, adding them to Catherine's posy.

Catherine still had many questions about Henry's new family, and he had endeavoured to answer them. "We must pay a visit to Longbourn as part of our wedding-trip," he told her. "I want you to meet my father, and my sisters."

"Oh, yes! I should very much like to meet your sisters." She hesitated, then added, "But what about Eleanor?"

"Though we are truly second cousins, Eleanor and I have worked it out amongst ourselves that we shall always consider ourselves brother and sister. We shall visit Windlestrae as well, so you will have an opportunity to spend some time with her, and meet her husband."

"I am glad." They walked for a bit, and she added, "I am sorry if I bother you by talking so much of your family, but it is such a strange and interesting story!"

Henry stopped to cut a white rose and tucked it into the center of Catherine's bouquet. "Indeed. Upon reflection, it seems that my life has taken on an element of the gothic, do not you agree?"

Catherine, her eyes shining, said, "Oh, yes! 'Tis better than something Mrs. Radcliffe could write!"

Henry was very much amused. "I know you can give no higher approbation, my sweet."

They made their way to a green bench and sat upon it. Catherine rearranged the flowers in her bouquet to her satisfaction as Henry watched her with a smile.

"Does this mean that you have learnt to love flowers at last?"

Catherine breathed deeply of the blossoms' sweet fragrance. "At this moment, I love everything in the world!"

"And am I included in that number?"

She smiled up at him, still a little shy with endearments. "You most particularly."

Henry lifted her chin gently and leaned close, but was again foiled by fashion; the brim of Catherine's very fetching straw hat did not allow him to get close enough to kiss her. A few quick motions on Mr. Tilney's part banished the poor hat to the clean grass, and restored them to perfect felicity.

Henry traced a finger down Catherine's cheek. "Your sweet kisses make it difficult to leave you, but leave you I must. Stay here; I would remember you as you are, not weeping as I ride away."

Catherine smiled up at him. "I shall not weep, Henry. We will be married in only two weeks. I shall miss you, but knowing that we will soon be together forever will cheer me."

Henry laughed. "Always the pragmatist, my Catherine! Very well. Walk back to the house with me and I will take my leave of the Allens."

They rose from the bench, and Catherine picked up her hat and started back toward the house, but was stayed by her beloved's hand. "First, my sweet one, I will take my leave of you."

And here it must be recorded that Henry, despite his professed desire that Catherine learn to love a rose, was quite heedless of the safety of her bouquet.

And it must also be recorded that despite her promise, Catherine did weep, but not until Henry was out of sight, and then only a very little.

Chapter XV

Posted on Wednesday, 4 April 2001

Mr. and Mrs. Allen, displaying their usual generosity, opened Fullerton not only to Henry but to any of his friends who might wish to witness his wedding. The groom was the first to arrive, and he and his bride had a full day to become reacquainted before Mr. Bennet arrived, accompanied by his two eldest daughters. Catherine appeared at the Great House a short time later to find the familiar drawing-room full of strangers. She halted at the doorway, arrested by confusion and shyness.

Henry, sensing her discomfort, took her by the hand and drew her into the room. "Catherine, may I have the honour of presenting my father, Mr. Bennet."

Mr. Bennet rose and took Catherine's hand, smiling at her kindly. She noticed a resemblance to Henry and immediately felt disposed to like him.

"And my sisters," said Henry, "Jane and Elizabeth."

Here all was easy. "Henry has told me so much about you that I feel as though I already know you! May I call you Jane and Lizzy?"

"Of course, Catherine!" cried Jane, taking the younger girl's hands in her own. "After all, tomorrow we shall be sisters."

"It is good that you come from a large family," said Elizabeth with a smile. "You will not be discomposed by acquiring five more sisters."

"Oh, no," said Catherine. "I am glad to have so many new sisters! Except for Sarah, my sisters are much younger than I."

"What of Miss Tilney?" asked Mrs. Allen from her sopha, where she was ensconced with her tambour-hoop. "The Viscountess, I should say," she amended, slowly and methodically dipping the hook into the fabric. "Will we see her, Mr. Tilney?"

"Eleanor and her husband should arrive later this afternoon," said Henry.

"Well, before the party becomes too large," said Mr. Bennet, bringing forth a flat leather-covered box, "I have something for Miss Morland."

"Thank you," said Catherine in confusion, taking the box. "What is it?"

"I believe the accepted method of discovery with a gift is to open it," said Mr. Bennet. "Go on, my dear."

Catherine needed no more encouragement; she lifted the lid of the box and gasped in surprise, then gingerly held up a beautiful pearl necklace.

"That necklace belonged to Henry's mother," said Mr. Bennet. "It was given to her by her father on her wedding day."

"How lovely!" cried Catherine. She went to Mr. Bennet and kissed him on the cheek, a salute that he received with great equanimity.

"The pearls will look well with your wedding gown," said Henry.

Catherine frowned at her fiancé. "You have not seen my gown."

"I know it will be white and silver, and the most beautiful gown you have ever owned. Am I correct?"

"You are," said Catherine, laughing.

"And a white lace veil will be pinned in your hair, and you will carry...oh, white roses, perhaps? I believe you have learned at last to love a rose, and would therefore wish to carry them on your wedding day of all days. But perhaps I am wrong and you will traipse up the aisle bearing a hyacinth. I clearly recall your affection for that blossom."

Mrs. Allen frowned. "That would not do at all, Mr. Tilney. A bride would not carry a hyacinth. You had much better carry the roses, my dear."

"A-ha! Roses! I was right," said Henry smugly.

"I am not going to show you my gown," said Catherine firmly. "He has been teasing me about it these three weeks," she added to the rest of the company. "But Mrs. Allen says that it is bad luck for the groom to see the bride's gown before the wedding, so I will not show it to you, Henry, no matter how you tease me."

"Alas! I know when I am defeated," cried Henry. "I retire gracefully from the lists."

Just then a manservant entered the room and announced the Whitings. The Bennets exchanged apprehensive glances, but the Viscountess turned out to be an ordinary-looking young woman with a kind smile. Catherine ran to greet her with a glad cry, and the warm embrace she bestowed on the younger girl did much to restore the Bennets' comfort.

If the Vicountess felt a trifle supplanted by two unknown young ladies who suddenly had a stronger claim than she on Henry, whom she had always considered a brother, she was too well-bred to show it. When Elizabeth was presented to her ladyship, Eleanor cried, "Why, Henry, she is just like you! How did you not know you were related directly you met?"

"Because I am not omniscient, my dear Eleanor."

"I must thank you for taking care of Henry for us all these years," said Elizabeth archly. "It must have been difficult to bear such a paragon in the house."

Henry laughingly protested, and Eleanor smiled. "I see you are not only like Henry in looks. Well, for my part I must thank you for the lend of him. He has been an excellent brother, and a comfort to me. Come, you must meet my husband."

His lordship proved to be, to a precision, the most charming young man in the world, and soon all the large party, with the addition of Mr. and Mrs. Morland and several of their older children, were comfortably assembled in the Allens' dining-room.

After dinner, they continued a noisy, merry, congenial party. Mr. Allen took Mr. Bennet and Mr. Morland to his billiard-room; Elizabeth took a turn at the pianoforte; and Mrs. Allen got news of the latest fashions from Eleanor.

Henry caught Catherine's eye and nodded briefly at the French windows that led to the garden. They slipped away, thinking they were unseen, though Elizabeth and Eleanor at least exchanged smiles of complicity.

"I think I am going to like your sisters," said Catherine, slipping her hand into the curve of Henry's elbow.

"I thought you might," Henry admitted.

"Eleanor is right," Catherine mused. "Lizzy is very like you, not only in looks but in disposition. And Jane is so beautiful, and yet so modest and kind!" They walked in silence for a moment, and then she added, "I wonder that your friends Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley have not come. Were they not to be your groomsmen?"

"They wrote to me and said they would be here," said Henry. "I hope they have not met with an accident."

"Oh! Do you think that could have happened!" cried Catherine in real alarm.

Henry shook his head. "I dare say we should have heard something by now. I wonder--" he pressed his lips together and again shook his head.

Catherine glanced at him, her face equally grave. "You think perhaps they are trying to avoid seeing Lizzy and Jane?"

Henry smiled down at her. "I forget, you are as acquainted with the circumstances as I am." His smile faded and he said, "I do not think Bingley would purposely avoid my sisters, and I do not like to think that Darcy would contrive to keep him away."

"They might arrive tomorrow," said Catherine hopefully.

"They might," Henry agreed.

A cool breeze whispered through the garden, and Catherine pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

"Are you cold, my sweet?" Henry asked her.

"A little," she admitted.

Henry stopped and drew her into his arms. "Is this better?"

"Mmmm." Catherine wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"My sweet Cat is purring," said Henry softly. "I wonder, will she purr if I stroke her like...this?" He traced his finger down her cheek.

"Mmmm," said Catherine, closing her eyes and lifting her face invitingly.

"And like this?" He touched his lips gently to her throat just below the jawline.

"Mmmmmm," sighed Catherine.

"And like this?" he whispered, and then kissed her.

At length Catherine said, "I cannot purr while you are kissing me, Henry."

"We shall see about that, my sweet. I think you simply want proper encouragement." He disentangled himself reluctantly from her embrace. "Unfortunately I cannot provide that encouragement tonight, and you should be abed. We have an early appointment tomorrow at the church."

"Until tomorrow, then," said Catherine, her eyes shining.

"Until tomorrow," he agreed, and kissed her one last time before he led her back into the house.

"You are complete to a shade, Tilney," Lord Whiting assured Henry, who was anxiously checking his reflection in the small mirror that hung in the vestry. "Besides, it is not your place to be fine today, it is the bride's. You are simply to show up and say your vows like a good boy."

Henry laughed. "I have performed a few weddings, you know. Just because you are an old married man does not mean you can assume a superior manner, my lord."

"As an old married man, I can tell you that you should have bachelors for your groomsmen."

"Darcy and Bingley have not shown up, so I shall have to make do," Henry retorted as Mr. Taylor, already dressed in his vestments, came into the room. "Thank you for coming all this way to perform the ceremony, sir," said Henry, shaking his hand.

"Mr. Morland wants to give away his daughter, and it is very right that he should. I hope you are not having second thoughts, Henry. Mr. Morland's clerk is quite an efficient fellow; he already has the register filled out and ready for you to sign. I should not like to see all his hard work go to waste."

Before Henry could reply, the door opened and Bingley and Darcy entered in a great hurry. "Are we in time?" cried Bingley, shaking Henry's hand. "There were no horses to be had at the posting-inn, and we were forced to put up there overnight."

"You are in time," said Henry, pleased to see his friends. "I confess I had quite given up on you and recruited a replacement."

"Hello, Whiting," said Darcy, shaking the Viscount's hand. "It is good to see you again. Please accept my congratulations on your elevation to the peerage and on your marriage."

"I thank you, Darcy," replied his lordship. "Is that Charles Bingley? I have not seen you since Oxford, sir! How do you do?"

"You know his lordship is Eleanor's husband," Henry told Bingley.

Bingley blinked and stared at the Viscount for a moment. "Oh, yes," he said rather lamely. "Of course. Tilney did tell me that his sister--er, Miss Tilney--well--" He bowed, and added, "I am pleased to see you again, my lord."

"It appears that I am a trifle superfluous," said his lordship, quietly hiding his amusement at Bingley's distress. "I had better find a seat."

There was a great deal of confusion in the vestry; everyone was milling around and waiting their turn to sign the register.

Henry handed the pen to his wife and watched as she signed "Catherine Morland" one last time. She handed the pen to Sarah, who was one of her bridesmaids, and smiled at Henry.

"Now it is official, Mrs. Tilney," he whispered.

Catherine's smile grew even wider. Indeed she had not stopped smiling throughout the ceremony. She looked as lovely as Henry could have hoped, in her white muslin dress embroidered with silver thread and her white lace veil atop her dark curls. Her cheeks held a becoming blush at the unusual attention showered upon her.

Darcy and Bingley had finished signing the register and approached the newlyweds. Henry presented them to Catherine, and Bingley took her hand with a smile of genuine delight. "My dear Mrs. Tilney!" he cried, kissing her hand. "Your very obedient, ma'am! It is perfectly delightful to meet you at last! Tilney has not stopped speaking of you these twelve months at least."

"Longer than that," retorted Henry as Catherine turned to Darcy.

Darcy took her hand and bowed, his eyes warm and his smile kind despite his usual reserve with strangers. "I am delighted to meet you, Mrs. Tilney," he said quietly. "May I wish you every happiness in your marriage?"

"I thank you," said Catherine, blushing even pinker. She had not realized how very tall and how very handsome was Henry's friend, and his kind attentions rendered her nearly speechless. She was much more inclined to prefer Bingley's cordial, easy manners.

"Tilney, you lucky dog," declared Bingley, wringing his hand. "I wish you joy, sir!"

"I would see you as happy as I am at this moment," said Henry quietly, adding to Darcy, "both of you."

Darcy did not respond, and Bingley threw an unhappy glance over his shoulder in the direction of Jane Bennet.

At that moment Henry's attention was claimed by his father and Catherine was taken away by her mother, and Bingley and Darcy melted into the general crowd as Catherine's other two bridesmaids, Jane and Elizabeth, were signing the register.

"I wish you joy, son," Mr. Bennet was saying. "Your Catherine is a delightful young lady. She will do very well for you. You are too reasonable and too well informed to desire anything more in woman than ignorance. Whereas to the larger and more trifling part of our sex, imbecility in females is a great enhancement of their personal charms."

"I am sure you do not include yourself in that number, sir," laughed Henry. "I should hate to hear my mother described so."

"No, no," said his father reflectively. "I would not say so."

The guests were invited to the great house for breakfast following the wedding ceremony. Elizabeth, laughing over her shoulder, went into the dining room and nearly ran into Darcy. "Good morning," he said with a stiff bow.

She curtseyed and said, "Good morning," in the same stilted fashion.

There was an uncomfortable silence. "I hope you are well," said Darcy finally.

"I am, I thank you." Elizabeth found herself unable to raise her eyes to Darcy's. All she could think of were the terrible words she had flung at him at their last encounter: the unfounded accusations, the lies that Mr. Wickham had told her. She also remembered the coldness in his manner when he handed her the explanatory letter, and her cheeks burned.

Darcy saw her flush and misinterpreted it. He also remembered their last meeting, the fire that had flashed in Elizabeth's eyes when she accused him of interfering in Bingley's courtship of Jane Bennet. Darcy was still not entirely convinced that he had been wrong to do so, and he was not sure that his letter had changed her mind about Wickham's allegations. In any event, he did not want a confrontation to disrupt his friend's wedding breakfast, so he simply bowed to Elizabeth and left her.

The wedding breakfast was over, and everyone was standing outside the great house, ready to send the newlyweds on their way with all the warmest wishes their friends could bestow.

"Mr. Bingley?"

Bingley froze, recognizing the gentle voice that called his name; then he took a deep breath and turned around. "Your ladyship," he said, making a graceful leg.

Eleanor smiled up at him. "I am so very glad to see you! I had hoped that you and Mr. Darcy would attend Henry's wedding."

"We would not have wanted to miss it. Unfortunately there was a misunderstanding about the horses and we nearly did so." He hesitated for a moment, and then added, "May I wish you joy, ma'am? Tilney told me of your marriage."

"I thank you, sir. I believe you are acquainted with my husband?"

"A little. We were at Oxford together, but not in the same college, and he is older than I..." his voice trailed off lamely.

"He remembers you very warmly, I assure you." They stood in silence for a moment, then Eleanor said, "Do you remember the summer you visited Henry at Northanger?"

Bingley could not help but smile. "I remember it well. Tilney has never let me forget how you abandoned me on that dark, cold path that you so like to walk, and I got all turned around and was unable to find my way back to the house for hours! How angry the General was that I was late for dinner!"

Eleanor laughed and held out her hands. "I hope you have forgiven me for treating you so abominably," she said.

Bingley took her hands in his own and smiled down at her fondly. He understood, now, that his affection for the Viscountess had long ago ceased to be romantic, and was now the brotherly sort of affection that he had for Georgiana Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. He was incapable of hiding those feelings behind the sort of civil façade cultivated by Darcy; and he was not aware that the only young lady who could make a stronger claim on his affections was watching him with some alarm.

How he looks at her! thought Jane in despair. He used to look at me so...but Eleanor is a married woman, and Mr. Bingley would not impose upon her. She remembered the letters from Caroline Bingley, cruelly dismissing all her fondest hopes. How absurd I am, to think that Mr. Bingley could ever love me! I wonder if he looks at Miss Darcy that way...

Meanwhile, Eleanor was saying to Bingley, "May I expect to hear of your wedding anytime soon, sir?"

Bingley glanced around self-consciously, and his gaze fell on Jane Bennet, whose own eyes at that moment were turned away resolutely. Eleanor's eyes followed his, and immediately comprehended all. "I shall not keep you," she told him with a smile. "I commend your taste, Mr. Bingley. Jane is a lovely young lady."

He beamed. "She is, is not she?" He bowed again, and kissed the Viscountess' hand, just as Jane looked round at them.

By the time that he joined her, however, the stricken expression had disappeared from her face. Miss Bennet had always warmly encouraged Bingley's attentions, but now she greeted him with the cool composure of a slight acquaintance. He was unsure how to act; he remembered what Caroline, and Louisa, and even Darcy had said about Jane Bennet. She has no real regard for you; naturally, her mother encouraged her to attach herself to the first eligible male that came along. She has probably forgot all about you and is tossing her handkerchief at some redcoat as we speak. Mrs. Bennet was not present, and apparently his own charms were not sufficient to draw Miss Bennet's interest. Bingley spoke to her briefly, bowed stiffly, and joined Darcy, standing off to one side of the general throng.

Catherine brushed her hair dreamily and gazed at her smiling reflection. Henry had gone into the dressing room to change into his nightclothes, and she was waiting for him, having changed first at her husband's insistence.

My husband. It still sounded so very strange! Strange, yet delightful. My husband. She brushed her already well-brushed hair and smiled yet again.

Henry came in and sat down next to her on the bench before the dressing-table, facing away from the mirror. He leaned back against the table and said, "I have a gift for you."

"For me?" cried Catherine in delight. "But you have already been so generous!" She had been taken aback by the marriage settlements--the sum that Henry settled upon her, and the amount designated for her pin money, had taken her breath away, though Henry and her parents assured her that the arrangements were all very much in the common way.

"This is a gift for both of us." He handed her a heavy package, wrapped in white paper and tied with a ribbon.

Catherine eagerly undid the package and was surprised to find it contained a stack of four books. She opened the top volume and exclaimed, "It is Udolpho!"

"I thought we could read it together," grinned Henry. "We have both read it before, but they were borrowed copies, so I procured a copy for our own. We have to start our family library somewhere, after all."

Catherine's eyes shone at him. "This is a wonderful gift, Henry! I should very much like for us to read it together!" Her smile faded, and she gazed down at the book sorrowfully.

"What is it, my sweet Cat?" prompted Henry gently.

"Henry, I have been considering, and I think that a married woman should read better books than Udolpho. Do not you agree? I should read history books, and Shakespeare, things like that." She gazed up at him earnestly. "Will you make me a list?"

Henry did not respond, but simply smiled; there was something in his expression that made Catherine's heart beat a little faster and a little thrill run down her spine and out to the tips of her fingers and toes.

"Have you any idea," he said softly, leaning closer, "how utterly adorable you are?"

Catherine found herself unable to form any coherent response, and then Henry kissed her, sending her consciousness spinning into total disarray. This was not one of the chaste lover's salutes he had bestowed on her previously; this was a husband's eager kiss, and Catherine, though startled at first, responded instinctively. It was a few moments before they broke apart, gasping for breath.

"Let's to bed, Catherine," Henry whispered.

All of Catherine's senses were heightened; she was acutely conscious of the rasp of Henry's evening beard against her cheek, the silk of his dressing-gown beneath her fingers, the warmth of his hands through the thin muslin of her nightdress. Her sole ordered thought was that the last thing she wanted to do at the moment was go to sleep, but unused to the married state, she was not sure how to tell Henry so in a way that would not cause offense. At last she stammered, "I-I am not tired."

Henry smiled broadly. "All the better, my sweet," he said, folding her into his embrace. "All the better."

In her chamber at Fullerton, Elizabeth lay awake for some time; finally she tossed back the sheets. She felt in her writing-desk until she located, by touch, two folded sheets of paper. She lit a candle in the dying embers of the fire and opened the letter; the paper had softened and the folds were becoming worn from constant handling. It was a letter she had perused countless times over the past weeks.

Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you...

Jane had made it through the day with no apparent loss of composure. She was genuinely happy for her brother and his wife, envy not being part of her makeup. She smiled, along with everyone else, at the events of the day; but alone in her room, she could not forget the sight of Mr. Bingley and the Viscountess, or the thought of Mr. Bingley marrying Miss Darcy, and no longer forced to show serenity to the world, she wept unabashedly into her pillow.

Mr. Allen pressed Henry's particular friends to stay at Fullerton, but neither of the gentlemen were eager to be under the same roof as the Miss Bennets, so they adhered to their original plan to spend the night of the wedding at an inn in Salisbury before returning to town.

Darcy spent the rest of the night in deep contemplation, unable to stop remembering his meeting with Elizabeth. He told himself that he was a fool; the way she had spoken to him when he proposed to her, and her behaviour today, showed plainly that she could never feel for him as he felt for her. He had tried to forget her these past weeks, tried to forget the sparkle in her dark eyes, the spirit in her conversation, the pleasing aspect of her figure; but he knew the moment they met that he still loved her as much as he had when he had asked her to be his wife. He could not easily forget Elizabeth Bennet.

Bingley's thoughts were mixed between genuine happiness for his friend Tilney and for the Viscountess, and sorrow at the smiling complacence with which Jane Bennet had greeted him. Darcy and Caroline must be right; she could not have greeted him so if she cared for him! He had to forget her. If he could forget Eleanor Tilney, if he could feel no other emotion than pure delight at her marriage, then surely he could forget Jane Bennet.

Then why did he still have that tightness in his chest when he thought of Jane, of her golden hair and skin, of the elegance of her long neck, of her shy smile and musical laugh? He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to sleep but unable to, listening to the occasional rumble of a passing carriage and the oppressive nighttime silence of the inn.

Mrs. Allen lay wakeful, comparing her own gown to those of the other ladies. She was comfortable that her gown compared favourably to the Miss Bennets', but knew that she had been sadly in the shadow of the Viscountess. I must ask her where she procured that lace. I wonder if it is terribly expensive? Mr. Allen is generous with my pin-money, but is he as generous as a Viscount could be? She sighed fretfully and turned over, weary but unable to sleep with such vital matters pressing upon her mind.

Mr. Bennet placed an arm-chair by the window, where he gazed out at the stars, as he often did, and had a silent conversation with his Elizabeth. How do you like our son, my love? He has chosen his wife well, I think. She loves him truly, and he loves her. We who knew such a love can sympathize, can we not? He said a prayer for his son and his new daughter, that their affection would endure and that they would always know the joy he had shared with his own true love.

"Are you purring, my Cat?"

"Mmmmm."

"Then you are content."

"Mmmmm." There was a short pause, and then the Cat murmured drowsily, "You are the very nicest husband in the world," and fell asleep to the comfortable sound of Henry's soft laughter.

Chapter XVI

Posted on Monday, 30 July 2001

During the first few weeks of their marriage, Henry and Catherine were naturally delighted with each other's company, although they were obliged to make certain adjustments in their expectations.

I leave it to the reader to imagine Catherine's surprise when she discovered that the husband she had always considered without fault was, in fact, rather slovenly in some of his personal habits. He thoughtlessly laid down books and articles of clothing anywhere, and left them until someone else--usually Catherine--picked them up and put them away. The numerous Morland children, brought up in a parsonage with a minimum of servants, had been taught to pick up after themselves from the time they could walk, and Catherine became increasingly impatient with Henry's litter.

A few days after they arrived in Scotland, Henry asked Catherine if she had seen his blue waistcoat. His things, as usual, were scattered about their lodgings.

"I know not," she replied, rather more sharply than usual. "You probably left it lying about somewhere. Perhaps it got thrown away."

Henry rummaged through the clothes press. "Thrown away? Who would do such a thing?"

"My mother would have! If we did not pick up our clothes and toys, they were given away to poor children. 'Tis a shame that no one at Northanger ever did the same for you. I might not be forever tripping over your things."

Henry stopped his activity and stared at his wife in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I am very sorry, Henry, but I am not accustomed to this chaos!"

He looked around, clearly confused. "It is not so bad." He laughed and returned to his task. "My room at home is much worse, I assure you."

"Well, then, keep your disorder in your own room! I shall not tolerate it in mine! Do not expect me to find your things, either. If you put them away properly, you would know where they are!" Catherine clapped her hand over her mouth, blushing furiously but strangely relieved as well.

"You feel very strongly about this," Henry said, watching her thoughtfully.

"I do," Catherine murmured.

"Very well, then. I must endeavour to remember to pick up after myself." He crossed to where Catherine stood and took her in his arms. "Or at least endeavour to keep my disorder out of sight. Do you forgive me?"

"No, you should forgive me," she said into his shoulder. "I detest shrewish wives, and always said I should not be one."

"Telling me that something I am doing makes you unhappy is hardly shrewish, my love. However, I think from now on you should not try to conceal such things." He tilted her chin up and kissed her. "You know I shall not censure you."

"I know, but I did not think I should begin only a day after we were wed."

"Was it that soon?" said Henry, laughing. "I am careless with my things. Eleanor would scold me about it occasionally, but not quite so forcefully as you. A gentle reminder from time to time probably would help."

In Henry's turn, he was mortified by the discovery that Catherine's thick, dark curls, which he so prized and had dreamed of daily during their separation, were not natural, but were instead put into her hair with a hot iron every morning. The first time he witnessed the process and was treated to the unpleasant smell of burnt hair due to the inexperience of the young maidservant provided by the innkeeper, he fled the room in dismay. Fortunately, his sense of humour returned quickly, and he teased Catherine every morning about the time she spent at her toilette.

One night, Catherine came to bed with her hair done up in curl rags, confined with a large round cap. Henry did not like Catherine to wear a cap during the day, though he had bowed to the prevailing fashion for married women, insisting only that the cap be as small as possible and of a very pretty lace that looked well against her hair. The cap Catherine wore that night owed nothing to fashion; it was thick cotton, and tied with a simple bit of cord. Henry stared at Catherine in silent revulsion for a long moment. At last he put down his book, extinguished the candle, and turned on his side away from his wife, muttering a hasty good-night.

Catherine was astonished at this behaviour, but said nothing at first. She lay down beside Henry, occasionally glancing over at the back and shoulder he had chosen to display to her, and wondered. Perhaps they had walked too far that day, and Henry had the headache from all the sun. She asked him in a low voice if he felt ill.

"No, I do not feel ill."

There was another silence, and then Catherine ventured, "Then why have you not kissed me good-night?"

Henry said nothing; after a moment, he rolled over, kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek, and turned away once again.

Catherine said miserably, "That is not precisely what I meant."

"Well, you cannot expect me to feel romantic when you come to bed looking like somebody's grandmother!"

"What do you mean?" she cried.

Henry turned over and waved his hand at her head. "That cap! It makes you look positively middle-aged! I knew the bloom would come off the rose at some point, but good Lord, Catherine! We haven't been married a fortnight!"

"Well, you said this morning that I took so long to curl my hair that you nearly fell asleep waiting for me, and one time you ran away. If I cannot curl my hair in the morning, I must wear curl rags to bed."

"Oh, Cat." Henry's voice was once again tender, and Catherine's heart leaped. "I was teasing you, sweetest girl. I am sorry if you thought I was in earnest."

"Then you do not mind if I take the time to curl my hair in the morning?"

"If it means you will come to bed with your beautiful hair unbound for your husband, my love, take as long as you like."

"Then I will!" Catherine sat up and pulled off the cap. "Here, help me take these out."

Henry eagerly joined her; though his fingers, unaccustomed to the task, were clumsier than hers, soon they had all the bits of cloth removed and placed neatly in the cap. Henry would have tossed the bundle upon the floor, but mindful of Catherine's admonition about disorder, he carefully placed it on the bedside table.

Catherine shook out her hair, which hung nearly to her waist and held a curl well. Henry watched her for a moment and then observed, "You may consider it perverse, Cat, but I rather enjoy our little quarrels."

"You do? I hate them!"

Henry ran his fingers through Catherine's hair, arranging it around her shoulders. "The quarrel itself is unpleasant," he admitted. "But the reconciliation, my sweet--" He pulled her down into his arms, the dark waves of her hair falling about them like a veil. "Oh, the reconciliation is glorious, indeed."

Henry was pleased to discover that Catherine knew very well how to ride horseback, as it was the easiest way to reach the sites of the mysterious old buildings they had come to visit. They rode out nearly every day in fine weather, and by the end of a fortnight, even Catherine's passion for ruined edifices was fairly well sated.

One morning they set out to see the remains of a nearby abbey. The day was all blue skies and sunshine, and Henry was in high spirits. "Do you still think I am the nicest husband in the world?" he asked Catherine as they rode along.

Catherine frowned at him, knowing that he was teasing her for something she said on their wedding night. "I think you are a very--satisfactory husband."

"Satisfactory!" Henry cried, clutching at his chest. "You cut me to the quick, my sweet! I thought I was doing so well, but to be told that I am merely a satisfactory husband! To fall from being the nicest husband in the world to a satisfactory husband is a loss of dignity from which I might not soon recover."

"You know what I mean," said Catherine, feeling rather harassed. "You are the nicest husband, but you do not like it when I use that word in that way."

"I like you to use that word in any way you choose. I am delighted to think that you might consider me nice in the performance of my husbandly duties," he added with a naughty grin. "After all, I should not like to violate the proprieties of civilized society, even with my wife."

"Henry!" cried Catherine, scandalized. She glanced around to see if anyone could have overheard, but they were quite alone.

Henry was very much amused but allowed the subject to decline, though he could not stay quiet for long. At length he said, "I hope you have prepared yourself for what we might find at this abbey."

"This is not the first abbey I have seen, you know."

"But this is not just any abbey, Cat: this is a ruined abbey. No one has lived here for hundreds of years. Perhaps we will stumble across a waxen model of a corpse, or some instrument of torture. Its passages are undoubtedly populated by unquiet spirits, as well."

Catherine gave her husband a skeptical glance. "You are trying to frighten me, Henry, but you shall not succeed."

"I know that I cannot frighten you. I shall leave that to the spirits." He added in a quiet voice, "They tell me that a young lady--just about your age--was locked up in a cell by her father because she fell in love with a man of whom he did not approve. She was never seen again. Perhaps if we go into the darkest, most remote cell, we will find--"

"That is quite enough!" cried Catherine. "I am not frightened! I shall not listen any further!" She spurred her horse to a gallop, riding away from Henry, who watched her with a smile that was a little wistful. Part of him missed the innocent girl who had listened wide-eyed to his description of the horrors that might be found at Northanger Abbey. Catherine had found no waxen corpses or instruments of torture there, though she had found horrors of another sort.

It turned out that the abbey was not much ruined after all, with only part of one wall tumbled down. They easily gained admittance and went down the dark, dusty passages and up a narrow flight of stairs.

"Look at this room, Henry!" Catherine called. He followed her voice into a large room with filthy Gothic windows, still intact and large enough to admit a great deal of sunshine even through the dirt. The remains of an old wooden bed sagged in one corner. Catherine was trying to open the window latch.

"Come away from there, Cat," said Henry sharply. "That is part of the ruined wall. I do not trust it."

Catherine shook her head and smiled. "I told you, you cannot frighten me. I almost have this latch."

"I am not teasing this time. Now, come away."

Catherine conquered the latch and threw open the window. "What a glorious view! And there are sheep, and dead trees, and rocks, and all sorts of picturesque things; come and see!" She leaned against the window frame and it crumbled under her hands, collapsing into nothingness, along with the window and a large portion of the wall of the room. Catherine reflexively took a few steps backward as the stones where she had been standing tumbled twenty feet to the ground. When it was over, Catherine stood on the edge of a precipice, frozen in terror, with only unstable footing behind her and a deadly plunge to the ground before her.

Henry slowly moved as close as he dared. He reached out to her, his hand as firm and steady as his voice. "Give me your hand, Catherine."

She made a sobbing noise, but did not move.

"Give me your hand, love. I will not let you fall."

She reached slowly behind her, her hand moving closer to Henry's inch by excruciating inch. At last he grasped her hand and pulled her out of that treacherous room to the refuge of the still-solid staircase.

Catherine nearly wept with relief at finding herself safe in Henry's arms, though his embrace was a trifle crushing. She felt his heart thumping against his chest; she raised her head and said in surprise, "You were truly frightened!"

"Yes." Henry's voice was oddly strained, but his grip on her did not abate.

"But, you are never frightened! Even when you read Udolpho, you act as though you are frightened, but I know you are pretending."

Henry was silent a moment before responding. "Mrs. Radcliffe has no power to frighten me." He kissed her urgently and added in a low voice, "The most frightening thing in the world to me is the thought of losing you."

"But you were so brave in there!"

"I did not want to alarm you and cause you to stumble."

"I am sorry that I did not come away from the window when you bid me."

"It was my own fault for teasing you. It was only natural for you to think I was making a joke."

Catherine stood quietly in Henry's embrace for a long moment. At last she said, "I have had enough of old buildings. Let us go home."

Henry considered this. "Would you agree to a visit in Hertfordshire first? I would like to take you to Longbourn." He grinned at her, his humour returning. "Fear not: it is quite a modern, well-built house, and you shall have nothing to fear there. You have already had enough adventure, I think. How does it feel to be a heroine?"

Catherine shivered. "If that is what it is like to be a heroine, I would rather not."

"Not even if your hero is the nicest husband in the world?"

She smiled up at him, happy, in a way, that he had fallen back into his customary teasing. "My hero is the nicest husband in the world."

Henry laughed and kissed her once more, and then took her hand and led her outside to where their horses were waiting patiently. "I shall make the arrangements, and with luck we will be able to leave for Longbourn tomorrow."

Upon their arrival at Longbourn, both Henry and Catherine were disappointed to discover that Elizabeth was not there, but was traveling in the north with her aunt and uncle. Catherine was further disappointed that Lydia had gone to Brighton with some friends, as she had longed to make the acquaintance of all Henry's sisters. For his part, Henry was glad to see his father and sisters again. Mr. Bennet took Henry out daily, either to meet the tenants, to see the farm, for fishing in the stream, or just for a long walk and congenial conversation as they made up for six and twenty years of lost time.

Henry maintained a cordial distance with Mrs. Bennet, paying her the respect that was due his father's wife but avoiding her company whenever possible. Thus, he was unaware of a growing tension between his stepmother and his wife.

Kitty was rather lost without her usual companion, so a sister-in-law of her own age was a welcome addition to the family party. At first Catherine's status as a married woman, a state that Mrs. Bennet promoted so fiercely to all her daughters, left Kitty a little in awe; however, Catherine's good-natured cheerfulness soon won her over, and the two girls were often together.

One hot afternoon the ladies had retreated to the cool of the drawing-room with their books and work. Kitty encouraged Catherine to tell them about the parsonage at Woodston.

"I have only seen it once," explained Catherine, "before Henry and I were married, or even engaged."

Kitty persisted, "Is it a handsome house?"

"It is a very handsome house. The drawing-room is the prettiest room you will ever see! It is not fitted up at present, but Henry said that I am to make the choices for furniture and hangings and everything else. I know just what I shall choose, too," she added, warming to her subject. "Pomona green and white--shall not that be charming? It will make me think always of the apple-trees when they are in blossom, even in the winter when they are bare. I think striped wallpaper, and a little green rug, and the hangings will be green silk."

"What kind of room is it?" Kitty had been drawing idly on the back of a letter; now she took up a piece of fresh paper and began to sketch on it with a pencil.

"It is a large room, and well-proportioned. The windows go all the way to the ground." Kitty sketched the room and added furniture to Catherine's specifications. Jane joined in, and even Mary was curious; the girls all gathered around the table and laughed together as they made suggestions. After a time, the sketch was finished, and Catherine regarded her sister with delighted awe. "I wish I could draw like that. You are very talented!"

"I must get my watercolours and colour it in," Kitty said. "Then you will really see how it shall look. I am sure Henry will like it."

"And then," said Mrs. Bennet with a forced sort of laugh, "you must draw this drawing-room, Kitty, for I am sure that Mrs. Tilney would like to make plans to new-furnish it, as well."

Catherine stared at her in surprise, and said doubtfully, "I do not understand you, ma'am."

"Oh, do not you?" Mrs. Bennet eyed her balefully. "I suppose you would not say so to my face, but I know how these things are. I am sure that you and Henry have your own plans for Longbourn, and that you look upon it entirely as your own."

"Indeed we do not," cried Catherine. "I know that Henry depends on living at Woodston for a very long time, as do I."

"So you admit it! You admit that you and Henry think about the time you will have Longbourn! Well, I hope you are happy enough here, when the girls and I are turned out of the house to fend for ourselves when Mr. Bennet is dead."

"I am sure that Henry would not turn you out, ma'am."

"He says he shall not," said Mrs. Bennet significantly. "However, you will have children of your own, and your little parsonage will not be enough for you, after a few years of marriage, and then see if you turn up your nose at Longbourn."

Seeing that Catherine was miserable at being so badly misunderstood by her mother-in-law, Jane gently reminded Mrs. Bennet that Hill would require instructions as to dinner.

"Jane, you are my comfort!" cried Mrs. Bennet, rising from her chair. "I depend upon you marrying at least, and perhaps you will be able to provide for your poor mamma and the rest of your sisters." She left the room with a haughty sweep of her skirts.

Kitty whispered to Catherine, "You mustn't mind Mamma. Her nerves are very bad, you know."

Over the next week, Catherine tried very hard not to mind Mrs. Bennet; indeed, she tried to avoid her, but found it an impossible task. Even when Catherine retreated to a little-used sitting room in the hope of a peaceful half-hour, Mrs. Bennet seemed to find her. It was strange to Catherine that a woman who seemed to have so much antipathy for her would always be seeking her out; alas, Catherine's knowledge of the world, though much improved since her season in Bath, was still imperfect. She did not recognize Mrs. Bennet's hostility as a lack of imagination. The older woman saw Catherine as a rival: not for a lover, but for Longbourn.

Matters came to a head when Jane found Catherine hidden away in her bedchamber, weeping uncontrollably over the latest slight. Jane patted her hand, soaked a handkerchief with Cologne, and performed all the usual ceremonies of women when faced with the suffering of a sister. After some more tears and kind ministrations, Catherine was sufficiently calmed for Jane to extract the cause of the younger girl's distress.

"I know she is your mother, Jane, and she is Henry's stepmother, and I try to pay her the proper respect," Catherine sniffled, "but I dread being in the same room with her! Even when she does not say anything, she looks at me in the most alarming way!"

"Have you told Henry about this?" asked Jane gently.

Catherine looked up in alarm. "Oh, no!" she cried. "I cannot tell Henry, because then he would want to take me away, and he is having such a lovely visit with his father. Promise me you will not tell him."

"Of course I will not tell him, if that is your wish." Jane was a great deal too scrupulous about her honour to break such a promise; however, the promise had not included her father, and she sought a private conference with Mr. Bennet before the day was out.

No one knew what Mr. Bennet said to his wife about the matter, but he was only able to achieve mixed results. Though Mrs. Bennet no longer talked in slighting tones of the next inmates of Longbourn, she continually turned looks of such sullen resentment upon her daughter-in-law that Catherine's naturally cheerful disposition was crushed, to the point that even the distracted Henry had to notice it.

It was Henry and Catherine's habit to read a chapter or two of Udolpho before retiring. Henry would pile the pillows in such a way that he could comfortably recline and read aloud, even with his arm round Catherine's waist and her head upon his shoulder. Catherine was surprised how differently Udolpho sounded when Henry read it to her than it did when she read it herself. Emily St. Aubert was a much less romantic figure when Henry abused her each time she fainted (and Catherine had never realized how often Emily did just that), and the Chevalier Valancourt's words of devotion seemed artificial and even laughable when Henry read them aloud in a simpering, affected voice.

About a week after her talk with Jane, Catherine lay listening to Henry read. Her head rested on his chest, and he stroked her hair absently. The chapter included a long description of an Alpine range, and Catherine's thoughts soon wandered away. Mrs. Bennet had delivered several withering looks during dinner, although she sat by Catherine and pretended to be friendly when the gentlemen joined them for tea. Catherine had begun to feel that perhaps she was developing Mrs. Bennet's frequently advertised nervous condition, jumping in alarm every time her mother-in-law addressed her.

She interrupted Henry in the middle of a sentence to say, "When you inherit Longbourn, must we live here?"

A rather startled Henry replied, "Well, yes, I suppose so, but I hope that will not be for many years. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Catherine was already a little embarrassed at her question, and tried to drop the subject.

Henry looked down on her keenly. "Do not you like Longbourn?"

"Oh, no! It is a very nice house."

"Yes, indeed. It is well-built and well-maintained. I particularly like the stonework."

"You know what I mean, Henry!" cried Catherine. "I just prefer Woodston, that is all."

"Is that all? I wonder," said Henry thoughtfully, "if my stepmother has something to do with this sudden attachment to Woodston."

Catherine could not lie to Henry, even to spare his feelings. She nodded sadly.

"Has she given you a hard time, love?"

"Jane tried to explain it to me. She said that her mother worried for so long about the entailment that she cannot understand that you have no intention of turning her out when you inherit." She looked up at Henry and added desperately, "I like Longbourn, I do! It is a very nice house! But I should not like to live here with Mrs. Bennet, and it would not be fair to her to turn her out when her husband dies."

"Well, Cat," said Henry gravely, "let us not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that my father will be the survivor."

Catherine looked sharply at Henry, and despite his solemn expression, she knew that the twinkle in his eye meant that he was teasing her, and she giggled.

Henry grinned. "I know what we shall do. I have had a letter from Darcy, inviting us to visit him at Pemberley. His sister and her companion will be there, so you shall have female company. What do you say to my scheme?"

"Oh, yes! I should very much like to see Pemberley."

"I will write to Darcy tomorrow." He kissed her on the forehead. "Shall I put the book away?" he murmured, his lips very close to her ear.

"No, finish the chapter." Catherine nestled against Henry's chest, feeling happier than she had since she had come to Longbourn. Nevertheless, soon her thoughts began to stray back to her recent trials, and her countenance once again took on that faraway, haunted look.

Then her husband put down the book, put out the candles, and took her in his arms, and Catherine thought no more that night of Mrs. Bennet, or of Longbourn, or of anything but Henry.

Continued In Next Section