Chapter 1

Mrs. Catherine Tilney née Morland began her marriage to the Reverend Henry Tilney with every expectation of happiness. When a crisis emerges and her new family is put in danger, she must become the heroine she has been in training for all her life. A sequel to Northanger Abbey featuring dramatic scenarios, comic situations, witty banter, and hopefully wisdom gained through the evolving relationship of a young couple with plenty to learn about themselves and each other.

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Mrs. Catherine Tilney née Morland began her marriage to the Reverend Henry Tilney with all the expectation of happiness a newly wedded heroine may hope for, after enduring both a lengthy engagement and objections from the gentleman's father. She gained a loving sister in Henry’s own Eleanor, whose marriage to the recently titled Viscount Vermond provided a good connection as well. Likewise, the Tilneys were the receivers of warm affection from the entire Morland clan: from Catherine's clergyman father and excellent mother down to young Master George and Miss Harriet, and the seven other children besides. To all this must be added the benefit of an independent living at Woodston Parsonage and the provision of some fortune through the groom's late mother, putting the happy couple in as much ease as two eager souls, united more by tenderness than complete practicality, could want.

But it would not be much to recount this next chapter in their lives if all were perfection, and there were a few blemishes which even their present bliss could not erase. One was the continued obstinacy displayed by the master of Northanger Abbey: General Tilney, though at last granting his consent to the match, had never been persuaded to rejoice in it. Rather, the disappointment of a violently disabused belief—as his presumption of Catherine's expectations had been—proved as mortifying as his children's perceived desertion, notwithstanding the triumph of his daughter's elevation. These resentments were nursed to such a degree that attendance at Fullerton Church was impossible, and indeed the majority of his words at the time were addressed to Mr. Allen, the principal landowner of that parish. This gentleman held far different opinions on matters both personal and pecuniary. Certainly he was present at his neighbour's day of felicity, with the warmest congratulations tendered to the family. Having done so, and paid for the breakfast besides, Mr. Allen discharged his last obligation by penning a civil reply to the absent Gloucestershireman. The brevity of this letter, and lack of further correspondence in the months to come, spoiled any lingering hope of an inheritance from that quarter. Consequently, as the general could no longer prevent his son's marriage, he chose instead to ignore it.

This arrangement was not altogether unwelcome. Having gained his matrimonial aim, and with his sister bestowed elsewhere, Henry felt few pangs at avoiding the notice of his father. Any travel he and his desired could now be affected through their brother the viscount, and all domestic comforts were easily attained in the village of Woodston. On the lady's side, though saddened to be the cause of any quarrel, Catherine could not quite pity one who had treated her so cruelly. She therefore united all her efforts in the pleasant task of becoming a good wife to a man ripe for pleasing, rather than the more trying occupation of discerning what sort of daughter would suit another.

However, one member of the family would prove to be a plague upon them both. The eldest son and heir, Captain Frederick Tilney, had not upon the rebellion of his younger brother sobered into a more obedient one. Never a prudent man in the best of circumstances, his forbearance was sorely tested when a series of errors at the War Office, and the resulting confusion in transfers and assignments, resulted in his leave being unintentionally extended till his regiment could return from their recent posting abroad. Still happily unmarried, he was unhappily forced by familial as well as financial duties to once again quarter for a time at Northanger Abbey. These circumstances, and the unwanted attention placed upon him by the absence of the other Tilney offspring, provoked a covetousness of his brother's independence rather than his state of joy. So came about the events which this prologue, at last ending, serves to introduce.

It was a Tuesday; the day of the week being important to understand in the chronicle which is to follow, let the reader take note. It was also the second week of September, a full ten days into a month already proving as tempestuous as the proceeding season had been mild and accommodating. Just the day before Henry and Catherine had run with their housekeeper, cook, and stable boy into the orchard to rescue the remaining apples from a sudden gale knocking the trees about, resulting in a numerous if premature harvest for the coming winter.

After so much careful nurturing, to see the first fruits of their union so indecorously delivered smote Catherine's heart. They were nothing like the firm, meaty variety that had graced the parsonage table back when she was a mere visitor. Having changed into something less dishevelled after their labours, Henry found her forlornly polishing and brooding over a diminutive sample.

"Do not fret," he said, taking one from her hand, "for these are perfect roasting apples: they are compact, and shall not come apart so easily. Their size is in exact proportion to their purpose."

"But they are not nearly as ripe as they could have been: see how green they look!"

"That is so." He shook his head, tutting. "How we are reduced: as our forebears were brought low by an apple, so we are made to see how little this fickle fruit may be depended on."

Here she could not help smiling, as she always did when her husband turned philosophical, and remembered that they might be good for jams and preserves. "I shall write my mother, who has many recipes, so we may still enjoy them."

"There! a solution is at hand, and how cleverly you have devised it." He smiled as well, always loving when he could tease his wife into a good humour (not so arduous a task that it must be repeated throughout the day), and led her away for a more pleasant evening of shared company.

The next day dawned fairer, prompting Henry to make his rounds about the parish before the barometer fell again.

"I have some things I should like delivered to the families, only they are not finished yet." Catherine's good intentions as a parson's wife were often impaired by distraction, but being kind-hearted she resolutely continued her pilgrim's progress of improvements. "And the garden should be looked at, or I would offer to accompany you. But please tell Mrs. Stanton I will attend her come Friday to help distribute the widows' relief."

"I bow to your domestic industry, and shall certainly offer your exemplary excuses." Henry then courted a kiss, no difficult feat, and so rewarded leapt with alacrity to the seat in his curricle. "As you are safely employed, I may travel so far as the mill, since Hayes was not at church on Sunday and I have heard unwell. If so I will likely be held up by a visit to Mr. Wilcox as well." Here his tone betrayed his anticipation at meeting with one of his chief, and most grumbling, laymen.

Catherine, with more charity toward the man's family than himself, desired to be remembered to them, wished her husband a good day, and promised a happy welcome upon his return. Such a valediction was in every way an encouragement to them both: for the lady to stiffen her resolve, and for the gentleman to subdue his raillery.

Unfortunately, despite a promising beginning, Catherine's plans soon went awry. First was the discovery that some of the greens had drowned. Then the stable boy begged leave to go with a cousin just run up from the village, the family's sheep having fled pens damaged by the same cause. He, and his aunt the cook if possible, were needed to gather them back.

As a clergyman’s wife Catherine always desired to accommodate the parish when possible, and needing little inducement to give up so discouraging a project as she had begun, generously released both servants. "And if I may be of assistance as well," she began to offer, but Mrs. Poole would not hear of it.

"For Mrs. Tilney to be seen shooing sheep! No, ma'am, we couldn’t ask it of you."

"But just yesterday we were all after the apples," Catherine reasoned, and in truth, heartily wished she could quit her chores for so noble a cause, having more of a talent for rambles than housekeeping. "Surely it must be to anyone's credit to offer aid at such a time."

But the good woman could not agree, and promised to see to the garden upon returning. So Catherine contented herself with praying for their success while waving to them.

After a tedious morning of indoor tasks, she and the housekeeper were interrupted in reviewing the accounts by a fine pair of rats. It took both their efforts and one of the dogs to flush their quarry. Unfortunately the Newfoundland, just grown out of his infancy, took it as a reward to gambol about the rooms, including the study; where not finding his master, he leapt into the man's chair with devilish innocence.

"Brutus: no!" Catherine hated chiding, for she was very fond of the dog, and had in fact pleaded for him to remain inside more than Henry was wont to allow. And how did the animal repay her kindness? By ignoring her and settling more firmly into the chair, leaves and twigs affixing to the upholstery in an unholy mess. "Out!" she cried, and taking up the broom, chased him to the door as thoroughly as the earlier pests.

By this time she was altogether discouraged, and not a little bedraggled by her misadventures. She could not bear to pour over ledgers and figures at the moment; looking at accounts would need to be postponed. "We shall pick back up later in the day," she announced to her housekeeper. "I have some work to do, and Mr. Tilney will not be back until later, so there is no need to start anything before cook returns." After they had removed the dirty chair for cleaning, Catherine retreated to the drawing room and took up her box, while also attempting to read from a book propped before her. It was, perhaps, not the most productive means of conducting her affairs. Nevertheless the activity and location—for it was her favourite in the whole house—were most soothing to her nerves. Soon she was pleasantly engaged in considering the plight of some other young heroine who had far worse villains than sheep, rodents, or dogs to contend with. So it was that Catherine did not hear the knock at the front door when it sounded, leading her to drop needle and thread alike when a visitor was suddenly announced.

"But who is here?" she asked, standing and reaching for her discarded cap in confusion, as they hardly ever received visitors at the start of the week.

Before the housekeeper could answer, a tallish figure stepped forward, his polished boots and stylish coat announcing him before he opened his mouth. "Why, Mrs. Tilney, 'tis your brother come calling." And Captain Tilney cut a jaunty bow in her direction, just as if they had been back in the Lower Rooms at Bath.

Chapter 2

"Oh!" Catherine was startled, perplexed, and not a little anxious by the sudden appearance of this prodigal in her home.

Choosing to ignore her discomfiture, the gentleman took her hand. "I have been remiss in not paying my addresses sooner. You must excuse my not having attended you properly." Here he bent as if to bestow his favour on her clasped fingers.

This action awakened every instinct Catherine possessed, so that she drew away before quite realizing what she was about, and only just managed to tug her skirts in a curtsey so as not to appear rude. "Thank you," she said, unsure what else might suffice, and then turned to her housekeeper. "Please send word to Mr. Tilney that his brother is here."

The poor woman was saved discovering how she was to do so by the captain's reply. "If Henry is out, as I see by his empty stable he must be, there is no need to interrupt his business. After all, we are family, are we not?"

"Yes, of course," Catherine answered by rote, and despite her earlier success with vermin, felt singularly unprepared for how to handle the current dilemma.

The housekeeper wisely offered to serve tea, which Catherine assented to at once with gratitude. Only when they were left alone did she consider how ill both her situation and person must appear to a guest of real consequence: she had not changed from her everyday dress since the morning's toil, and though beloved the parlour had only just begun to be fitted to her designs. There was not yet fresh wallpaper as had been discussed, nor matching curtains or new bookshelves. It was at least furnished with two comfortable chairs, a small table, and two full windows that let in the afternoon sun admirably.

Before she could resume her seat by one of these casements, Captain Tilney alighted on it with his feet up on the stool meant for Catherine's—and ordered especially by her husband for that purpose. Protest formed on her lips but caution stilled them as she took the other chair. She tried and failed to think of a topic for conversation, when he began one directly addressing the very circumstances she had feared worthy of inspection.

"Cosy house for a parsonage," was his languid remark. "I grant Henry has a certain amount of taste."

"Thank you," she said again, and grieved her stupidity. “It is certainly very comfortable. We have only begun, since spring, to make any amendments."

"Yes, spring in you did, very neatly." His words had an echo of his brother's with their wit, but were also cold and unfeeling, without any of the other's warmth or pleasantness. Instead there was steel in his tone and flint in his eyes, so that she was not sure whether to laugh or no.

"It is kind of you to pay a call. I am sorry Mr. Tilney could not receive you. He is visiting his parishioners.” It occurred to Catherine that repeatedly mentioning Henry's absence might be a way to encourage the captain's. He must of course mean to see his brother; she could not imagine what business he might have with her .

"How dutiful. A good thing that you are here, else I should have had no one to receive me."

The captain smiled, and while a hard expression it was also a handsome one, nature having endowed his appearance with all the advantages a young man of good birth and breeding should possess. Even so, Catherine was unmoved. She observed his features and his figure, but could not help comparing him at every turn to Henry, who though less imposing or comely was far better spoken and brighter looking withal. These thoughts prompted her to look out the glass behind her guest, though she knew it only offered a view of the orchard and meadow, and that no curricle would be seen even if it were to return far sooner than expected.

The tea things came in, giving her something to do, and she was able to hand over the captain's cup with some composure. "You must be staying at Northanger Abbey," she said, taking up her own saucer and spoon.

"For the time being. In truth I may not be there above the rest of the week."

"I trust you had a pleasant ride."

"Tolerable. It is a very dull country on the whole."

"But there are many splendid paths," Catherine defended her home, on firmer footing when it came to terrain she had wandered so often in recent months. "And I am sure you will find it so, as you continue your travels."

Not taking her hint, the captain settled more firmly in his chair. "As to that, I may not venture any farther. Tell me, does Henry leave you alone often?"

This question stopped Catherine's next thought, so that she nearly spilled the milk she had been about to pour. She uttered a quick denial and then, as she was a truthful person, admitted, "That is, not often, but sometimes. He must see to the parish." Rallying her wits, she added, "He will likely be out most of the day. I will be glad to tell him you have called and convey any message you care to give."

"I do not believe there is anything you need tell him. But to be left alone must be tiresome, given the lack of any decent entertainment or company."

"No indeed, there is so much to do every day, far more than at my parents' home, and it was not always quiet there either. And I am not alone, of course."

"Not now. How fortunate that I came by, when anyone might have stumbled upon your door otherwise. It is not wise to forsake a fair lady."

The compliment quite passed Catherine's notice, though a vainer woman might have revelled that a man who once thought her plain should now condescend to praise her. Instead, every moment he continued in the room increased her agitation, and she wished she could think of an excuse to send him away. But she had enough good breeding to shrink from such incivility to a member of the family, and recollecting how she herself had been so unceremoniously dismissed once, forbore to indulge her feelings. She persevered in her duties as hostess by asking:

"Will you be on leave long?"

It was an innocuous question, one she was proud to have worked out as it was not a common inquiry for her to make and which would hopefully show interest in her brother's affairs. But rather than animate any expressions of gratitude or pleasure, his features tightened into a cruel sneer. "Perhaps," he said slowly, with a bitterness that made her involuntarily shrink back. "But I do not wish to discuss it."

Nothing in the world would make Catherine broach the subject again, and without anything else to discuss she made some comment about the weather.

The captain suddenly stood and looked out the window. "It does begin to look fierce," he observed, and for the first time Catherine realized how much darker it had grown since they began speaking.

"You will want to return then," she said, rising herself. "I will call for your horse." It was the sort of thing she supposed ought to be said, though without the boy it would be up to her or the housekeeper to go to the stable with little knowledge between them of what should be done.

"Not at all, Mrs. Tilney, we have hardly begun our visit." He turned, all beneficence, without a hint of his earlier displeasure; and coming across the room, handed his cup over. "Something else to drink now, and more to eat: I rode a great deal today."

"That would be difficult, for my cook is away, and there is nothing ready made." Had Catherine been a very clever woman she might have used these facts to her advantage. But the admission shamed her, and not wishing any to think ill of Henry's household, she cast about to remedy the situation while straightening the tea things. "But there are fresh apples, and I believe we still have some Madeira given by the viscount."

"Excellent." He took her hands, preventing her from taking the tray up. "Call your woman and let us get to know each other better. I have heard such intriguing stories about you."

Catherine wished her housekeeper was gone too that she might refuse him, or that Henry was returned to say something droll and dispel the mood descending like the blackening clouds. She felt quite apprehensive of Captain Tilney’s intentions, though if asked she could not charge him with any wrong conduct as yet; and as she could discover no just cause to resist, Catherine did as she was bade, heartily wishing the fruit had all been bad and the bottle already drunk instead of served so promptly.

She barely noticed when the captain set a glass in her hand and led her back to her seat. Rather than take his own, though, he brought the stool forward and perched in such a way that his boots splayed uncomfortably near.

"Please, will you not take the chair sir?" she asked, starting to rise, but found she could not escape with his legs so close, causing her to slip back down with a gasp.

The man expressed no concern at her discomposure; rather, he appeared calmer and more assured than ever, sipping his wine with appreciation. "I am quite at my ease here. We soldiers are not made for always lounging about like other men. It is all well and good for them; a parson, I suppose, has need of such support. But I have ridden thirty miles without rest to battle, and fought the whole day besides: give me a mount, and a pleasant view, and I am content." It did not seem possible for him to draw closer, and yet she sensed with alarm a pressure against one shoe.

"But surely—” Words failed her as she sought for something to say, and she gestured instead, hoping to make herself understood by plain emotion if nothing else.

"Surely." Captain Tilney poured himself another draught yet somehow never strayed far from her. "This is an excellent vintage. And these apples." He picked one up to hold out to her. "Do they not look absolutely tempting?"

In truth it was one of the few full red ones, and Catherine was growing hungry. "Yes, thank you," she started to say and made to take it, when he lifted the fruit right to her lips, so that she nearly choked.

"Have a drink, it will settle you," he commanded, and she obliged if only to stop her coughing. "I am sorry you found this one so little to your liking. I wonder, is it rotten?" He examined the bruised skin, then bit into it, all the while staring up into her wondering face. "It tastes sweet. Would you not agree?"

He made to offer it up again, but better prepared she pulled back her head. "You may have it, I have had my fill."

"Have you?" The captain's smile was anything but kind: more a leer, the stench of drink on his hot breath increasing as he drew even closer. "Yes, you do not look well; I would hate for you to grow faint."

Though courted and wedded, Catherine was nevertheless so inexperienced in the ways of men—and even more desperate to avoid further attentions—that she immediately agreed to feeling very poorly. "I do not believe I should be good company any more," she said through pressed teeth.

"Then you must lie down." The captain took her own glass and downed it in one go. Catherine marvelled at his stamina: few of her acquaintance went past two at a revelry, and surely that was the fifth he had consumed. Abruptly he rose and brought her to stand as well, the sudden movement making her so unsteady she fell into his arms. When next he spoke it sounded as if his lips were upon her ear, "What a lucky man holds your heart."

Before she could react, she felt rather than saw him raise his head. "Would you not agree Henry?"

With a start Catherine parted from their embrace in time to see her bewildered husband walk into the room.

Chapter 3

Henry Tilney had enjoyed a far easier morning than his wife. He always loved driving and riding, and found joy in his parish calls. Most of his flock were of a very genial nature, and so the first visits of the day involved an agreeable exchange of pleasantries, condolences, and news. It was the ultimate goal of the miller, and the miller's disdainful neighbour, which he dreaded. As if in answer to his mood, the clouds looked more ominous the closer he approached his destination.

One aged soul warned the young parson he might wish to turn back, for recent showers had made the river rise, "and it shan't be long ere it floods."

This intermittent state of inundation had plagued the countryside since just before Henry returned from Oxford. It was tied up in a quarrel between his father's estate and another's land grant; he had endured countless lectures involving the vagaries of boundary lines, the calumny of surveyors, and the sanctity of property rights regarding a tributary which had been rerouted by such nefarious machinations as canals and sluice gates. Whatever purpose the latter innovations might have served had long been stymied by lawyers in and out of court, leaving some trenches fallow as the grave while others overflowed with reckless abandon. It fell to the less vaunted inhabitants of the country, as is often the case, to adjust their means of living when greater powers will not.

"I shall go a little farther," he declared, "but you may be right, it does look ill."

Receiving further encouragement for caution at his next stop, Henry felt fully justified in sending a message to the mill that he would call later in the week and directing his curricle for home, a decision proved all the more correct as the wind picked up. To comfort himself, he thought of his wife, and what a surprise he would give her by returning ahead of his intended schedule.

Upon approaching his own green gates, he saw she was not in the garden, and it was no difficult matter for him to determine on a more dramatic entrance. "For she shall like as not be in her little room, and if I come in at the rear I may take her unawares." Always fond of a joke, and fonder still of exciting her delight by his presence, he quickly unhitched and tethered the team in the yard; then crept up from the stable to the back of the house, past the kitchen, and into the hall toward the drawing room. With hat in hand he threw the door open, prepared to receive all the reward a young husband must expect upon such an entrance.

You may imagine how different were the emotions he experienced at discovering her in the arms of his profligate brother.

It is fortunate that though sometimes uncharitable, and quite willing to believe the worst of his fellow man, Henry was not a jealous lover: he had complete faith in his wife's goodness, affection, and honour. Moreover, were he in need of further assurance of Catherine's fidelity, her reaction should have answered, for the startled cry she uttered was not alarmed but relieved. Indeed, she flew to him at once, taking his arm, and nearly burrowing into his side.

Clearly, Catherine was glad of his presence, and just as clearly, whatever had occurred had served to frighten rather than arouse her sensibilities. This understanding did little to lessen his indignation, and only for her sake did he strive to govern his tone. "I did not realize you had a visitor. Frederick, how long have you been here?"

"The time has passed so pleasantly I cannot recall the hour. Do you, my dear?"

Feeling her shrink back at these words, Henry determined to remove Catherine as far from the source of her distress as possible. "Would you ensure the horses are looked to? I did not spare time to instruct Will before coming in."

"Oh! he is not here, neither he nor cook," she began, then stopped herself, "but I will see to it, Mrs. Forest will help me." So saying she left the room at once, before Henry could inquire further or offer to perform the office himself.

"Quite a nervous little thing," Frederick observed, turning Henry's mind back to the matter at hand. His brother raised a glass to his lips. "Very friendly though."

Ignoring this comment, Henry put his hat down and began to strip off his gloves. A setting of fruit drew his eye, as did the bottle of wine bestowed as a wedding present, one which he had been saving for an altogether different occasion. "I wonder to see you here at all: I had thought you were still in town."

"It pleased my father that we both attend the club's meeting, whenever it shall finally occur. I have been at Northanger this past fortnight. Dreadfully dull, even worse than usual."

Idleness and deprivation were never good for the Tilney men, a flaw Henry admitted to even in himself. Disappointment tempted him to become cross; his brother and father were often inconsolable when denied their pleasures, to the detriment of their retainers and relations. With the recent foul weather few might be willing to risk travel for a political gathering falling outside a general election. Henry could readily guess there had been no dinners and little sport, requiring they entertain themselves, which was an office neither man was suited to by temperament or inclination. "They have likely driven each other to distraction," he surmised, and doubted whether the captain had come to Woodston entirely sober.

"I am sorry for it," Henry answered truthfully, "though I could wish you did not bring your troubles here. We have enough of our own."

"Do you? From all description I had heard it was a little paradise. Have you a 'heaven in hell,' as the author writes?"

"And have you been reading Milton? I am glad to hear our father's library is being put to good use." Henry took up an apple, feeling the need for sustenance during this interview, but was surprised to see it already bitten into.

Frederick poured yet another glassful—Henry gloomily calculated nothing should be left of it soon—and smiled. "Mrs. Tilney appeared not to like the taste of that one; for myself, I could find nothing wrong with it. Perhaps you may judge between us?"

It is to Henry's credit he did not obey his first impulse to chuck the apple at his brother, but refusing to be baited walked to toss it out a window instead. He noted the worsening conditions with some concern, then turned to meet the other’s gaze. "I must always side with my wife in such affairs. She has excellent judgment, and a very good understanding. I have never known her to err when it came to a test regarding the knowledge of good and evil."

The barb was perhaps too rhetorical for Frederick's current state; it failed to land at all, and he shrugged rather than rail. "Spare me your sermons. I thought to know your lady better, as we have never been properly introduced."

It nearly rose to Henry's lips to question how his brother thought he should become acquainted with a person ignored for the better part of a year, but he mastered himself. The trick to managing Frederick had always been to avoid getting drawn into an argument and instead discover what was actually provoking him, which Henry suspected was the usual need. "I would have assumed you would sojourn somewhere offering more variety than our humble abode. Or were you unable to?"

Here he aimed better, for Frederick tossed his head and loftily proclaimed he had enough funds to see him through Judgment Day. This bravado likely covered his frustration at not being able to avoid dependence, curtailing any number of activities usually indulged. It no doubt explained why Woodston had suddenly become desirable: as Henry’s money was almost entirely outside their father’s control, any dealings between the brothers might avoid the same's scrutiny. Indeed, since taking the living, he had once or twice been persuaded to grant a small loan, although more out of a desire to preserve their sister’s peace than his brother’s. The sum had always been paid in a commensurate, if not timely, manner.

It was years since either had availed themselves of such an arrangement. Then again, it might have been as long since his brother had been forced to submit wholly to the general's discipline; and it was obvious the man was courting mischief. Since Henry felt bound by his marriage to refuse advancing any funds except for the most dire of needs, the subject would need to be approached delicately. To show evidence of irritation would only encourage an obstinacy entirely opposed to any amiable result.

With these thoughts in mind Henry took the chair usually occupied by his wife, folding one leg over the other. "Well, and how have you enjoyed your jaunt today? For myself I saw several fine specimen of bird. If you have time I will share the particulars, including the state of Mrs. Sowell's poultry."

It was exactly the sort of tone Henry had used to employ when redirecting attention away from their sister, although in times past his weapons might have included descriptions of muslin and lace or literary recommendations.

"Really?" Frederick's lip curled in a sneer.

"Yes. The eggs you see are speckled, though the hens are not, and there is some debate over whether someone has been switching them at night. You know the sort of nonsense boys get up to here in the country. Of course, as I advised the family, it is better to suspect the hens themselves may merely be taking turns, as it were, and wish to save themselves the trouble of laying all the time. We may need to start a rotation, and allow our fowl the same rest come Sabbath as their friends."

He might have been successful at driving Frederick to the point with sheer nonsense were other diversions close at hand, and had he kept strictly to his purpose. But Henry was enough of a Tilney that, while displaying remarkable temperance during this interview, he was fairly smarting for a chance to indulge his wit, pent up as it had been all day. Getting carried away in his story, he nearly forgot himself when describing the mysterious absence of the rooster, "who might be the chief perpetrator after all."

"Roosters usually are," his brother interrupted, recollecting Henry to his audience. "No cocks here, I suppose? Pity the poor chick left to her own devices: any stray bantam might turn her head."

Now it was Henry's turn to pale, an impulse he did not check in time as betrayed by his brother's satisfactory smirk. He was growing perilously close to losing his temper, and coolly inquired how much longer Frederick intended to stay. "I would start out now to make Northanger before evening."

"And abandon this lovely tête-à-tête ? I would not dream of ending my first visit to your marriage bower so soon."

"But are you quite at your leisure? I am sure our father still keeps his meals on schedule. Why," here he took out his watch, exclaiming, "it is a quarter past three. I should not wish you to be late."

Frederick failed to acknowledge any concern, sending his volley back while taking up another apple. "He is touring the roads with his surveyor to determine repairs; I was warned they may be in conference over the affair well past the usual hour. There is no need for you to worry on that account."

Here was an unexpected impediment: if he could not use parental authority as his ally, Henry despaired of any civil lever to pry his brother loose. "Unfortunately both Mrs. Tilney and myself are also quite occupied, and so are not able to receive you at this time. Kindly say when you are next available, and we may plan for a more favourable opportunity."

It was as strong and plain a dismissal as he could marshal while remaining seated, and he was proud of how calmly he had managed to utter it.

Later, he would realize it was certainly his fault for not warning Catherine to maintain her escape after making it. Had he moved nearer the door instead of sitting by the window, he might have prevented her from entering the room even when she did return. But it was an insight best made with the benefit of reflection, which his present frame of mind did not allow. Thus he was too taken aback when a knock came to answer with appropriate speed, allowing Frederick to cross the room before Henry had gained his feet.

She at least did not tremble when escorted in, nor did her voice fail as she inquired "whether Captain Tilney would join them for dinner?"

Henry could not help resenting the offer; his better nature realized she only meant to please, but once again his wife's inexperience and obliging disposition played right into another's hands. Frederick bowed artfully, and only Henry's long experience detected the slight unsteadiness of his heels. "Splendid timing Mrs. Tilney, your husband had just expressed some doubt on the subject. How foolish of him to doubt your genius. I would be honoured to share anything you deign to serve."

Catherine was still looking at Henry for an answer. He nearly said exactly what he thought of her genius but one look at his brother's simpering air quelled the feeling, and instead he reluctantly forwarded the invitation. To storm or rant was to give Frederick what he wanted. However difficult, he must take Petruchio as his guide to kill with kindness. A good thing that Henry was fonder of comedies than tragedies, as Mercutio might have led them both to a very different resolution

Chapter 4

Henry had altogether forgotten the absence of the cook until reminded by Catherine, and failed to ascertain an explanation before she excused herself to assist their housekeeper. It was certainly good she had some employment, but he could not help resenting the cause: to be forced to continue conversation with his brother without more than a dozen words shared with his wife was not how Henry had anticipated the close of his day. "I trust our father continues in good health," he exerted himself to offer this civility, more out of duty than any real concern.

"As ever: perfectly good health. All except his memory, perhaps, but that has been faulty for years. The more forgotten of him as by him, the better." Frederick spoke with as little interest, if more asperity than the question should have inspired. Before the subject could be pursued further, he took up a book and examined it, asking with barely veiled contempt whether his brother was still as devoted to novels as before his marriage.

"Yes, we both enjoy reading. As you can see, there is little else to do. It is fairly routine for us to close every day with lengthy study." Here perhaps Henry was guilty of some deception, for a man reading a lady’s favourite story as she rapturously listened, especially in the confines of the bedchamber, might not be described as study in the usual manner. But it was misdirection rather than an outright lie, and he enjoyed a clear conscience while adding, "It is mostly that sort of thing, as Mrs. Tilney is very fond of them. Do you wish a copy for yourself?"

"Not a jot. How insufferable you must find it all."

"Oh, we are very content with our private, plebeian little home."

Again, we must forgive Henry for not being altogether truthful with his guest, as there were many concerns in the parish that could make the parsonage anything but retiring. But again, it was at best a slight exaggeration, and indeed there are few who would protest taking humility too far.

As bottle and bowl alike were depleted, and the chill grew more pronounced, Henry recommended they repair to the more easily heated study. There he was further aggrieved to find his preferred chair missing. Instead he made do with a seat too low and short to accommodate his height, while Frederick lounged by the fire in perfect ease. This change in setting redirected the latter's speech, as he inquired whether Mrs. Tilney was altogether satisfied with her surroundings. "It is not every lady who will submit to a retired life away from society, with no assemblies or frippery. You can never satisfy a woman with books alone."

Admittedly still adjusting to marriage, Henry could have lectured his brother on the merits of reading as a means to enliven rather than dull a couple's appreciation for each other. Certainly his Catherine, fond as she was of heroics and mock dangers, thought nothing of whiling away the time with near any work so long as it contained some Gothic or comic sensibility. A husband who shared those pleasures might gain the privilege of many others besides. Instead he allowed himself the magnanimity of greater experience, revelled that he was privy to knowledge quite lost on his brother, and replied with feigned degradation, "But you are thinking of ladies from town. My wife is of country stock, and fitted by nature as well as inclination to these environs."

"A singular thing to find in Bath, of all places. Does she never desire to go back?"

"It has not been mentioned."

"You cannot both wish to waste your life here all the time."

"It is no hardship. Duty after all is its own reward, and the calling of our lives must justify any pains. Why, there is a pretty set of sermons with that theme. Do pick it up, and we may find some quotations on the subject."

It may be unsurprising his brother could not distinguish which book Henry gestured to, for while there were several such volumes most were little used and crammed along the bottom shelf long ago. This fact bore witness against his ever poaching another's words from the pulpit, and if perhaps his motives were not so noble, must at least offer a just reproof to any accusation of neglect. Frederick did not bother to search at all. "Is there nothing else to drink?"

"I am afraid not: unless you would like some of the passed over communion?"

"Bah!"

There was little to be said in answer to this exclamation, and so Henry did not attempt it. Instead he took up a newspaper, silently offering the other man part of it, and was rewarded for his generosity to pour over the dullest of headlines and even more tiresome parliamentary decisions. These subjects were enough to produce a lengthy quietude, until Frederick tossed his scant pages aside with an oath and took to pacing. "Fools! A wonder the war is not lost altogether and the Frogs encamped at Piccadilly."

Outbursts regarding the competence of military governance were too common at Northanger Abbey to discomfit Henry. Had his own reading material been more interesting he might have ignored this one altogether, and only looked up to gauge whether a quip or consolation would be more readily accepted. He was surprised to observe a great perturbation of spirits: Frederick was a capable soldier and Henry supposed as dutiful an officer as any, but usually displayed none of the general's fierce preoccupation with the honour of the service when on leave. Concerned in spite of himself, he asked after the latest news from the Continent.

"It is not worth discussing: all stuff and nonsense, every pretend expert nattering about tactics they are completely ignorant of. Small wonder when our own generals are as stupid."

These words caused Henry to stiffen instinctively, despite the closest individual retired from those ranks not being present to hear them. Complaints about the interference of Parliament and princes might be made freely in their ancestral home, and the navy was always fair game, but insults to serving officers was a taboo broken at one's peril. Before he could think of a way to turn the conversation, his brother broke off whatever tirade had been brewing and instead demanded with boyish petulance, "What can be taking them so long?"

"Our cook is not in," Henry answered in some distraction, and though he had wondered the same, was too caught up with his present musings to spare much thought on the subject. His chief concern now was to either temper Frederick's expectation of a table that must be far below his usual fare, or failing that to send him away ere he could vent his spleen on anyone else. "She has been hard at work in the garden; and with few luxuries in the village we may have naught but vegetables."

Here Henry erred into a complete untruth. Mrs. Poole would have been ashamed to hear the rector slander her work, as she was proud to keep the parsonage well provisioned, and there was always some game to be had. The proof of his falsehood was eventually shown when they were at last called in to eat, for there was good meaty stew, thick toast, and an apple custard with sauce ever so nicely arranged. It was quite a triumph for a young wife—now appearing in one of her finer gowns—who had little time or help to prepare, a feat which demanded Henry compliment her ingenuity even as he watched Frederick in wary anticipation.

Instead the man was all smiles at the sight, especially when he discovered glasses of sherry which Henry had quite forgotten. "What fine work, my dear sister, I congratulate you. To hear my brother talk there was nothing to serve, though his ignorance is not surprising. I am afraid he has always been too caught up in his own absurdities. How little marriage appears to have changed you Henry." Rather than take his own seat, Frederick gallantly lead Catherine to a setting. "But how well it becomes you, madam."

She said nothing, only looked forlornly down into her napkin, while Henry took his own chair and pointedly brought up his hands to pray. This occupation normally occupied very little time ahead of a meal with the Tilneys, parsonage or no. Nonetheless it was a ponderous affair that evening, one to make certain Oxford divinity masters proud, and was cut short not for Henry running out of words but his comprehension that Frederick had already begun eating. He surrendered an "Amen," and lifted his eyes to behold his wife staring at him in bewilderment and his brother already pouring another glass for himself. Henry girded his loins, took up his spoon, and endeavoured to enjoy the food she had worked so hard to serve.

Dinner was a noxious affair and mostly eaten by Frederick, who attacked the table with the ferocity of two soldiers. Henry abandoned what little he could salvage from the onslaught to Catherine who, though looking most wretchedly, appeared to have as little appetite as himself. There was none of that conversation as usually filled their dining room. The few words exchanged were devoid of either wit or grace; rather, Henry strove to shield Catherine from comment, a task made the more difficult as Frederick continued to direct nearly all his remarks in her direction. It was a constant stream of empty platitudes and sly conjectures perfectly designed for entertaining in town, but which ill suited the small parlour.

"And Henry never has cared for mutton, you know, though our father tried to ease him into it. No sheep for him, what?" Frederick actually whistled, a practice absolutely forbidden at said father's table. "Funny his attracting one himself. Or are you not a lamb at all?"

Catherine suddenly looked up with the first sign of animation displayed since the meal began. "Oh, the sheep! Henry, I forgot to tell you, Will and Mrs. Poole had to assist getting the sheep back in." Remembering their companion she blushed before continuing, "I am sure they meant to return by now, but I had given them leave to remain as long as they were needed. It may perhaps be very late before they finish searching and so I think it likely they will stay the night with family."

Such news was more than welcome, and Henry latched onto the subject with the alacrity of a drowning man. "So the pen has come down yet again? I am sorry to hear it. And will be sorry to hear of it again at the next parish meeting."

"Do you mean from Mr. Greenly?"

"Who else? I am sure he already has numerous improvements planned to dazzle myself and the clerk. Between his recommendations and Mr. Wilcox's complaints I expect to be wooed with zealous constancy well ahead of the date."

"I congratulate Mrs. Tilney for tolerating such rivals for her affections," Frederick interrupted, throwing a discordant note between them. "I hope she enjoys the same sport? Geese and ganders and all."

"I am sure I do not take your meaning," Catherine replied, a hint of her own indignation rising above her disquietude. "But perhaps we should not discuss business of which you are wholly ignorant."

Anyone else would have meant the words as a bold reproach; Henry still admired the set-down, artless and unintended as it was. "Yes, we should avoid delving too far into our own simple affairs," he said, laying as lofty tone upon the words as possible. "They are not deep enough for our guest to penetrate." He was gratified to observe a small part of his wife's natural amusement return; she looked almost ready to smile.

This expression changed to alarm as she murmured an exclamation, shifting her chair back so quickly Henry nearly leapt from his own to steady it. "What is the matter?"

She stared at Frederick rather than make a reply, who offered her the most exaggerated of bows. "Forgive my clumsiness. I am not used to so small a table." He raised his near empty glass in salute. "I hope I have not trod your slippers too hard."

Turning back to Catherine, Henry was just in time to see her wipe a few tears away before answering that her shoes were unharmed. He rightly surmised she would only give positive intelligence to any further inquiries and keep her pains private, out of misplaced appreciation for familial company. The sight of his wife beset, his brother gloating, and his dinner gone put Henry out of what little patience he had left, causing him to stand abruptly. "Captain Tilney, I would speak to you in the study." His tone brooked no argument.

Fredrick ignored him at first; but as Henry refused to give way and there was nothing left to consume without picking from the others' plates, he at last rose as well. "Of course, Mister Tilney," he returned formally, and bowed to their hostess as she likewise stood. "My thanks, fair Catherine, for sharing your abundant bounty with me."

"The study, sir," Henry repeated, and refused to move until Fredrick left the table. He did not trust himself even to spare a glance at Catherine before marching after, anger licking at his heels.

"Come to read me my prayers?" Frederick asked from an indolent sprawl.

"Come to explain matters." Henry stood before him, hands gripped behind his back, erect as a young seminarian before his superiors. "You may go where you wish and harass any other of your acquaintance, but you will not lay hands or boots on Mrs. Tilney again."

Frederick sported a foolish grin at this ultimatum. "Oh? Upset are we?"

"You might remember what happened when another of our family treated my wife without respect. Have a care, and remember that you are not only of less concern to me than our father, but are in my own house besides."

"Your house? I had thought it was the parish’s. Certainly with all those supplicants I had supposed there was little space for intimacy, your parishioners might not appreciate the distraction."

"Why not say what you are really about and have done with it?" Henry demanded, tired of losing a battle of wits to a man well beyond three sheets to the wind. "And do not claim it is to play the dandy in the parlour, for we both know your only interest in Mrs. Tilney is the degree to which you think it will vex me."

"Perhaps you are mistaken."

"If I am, I shall pay you the wager here and now, gladly, if you will only explain what drove you to seek relief here. Just how much have you lost, or what creditor are you hiding from?"

"None. I am free as a bird, free as your hens. No one has any claim on me ." Frederick suddenly sprang up with ferocity, staring down at Henry with all the height of a cavalry charge. "I hide from no man."

"If you expect me to believe that, you are a greater fool than I take you for now." Henry was beyond quieting, beyond quelling, and well beyond caution. "But I shall not beg for the chance to pay your way. Keep your secrets. Only leave this house and take them with you."

"I will not be ordered by you!" Frederick's manner was no longer that of the foolish wag, and his drink appeared to have finally caught up with him as he stumbled forward. "You've no concept of command, none—by god, no one in the whole country does. The best are gone, rammed and shot through the lines, honour bought and paid in blood."

It was as if Falstaff had suddenly launched into the Saint Crispin's Day speech instead of Prince Hal, a transition so unexpected that Henry's ire cooled somewhat in confusion. "And this is your complaint: that you are spared slaughter, and do not get the glory of adding to it?"

Even in liquor Frederick was able to strike an imposing figure, his boots striking forcefully against the floor as he spoke with violent agitation. "The devil take you! and the Duke of York, and his whole staff besides, they should all be hanged for that strategy, if it can be called such, I am sure they did not even ask whether it was sound." He came to rest by the mantelpiece, eyes lit as much by passion as the fire, and spoke with quiet fury: " He would not have tolerated it, were it his own command."

There was no need to question who had incited this degree of vehemence. Though the particulars were still a mystery, Henry guessed that father and son must have quarrelled over whatever had prevented the younger from joining in this latest action. It was a better excuse for his behaviour than mere avarice, if lacking in full justification. "Your concern does you credit, though I think writing to your men a better course of action than recreating the skirmish here."

Frederick appeared incensed by the suggestion rather than appeased; his answer was to turn smartly on his heels, knocking over a chair and sending newsprint flapping around the room and onto his own person. It was so comical a sight that Henry—more given to mirth than wrath—felt his senses returning, and not altogether keeping laughter out of his tone, offered his assistance.

Frederick pushed away and kicked the mess dangerously close to the fireplace, shouting a throaty oath. "D—n your sympathy. I'm off." He flung the door open, revealing a startled Catherine, then pushed past her, the gallant flirt vanished. Henry was alarmed to observe his unsteady gait, the more so as Catherine told him a gale had begun in earnest. "Frederick, perhaps you had best wait—" he began, only to be cut off by the front door slamming.

"Is it safe?" Catherine inquired wonderingly.

"I fancy not," Henry answered, seizing his coat and running after his brother. He found him at the stable as the man struggled to get his own horse out. "Frederick, please, do not be a fool: tarry a while longer and see whether it shall worsen."

"I have ridden in worse," came the curt reply.

"But there is no need to risk it," Henry cajoled, as earnest in preventing his brother's departure as he had earlier encouraged it. Frederick at last mounted, stupidly blinking a moment, which allowed Henry to catch the harness. "Come back inside: we might discuss the war further, you could tell me of this engagement or whatever else you like."

He had meant this offer as bait for the hook, but the trout shook him off and laughed wildly at the lashing gusts. "Pah! Nothing of any concern. We'd eat this for breakfast in Portugal."

"But we are in England!" Henry reached again but was too late. Frederick had already bounded away, his very English horse obediently racing into the wind.

Chapter 5

Catherine had nearly protested when Henry ordered his brother out of the room. The quarrel about to erupt would be over her, and however powerless she had been to prevent the first such disruption in the Tilney family, it was surely her responsibility as a wife to prevent a second. But her husband never gave her opportunity even to throw a beseeching look, and his firm closure of the door forbade any thought of following. Whatever would happen was in the hands of Providence.

Fortunately Mrs. Forest chose to peek in at this time, asking if they were quite done with dinner. Catherine wished she might occupy herself as well in the kitchen, but since the housekeeper did her work so efficiently there was little to offer but the most heartfelt gratitude.

"You're very kind, ma'am," was the reply made, before gently recommending her mistress enjoy the rest of her evening elsewhere in the house.

It now fell to Catherine the dreadful burden of waiting for others to finish a business she could not observe or join. Men who have waited for their wife's labours to cease may sympathize with her plight. She briefly returned to the drawing room but could not bear to remain long. It would take another day with Henry at her side to banish the memories made there; and besides, her usual distractions held little appeal. What were books or needlework compared to the drama unfolding? She might have retired to bed, as many another would have done at this juncture, but she felt an obligation to wait for Henry. So she restlessly drifted about, beseeching heaven no harm came, but distractedly not ever finishing her prayers.

It was after yet another tour of the rooms that Catherine realized the sound she heard was the rough battering of the shutters, and she observed how dark the sky had grown with trepidation. No matter how angry her husband might be, he would need to invite his brother to spend the night, and then there would be no peace at all until well past the next morning.

She turned at once toward the study. Whatever awful news was to be shared, she would rather hear it now than continue to wait in dread. Just as she reached the door she heard a loud noise, as if the thunder yet to sound outside had instead begun within those walls, inspiring fear for Henry's safety. It was even more alarming to face Captain Tilney again, angry and wild, flinging open the door and racing out of the house with Henry just behind. Catherine nearly ran after them both, but recollecting herself, decided the best thing would be to tidy whatever mess had been made rather than contribute to still more outside.

She had just finished refolding the papers after setting the furniture aright, when Henry came back into the room. She froze, listening for the heavy bootfalls of the captain, but none came.

"He is gone. And God knows in what a state: I am not sure he even realizes where he is at present."

Catherine wished she could feel sorry for him; it was a sore trial for her to experience relief at another's misfortunes. "Why was he so aggrieved?" she asked as Henry sat near her, curiosity all alive now that the immediate danger was over.

Her husband shook his head. "Disappointment in his present circumstances, and an argument with my father, which I at first misunderstood. It is something to do with his regiment, or the war, subjects which may turn the wisest heads. Certainly it cannot be easy for him to adjust to living back at home for so long. But since I could not get him to admit to anything more, there is no need to trouble over it further. I am long past worrying about the peace of the entire Tilney regime."

"I am sorry to have been the cause of any offence," Catherine began, conscience requiring she attempt some amends, but Henry forestalled her:

"Whatever comes of his foolishness will fall entirely on his head, it has nothing to do with you. And you have my heartfelt thanks for seeing to the horses: there was little for me to amend in checking the stable just now." He paused, considering, then reached out a hand. "I would, however, like to know what transpired in my absence, if you feel up to discussing it."

Whatever store of strength Catherine had gathered was dissolved at this invitation, and she gratefully took it while launching into a recitation of her afternoon's trials with all the fervour of a penitent. Henry soothed as he could, listening with great attention, but could not help rising with an astonished exclamation as Catherine described how their brother had placed himself so indecorously at her feet. She rose as well, earnest in her declaration:

"I asked him to sit in the chair, truly I did Henry. I had no notion of his occupying so near a space as that, I could not get him to listen for the world."

"My dearest Catherine, I well believe nothing that happened is of your doing: your only mistake was not throwing him from the house at his first transgression. Do you mean to say he actually pushed you down?"

"Oh yes! that is, perhaps not pushed, I cannot quite say. I did fall, and it did seem as though it was due to his being ever so close, and then that awful apple pressed so that I could not bear it. I felt I should choke! And his having bit into it himself, and saying such things. I wished so heartily you had been present."

This latter statement elicited a laugh. "I fancy there are not many ladies in such a position who would say so: it is not often a mere Henry is desired above the worthy captain."

Catherine started at these words. "But whatever can you mean?"

Henry at once bowed his head. "I am sorry: I have upset you farther, and that is not my desire. There, there, Catherine, all is well, I am not offended. I could never doubt your heart or goodness, and so there is no need to prevaricate. You were placed in a terrible position; I am not so vain as to lack sympathy. My brother is far handsomer than I, there is no denying it, and however badly his manners offended, I well know how charming he can appear when he desires to."

There was just that little something in his voice that made Catherine feel he was not altogether serious. Still, she could not let so false a statement be uttered even in jest. "I cannot imagine anyone finding so odious a man charming: there was nothing but selfish disdain in his manner from the very start. I only entertained him for politeness' sake. And I have never once thought he cut a good figure, not since I have first known him, and certainly I could not see him sitting across from me without wishing it had been you instead."

Her words prompted a smile from her husband, and his tone was far lighter than it had been. "Oh? What was it that marred the picture: his statuesque profile, or fashionable vestment?"

Perhaps he meant only to tease her further, but Catherine had been married long enough to hear when wistfulness mixed with Henry's bravado, and so she walked straight into his arms, looking into his eyes with all her sincerity. "He is far too polished and removed, with features neither attractive nor kind. I had rather see your pleasing self a thousand times over than ever be in a room with him again."

Is there any young husband who could resist this sweet devotion? Could any wife restrain from matching action to word in proving it? Certainly the Tilneys were not immune to these impulses, and it was necessary for both to restrain from breathing a moment, to share those feelings as words are insufficient to express.

"My dearest Catherine," Henry said afterward, arms wrapped round her confidently. "Is it merely an inborn trait for you to be so accommodating, or is there a tonic that might be applied more liberally to cure the world of its sorrows?"

Resting her head on his shoulder (for it must be admitted, Catherine was a bit above the proper height to nestle her ear against his heart), she murmured that anyone with so worthy a husband would say the same.

"Well, let us not disagree, and thank Providence instead. Frederick had best be glad I was not here to see him behave so abominably: I might have been tempted to give him more than a tongue lashing." So saying he manoeuvred to take up her arm. "I can think of nothing else to occupy us this evening downstairs; shall we retire?"

"Oh, yes!" Catherine cried eagerly, and they preceded to the bed chamber without any appearance of fatigue at all. Nor was it long before they had removed any impediment toward the continuance of their shared felicity.

Catherine did spare one further thought for the beleaguered Captain Tilney, when Henry surveyed the tumult ere dropping the window curtain. "Do you think it will continue so very fierce his whole way back?" she asked, not liking to think of any creature in danger, even one she had happily consigned to everlasting banishment.

"It is dreadful looking; however, Frederick is made of strong stuff, and has roughed it in far worse climes. Like as not he stopped at the Ram Inn; undesirable, perhaps, but safe enough. I do shudder to think what our father's reaction will be when he comes dragging in of the morrow."

Catherine noted Henry did not appear troubled at the idea of his brother receiving the full wrath of the general, by which she took her leave not to consider it at all. "I hope they were able to get the sheep found," was her next concern as he lay next to her, "and that all are safely inside now."

"Yes," Henry answered, pulling her closer, "and I hope Will enjoyed his evening's leisure, for we shall have a time of it clearing the yard tomorrow."

"I am glad we already took all the fruit in: at least it will only be leaves and sticks." She reached over to snuff out the candle.

"And I am glad," Henry spoke into the darkness, "that we have no one and nothing else to trouble us tonight."

Here he put action to his words, and there was truly nothing else to be said aloud.

Chapter 6

All pleasures must have their end, if only temporarily, and Catherine found the morning dawned much earlier than either she or Henry could have preferred. Still, they knew their duty, and so got up and dressed with the knowledge of a full day's work ahead of them.

They were rewarded with breakfast from their cook: she and the boy had returned as early as possible, Mrs. Poole being the sort of woman who did not like to compound her sin of missing one meal by tardiness for another. She made her excuses for her absence in their time of need, and was granted not only forgiveness but compliments for her exertions. It was not in the lady's nature to be resentful, and the rector was all magnanimity when enjoying fresh buns and jam.

All too soon they had to leave their pleasant table. "We are fortunate it rained so little last night, but that state of affairs cannot last," Henry observed, eyeing the distant clouds. "So we had best get done what we can."

Some ladies might have objected to sharing Adam's lot of toiling among the thorns and thistles; or, as in the present case, shrubs and shallots. But Catherine was very glad to be outside after the previous day’s business, and needed little inducement to leave off the mending for another time. Dismayed to see their grounds in so sad a state, she was not unhappy to stretch her limbs in putting everything to rights. In truth, she also enjoyed labouring alongside her husband; as he left off his coat, rolling up his shirtsleeves to keep the dirt off, Catherine found plenty to admire even in the grey dreariness of the day.

If such was the amusement received by Catherine, a still rather innocent young wife, I leave it for the reader to determine how much Henry's labours were lightened by seeing her in high spirits, the breeze teasing hair loose from her cap or occasionally whipping her old skirts about to reveal boot and calf. Let us then pity poor Will, who had just as much to do, and only the dogs to distract him by scattering what he piled up. By noon the sun was no brighter, and though they halted for a light repast al fresco , all were in agreement to continue however long the calm lasted.

"We are making progress," Catherine commented, smiling despite the situation, and scratching the Newfoundland's head as he finished off the remains of luncheon. "At least the garden is clear again, and Mrs. Poole has two rows taken in."

"Yes; in fact, we may wish to—" but Henry's reply was cut short by excited barking which announced an approaching rider, soon identified as his brother's valet.

The man was as surprised to learn of his master's absence as they were by his presence. He meant, in fact, to arrive much sooner but, as he explained while the horse was looked to, had been stymied by the gale's debris. "He ought to have taken the main road after all, having been forced to cut back several times between the woods and rising water."

Henry asked in concern, "So the flooding has commenced?"

"Not as such, no, and the fortunately the old hunting trail was mostly clear, or I truly would have had to start over. But after heading south from that way's crossing there were several places washed out or mired, and I understand the mill is being closed up, being so much lower and already taking water. So said the innkeeper, and that the stage was late owing to a felled tree in its path."

"You must be hungry," Catherine said after this thrilling narration, touched in equal measure by sympathy and excitement. "I will see about getting you something for the journey back."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tilney, you are most kind." His deference made her momentarily question why this man (with manners more akin to a Du Pont than Morano) should be made to serve the other, even as she went to give instructions to her cook.

Henry met her in the hall and asked that she convene with him to the study in a state of high emotion. He did not trust himself to speak at first, only frowned over the writing desk while she struggled to contain the thousand questions on her tongue.

"It appears Frederick did not abide at the Ram last night: Darrow inquired there first, after waiting for over an hour before setting out from the abbey, and attests that his master has not been seen in either vicinity."

"Then he did not expect him to return later?" Catherine wondered.

"Now there is the best part of this little farce: it appears my brother's errand yesterday was not mere chance but authorized, as the survey of the roads was to include Woodston's. Frederick failed to mention he had already volunteered my services for this report, nor that he was supposed to deliver it today. His man begs me for some intelligence, after all but promising that this morning's delay must be due to our completing the work. It will not be the servant's fault, of course, though that will not stop blame from resting there if he returns empty-handed: I must send something ."

"Certainly." Catherine felt she ought not to feel more resentment than concern at this news, and barely hid her sighs.

Henry had no such compunction. "I am sure Frederick is not hurt, just sulking, and well may he hide considering my father's wrath when neither paper nor author arrive in his office. A fine mess for me to explain in so hurried a fashion, and with the full expectation that I shall still complete the task! They none of them have any business trespassing further on our time."

"It is good for you to relieve the general's feelings, though, even if only in a cursory way."

"I am in a mood to express my feelings very plainly," he said as he took up his pen.

"If you feel it right and proper.”

"Nay, Catherine, you cannot encourage my temper with pleas to duty. Ah, I suppose I must be the good son once more, instead of the rebel."

"I am sure you are correct," she answered with just an echo of his own mockery, provoking him to smile and giving her a sense of accomplishment as she left him to his business.

Henry was not long about it, and having already ordered a fresh steed, offered some final directions along with his letter. "I realize it is further to go when riding, but take the south bridge: surely they will have cleared the way by now, and the main road will serve you better in a sudden downpour. The horse may be kept until I have leave to visit the abbey. Tell my father to expect me by the end of the week." With obliging thanks the rider took the proffered envelope and was soon off, the dogs giving chase until their quarry was well away.

"I hope he arrives safely," Catherine remarked, a gust of cool air causing her to gather her shawl tighter while watching the terriers dart back into the yard.

" That bridge is of modern stone, sturdy, and has withstood many an autumn flooding," Henry spoke distractedly, his attention fixed in the opposite direction, searching for what Catherine did not know. In some agitation he added, "But I do not think Frederick went that way."

"Do you think he has suffered some mishap?"

"I do not like to say so. He is a master horseman and full able to take care of himself." He gave one final glance, then left off his reverie. "Come, we still have much to do so long as the weather holds."

Their industry was not leavened with nearly as much joy now, and often Henry stopped, looking in the direction of the village as if to penetrate the distance. Catherine wished to ease his worry but knew not how except by what she was already doing. They did not talk much, and all the while the wind rose, even as the expected shower tarried ever later.

An hour had passed when Henry ceased working altogether. "The clouds are moving slower than before, and it looks like there may yet be more hours of daylight left."

Catherine nodded, though it did not appear as if he was seeking any confirmation. "If we work hard I am sure we may finish before then."

"Perhaps." Henry looked up, as if searching for direction, then back at her. "My dear, do you think you may do without me for the remainder of that time? I think I must see where Frederick has got to."

"Oh." Catherine had suspected her husband's better nature might tempt him to overlook his pique, and so could not be altogether surprised by the suggestion. "But surely your father will send someone else to look if that is needed, or indeed, has not the servant already done so?"

"They do not know Woodston as I do, and I believe Frederick may avoid anyone from the abbey regardless. I should at least canvass the byways for a more detailed communication to my father, which will aid the parish and may prevent further interruptions to our tranquillity."

Catherine could not argue with this logic. "Of course, if you think it the right thing to do, you must."

Henry's smile was thin. "Just when I wish you to discourage me from acting, you do the opposite. What a fickle wife. Will! I shall need my horse saddled."

She set her basket down and reached for his hands. "You will be careful Henry?"

"Of course, but I will avoid the worst of it. He must have gone by the village, and so people will have seen him. I will only search till half past four at the upmost: I do not wish to be caught in that brewing storm for anyone, let alone him ."

Perhaps another, more artful creature might have practised on Henry's prejudices, and guided him along a primrose path of delays and planning till the venture was impossible to undertake. But it never occurred to Catherine to prevent him from doing what was just, much as it dismayed her. "You will take some provisions at least?"

"A little, but I should not wait long: I want to be back well before those clouds finish rolling in."

So they both acted quickly, she to once again beg victuals from the cook, he to dress for riding out. Within the quarter hour Henry was bidding her farewell. "You need not bother about the rest of the work in my absence, we can as well finish things later."

"Oh no, I am sure Will and I may get it done," Catherine stated firmly, much to the chagrin of a boy whose labours had increased threefold beyond their normal routine. "I would not wish you to worry about that above everything else. Then we may both have a rest tomorrow."

"A delightful thought," Henry said, tipping his hat, "to send me on my way. But make sure you get indoors if it begins to rain suddenly, no matter how much is left to do: I will find shelter and stay overnight with one of our neighbours if need be."

She promised to go in as soon as the elements made it necessary, and charged him to do the same. There was little else to do but watch and pray as he departed.

Chapter 7

As has been seen in the narrative thus far, Henry Tilney was not quite as scrupulously honest as his wife. The truth was that he had shielded her from the full extent of his concerns; if he still did not believe his brother in real distress, neither was he sanguine that other offences had not been attempted after their parting.

He knew the bold Captain Tilney could be foul-tempered and wanton when waking in a feather bed after a hard day of indulgence; a night spent on straw or leaves might provoke his brother past all temperance, causing him to vent his feelings on whatever member of the parish was unfortunate enough to discover him. Thus obligations both domestic and professional spurred him to act and, for the purpose of settling any misunderstandings that may have arisen, he drew from his cashbox before leaving.

There was also the possibility that Frederick was merely playing the prodigal again, and that Henry would find him comfortably settled somewhere with ale in hand and a girl upon his knee. If that were the case, Henry would gladly return home and better the parable's elder brother by surrendering the matter entirely to his father's hands.

There was still light enough for Henry to make out tracks, though he was unsure whether they were from Frederick's mount. So he stopped at some of the same houses as he had the day before, asking after a tall rider or a brown horse with silver equipage. Most of those he questioned had sensibly remained inside and could offer no answer. A few thought they had heard someone, but were unsure from what direction or indeed whether it might not have been some other creature; and did the parson know the sheep had got out yesterday? He thanked each for their pains, said he was glad the flock had been restored, and continued on his way.

Riding out to the fields brought few answers as there was almost no one to question, a majority of the labourers having been pulled off to remedy what the previous night had thrown in disarray. What few were left for the harvest had not seen or heard of anyone unknown to them. Doubling back to the church proved no one had disturbed those grounds; all was as it should be. He even checked back at the Ram Inn, on the off chance that Frederick had hidden himself earlier, but in vain: his inquiries only revealed that the post chaise had finally arrived.

Meanwhile the clouds loomed ever larger in the sky, and Henry nearly lost his hat in the strengthening wind. These facts, and the acute knowledge that he was missing yet more hours spent with his wife over Captain Tilney, gnawed at a resolve already weakened by his search's disappointment. "He is likely back at the abbey already, and laughing at me," was the thought that had occurred several times. He decided to visit the miller, in deference to his absence yesterday, but to go no farther. It stood on the very edge of Woodston, separated only by the river from the forest which compromised a good share of his father's property: surely if Frederick had meant to return home by this route, he must have passed it.

Upon his approach he found a flurry of activity surrounding the workhouse and storerooms on the rise just west of the mill, all under the watchful supervision of Mr. Wilcox who, on being greeted, respectfully asked his rector to step inside for their discussion.

"Why, Sam, I did not know you had taken to the stable." Henry smiled as he surrendered his horse to the miller's youngest son.

"Only recently, and that very ill, though I am sure he will be far more careful with the parson's animal than the others he has tended." Mr. Wilcox's tone and curt look sent the lad scurrying off, as much led as leading his much larger charge. "Do not worry Mr. Tilney, he knows he'll get another lick if anything should go amiss."

Despite this encouragement Henry watched till it was clear that horse and boy alike were safely occupied in a stall before following his host, who had launched into one of his habitual monologues regarding the state of things, a subject he never tired of bemoaning.

"Hayes is too lenient with his children by half, I have told him so several times since taking them in Friday last. Half wild they were, my poor wife has been sorely tried keeping the girls at spinning. And the boys: had they kept the wheel turned at an even pace instead of knocking at all hours asking after their sisters, I am sure twice as much cloth could have been ready for market. Or the littlest might have stayed with them and saved my groom the trouble of getting him in line: thank God he knows how to curb unruly spirits! But Tate like everyone else has been pulled off to store everything higher, fast as they can get it off the looms."

"We must not expect wisdom from babes," Henry temporized, concern for the miller's circumstances stilling his tongue from any of several choice retorts he could have made on the subject of curbing versus breaking spirits. "And have they been with you that long? It sounds a more serious case than I understood heretofore.”

"Serious! I do call it serious when a man malingers near a whole week in bed, and begs his neighbour keep his family over a trifling cold. But we as good Christians did our duty of course. Ah, there she is at last: mind that tray Prudence, do at least try to live up to your name."

The child, barely in her eighth year, looked liable to drop her carefully balanced load at being singled out thus. Henry said nothing at first, not wishing to excite further harshness by countermanding the reproof, but after receiving a cup paid her a compliment and two pennies as vails before asking, "How are your good father and mother, Miss Prudence? I was sorry not to see them on Sunday."

"Better, sir," was the shy reply he received.

"I am glad to hear it," Henry spoke quickly, before Wilcox could start in another round of complaints. "But we must continue lifting them in prayer: perhaps you would like to take this opportunity to offer up your own?"

"I hope she will do as you instruct though I must own their habits all quite slovenly, which comes of sparing the rod too often.” Wilcox barely let her reach the door before this comment, and Henry downed the tepid tea to swallow sentences which would only foment rather than moderate these coarse sentiments. A pointed inquiry into his host’s own business turned the conversation to general malaise, and how much profit was to be lost with his industry shut up, albeit couched in concern over the parish's coffers and tithes.

When he began grumbling over the late mail and miserable streets, Henry was able to get in a few words of his own. "Actually, I have been charged with accounting for any repairs or improvements be made on that score: but with other concerns, it has yet to be done. I would appreciate any insight you could provide." It was as sore a test of Henry's forbearance not to laugh at the abrupt transition to self-satisfied obsequiousness, as the man's earlier quarrelsome temper had encouraged his guest to frown. "Well, I shall not keep your any longer from your work, and I should return to mine," Henry said after listening patiently for several interminable minutes to Wilcox’s ideas. "Although I must ask, you did not see a rider pass by yesterday evening, perhaps very late?"

"No: and I have not heard of a highwayman in these parts; if there is one, it is to be hoped he has met the fate God intends for all his enemies, and saves honest people the trouble of hanging him later."

There was little Henry could say in answer that would not be a punishment to both honest souls present, and so he bid adieu with probably as much charity as the bearer received it.

At the stable he was pleased to find better company in the form of Mr. Hayes himself, just come up from the mill with his other sons, who he explained were putting away the last finished bolts. "The missus is well and helping Mrs. Wilcox, thank you for asking, I thought I'd just check here to see about Sam. I trust everything is right with you sir?"

"Excellent! I believe your boy has real talent, for my beast has never looked happier after a call at this residence," Henry said over loudly while offering a penny to the lad, who after a short nod from his father sprang with excited glee to take it. "And yourself? I do apologize for not coming sooner, I have only just learned of your condition’s severity."

"Aye, it was touch an' go for a bit, you heard right. We were a mite worried for the children, but none else caught anything, God be praised, and it blew through fast enough. Would the rain might do similar."

"Perhaps you may enjoy a brief respite with the mill closed."

"Perhaps sir." Mr. Hayes sounded as disbelieving as Henry felt. Fortunately the man betrayed no lingering weakness as he helped his son close up the stall.

"I trust you will all tend safe till we meet again."

"Thank you sir, and your family too."

"Actually, I have been searching for my brother. Did you happen to see a rider go by in the past day?"

Henry had not really expected an answer, and was already mounting when Mr. Hayes surprised him by saying there may have been someone on horseback. "'Twere so fleeting I had not mentioned it to anyone, and whether it was any kin of yours I could not say. I was out testing the water's depth at the time. It was so dark, I do not think I would have noticed except for hearing the hooves. I shouted a warning, but who knows if it was heard? He was going very fast." The miller would have said too fast , but just checked himself, remembering the gentleman's relationship.

Henry's heart sank at the news, for he had envisioned himself going home now. "Which direction did he take?" he asked with some trepidation, and felt even worse as the man pointed toward a thicket due north of the swelling river.

"I believe it was that way, though of course, it were very hard to see, I might have been mistaken. I wondered where he could be going," was his candid remark, though the only answer was a barely elucidating "Nowhere good."

Even as Henry advanced uphill toward the copse he wondered whether he ought to retreat. No farm extended this far out of Woodston, for the land was rocky and uneven. He caught sight of not only limbs but full trunks down in places, and a lone rider would face perils even without a tempest to hinder him. For the first time Henry truly considered that Frederick might be in some peril.

"If so, it would be foolish to continue by himself." He had promised caution, and a company of men might serve an injured party far better than one. The closest source of aid must be where he had just left, which would require giving further explanation for his search; even were he to obscure specifics, like as not those very details would be guessed at or worse imagined to explain whatever predicament Frederick might be found in. Henry could certainly imagine any number of strong pronouncements from Wilcox on the subject of drunkards and debauchery, or complaints should Frederick be in no danger at all. He decided he must at least give a cursory search before alerting anyone else, delaying a decision while continuing deeper through the woods. Duty and desire, consciousness and conscience all vied for influence as he wrestled over what to do.

Suddenly he spied another horse and, urging his own forward, closed the distance as carefully as possible. It was no wonder the poor beast had been unable to continue further: its reins were wrapped around a large branch, and the saddle had slid down to drag along one side. Henry leapt down and attempted to free the head, finally resorting to his knife when he could not loose the stiffened tact. He tried to recall if it was the same breed his brother had ridden.

He received answer when upon straightening the saddle in place he recognized the captain's prize riding crop tangled in its straps.

Henry at once looked around for a prone figure but to no avail: it was very dark, and he had not thought to bring a lantern. Best to fetch help; but that would take precious minutes, and his brother might be very bad off indeed, without time to spare. Glancing down he could just make out tracks leading off into even thicker brush.

Leading both horses on foot, he followed the piecemeal trail through the gloom, gingerly crossing the precarious ground till forced to stop when he could no longer see trace of a print in any direction, and he called out. There was no answer.

Before he left, Henry decided to mark the place that it might be easier to find again. He chose two sturdy twigs which he staked and joined with a handkerchief as signal. Just then a bolt of lightning filled the sky, causing Henry to blink against the sudden illumination. The immediate answering thunder spooked the horses so that the leathers were jerked out of his hands, causing him to stumble forward as a torrent poured from the heavens. He ran after but was forced to stop when they faded from view: he could see neither animal, nor even more than a foot before him.

He held his arm out, attempting to walk in the direction he judged most likely to be the correct one. Another lightning strike lit and he could have wept at the sight of fresh markers in the dirt. He turned at once, feeling his way forward, and lengthening his stride when he finally cleared the trees. Catching no sight of village or field did not at first alarm him; he had ridden far, and may have left the woods at a different place than he had entered. Even were he close, it might take twice as long to traverse the same span half blind and on foot.

When said foot failed to find purchase beneath it Henry nearly toppled over, and just managed to leap back in time. Peering forward he was able to make out the grooves of a large pit, and recognized it as one of the fallow canals. "I must have come clear north of the forest entirely," was his realization, much farther afield from where he had imagined himself to be. He looked about for further landmarks, but all was grey and murky. If he kept the gorge to one side he knew he would eventually reach the river; from there he could best determine how to return to Woodston, or even head on to the abbey in the worst extremity. These thoughts did not cheer him, for either destination would involve a long hard march.

Henry walked slowly, ever aware of the possibility for mudslides and unsure exactly where along this course the river was diverted. Poor Catherine must already be inside by now, safe and warm and hopefully not too worried about her hapless husband. Henry could imagine her sitting by the fire, perhaps sorting through her workbox or reading a novel, and allowed himself to torment her spectre with occasional glances toward the door in search of him.

These pleasing thoughts were not enough to chase away his fears. Frederick could be anywhere, and though hearty, getting wet through would do him no good, not to mention any injuries he may have sustained. While he had chided Mrs. Tilney for her abundant imagination before, Henry was no less susceptible, and could readily envision many reasons a man would be unable to return once unseated from his horse.

His own state was little better: cold and damp, without even the provisions his wife had so thoughtfully arranged and which he had so stupidly left on his saddle. Whoever found it would have both one meal and funds to purchase many more: a shocking loss to accept culpability for, not counting the beast itself. As if to reinforce his folly, memory assaulted him, and he clearly heard his mother's father recount a blood-curdling tale of some long dead ancestor drowning after a drunken escapade on his own land. "And let that be a lesson for you, young Master Henry, 'ere you suffer the same!"

Why, he wondered, had Frederick not been made sleepless for nights on end with similar morality stuffed in his ear at a tender age? Was not the elder son supposed to be the more noble specimen of the line? And why had Henry ever thought he should come to his rescue in the first place, and alone at that? Grandfather Drummond would have boxed his ears over this foolishness. Henry pulled his greatcoat tighter, and prayed earnestly that Catherine was not suffering any pangs; he had told her he would seek shelter. Perhaps he would omit exactly how far he had to walk to seek said shelter when sending word.

These thoughts were interrupted by his slipping on a sodden patch of grass, causing him to land unceremoniously on the ground with laboured breath and a headache forming. Beyond the trace of the canal and an overgrown hedge the world was a dark filmy void. At least the thunder had abated, though Henry would have been glad of some light.

When he began to push himself up, Henry felt a small something under his hand: too small and polished for a stone and more perfectly round than a seed. He brought it closer to his face and was startled to recognize a button, the same that had caught the fireplace's light yesterday as Frederick strutted about the study. Henry scrambled to his feet and called his brother's name again, looking all about.

Hearing nothing but the wind he nonetheless crept to look over the edge of the shaft, straining to see. He could just make out the other side, and after some difficulty followed it down to where it flattened into a narrow ditch. It was on his second examination that something caught his eye: Henry turned back immediately and peering closer, thought he glimpsed a person.

"Frederick!" he cried in recognition but saw no sign of movement. Henry traced along the perimeter to just above where his brother lay sprawled under a thin canopy, formed by a mess of dirt and foliage torn from the nearest bush. "Frederick!"

If there was answer Henry did not see or hear it, though he could not be sure the man was even sensible to his cries. He judged it was not a steep climb, and tore off a stick large enough to support his weight. "I am coming!" he announced, hoping to rouse some response as he began his descent.

Despite not training to the same degree as a cavalier, Henry was by no means in poor form, and furthermore had traversed these grounds since his boyhood. Still, he was distracted by labour, fatigue, and dread; his gloves were wet through and his sodden coat pulled and upset his balance, forcing him to work even harder to keep his footing.

He might have succeeded even with all these difficulties had it not been for stepping on a loose rock, which slid out from under his foot and pulled a good chunk of the earth with it, dragging him along so that he plunged to the bottom in a heap, only just managing to roll into his shoulder. He instinctively reached for his handkerchief and a jarring spasm coursed through him, compounded by his remembering the linen was not in his pocket at all.

Whatever his own pains, he was quick to see that his brother looked worse: the usually pristine clothing torn and dank, hair falling in wild strands, and skin unnaturally pale. Henry was relieved to discover a heartbeat, but had no way of knowing how bad off the man truly was. They would need to get out and find better shelter than that provided by the wreckage scattered about. Small miracle the stallion had only been caught in the above bramble and not lamed, or perhaps a testament to the military discipline which Henry absently observed it displayed more than its master. But these morose pondering would get them nowhere: they must escape if Frederick were to receive the attention he most desperately needed.

Henry positioned the larger man over his shoulder and took up his walking stick. The dead weight caused him a moment's unsteadiness; looking up, he could just discern the seemingly distant hedge, though he knew it was not so far to the top. With determination he set rod and boot into the slope, his other hand clutching his load.

If it had been difficult to get himself down, it was doubly so to pull them both up. The mud shifted beneath his boots, and he could feel his brother's frame slipping from his grasp even as he tightened his hold. They were both too wet, the ground too soft. The staff helped but could do nothing for the person pulling him backward. Henry attempted shifting his position but felt one of Frederick’s arms pry free, which was enough to overbalance and throw them down once again.

The result of this fall was that though Henry felt too dazed to offer any exclamation, his brother awoke and offered several choice oaths of his own. Henry barely paid them mind, instead sitting up to shout the other’s name.

"Henry?" The voice was hoarse but powerful.

"Glad to know you still have life," and smiling despite his bruises, he forced himself to stand. "Now, between the two of us, we are sure to get out." So saying he offered his hand.

"What the devil—" but whatever else Frederick would have asked was lost in an outraged howl as Henry tried to hoist him up. Instead, Frederick yanked back, nearly pulling his brother down on top of him.

"Come now, I have taken enough mud in the face for you today," was Henry's preamble as he bent to start the process over, cut short by his brother's curses. Upon closer examination he discovered an odd angle in one leg, a bulging egg of skin revealed midway down the calf. Even his untutored eye could understand what that meant.

"It's broken!" Frederick exclaimed. "You idiot simpleton: you broke my leg!"

Chapter 8

When the first drops of rain fell, Catherine and Will rushed to pack everything away. They made it back into the parsonage as the worst of it fell, dripping but without any real harm.

"You must get dry this instant," Catherine charged her young helper, who agreed with all gratitude, while she went upstairs to change. By the time she came down the storm was in full force, thunder rumbling in the distance. Looking out the drawing room's window she could barely make out the trees bending in the wind. Her comfort was that the garden and yard were clear, though it saddened to think how little they would be able to enjoy their plantation if the weather continued despoiling their shrubbery.

The clock chimed four o'clock with no sign of Henry. "He's likely in the village," Mrs. Forest offered when Mrs. Tilney came to find her. "He did say he would wait it out there."

"Very true. But he may yet be on his way, so I would like to get something made up, and the fire stoked."

She hoped at any moment to hear the front door open. But the minutes ticked by without this expected homecoming, and Catherine could barely contain her worry as she checked on dinner once more. "Can we keep it warm a little longer?" she asked fretfully.

"I'm afraid it'll spoil," was the cook's opinion.

It was too awful to contemplate dining alone without her husband, and so she asked instead that they all eat together in the kitchen. "Only, Will, please go and look out the door again."

The boy, having just sat down, might have grumbled had Mrs. Poole not sent him a sharp look, causing him to leap up to obey. The two matrons did their best to comfort their young mistress, with assurances that Mr. Tilney knew what he was about, and was surely safe and dry inside someone's home.

"And I know he'll be glad to think of us all staying safe inside as well," Mrs. Forest opined when Will returned, having caught no sight of his master.

It was a simple meal, one Catherine might normally have enjoyed for its warmth and fellowship but for her concern for Henry. She knew everyone was likely correct, and that her husband was lodging with their friends, yet she was still anxious on his behalf. What if he had been too far out when the storm broke? What if he had not turned back in time? What if he was now exposed and forlorn, far from any succour?

Afterward Catherine braved her little room again with its windows futilely looking out upon the obscured landscape. She felt tired and heartsick, and wished she could have gone out also, absurd as the notion surely was. At last she scolded herself for indulging her fancies. It was ridiculous to sit thus, watching and waiting, as if Henry were as foolish a man as his brother to risk nature's onslaught. She determined to banish her overwrought thoughts and put herself to something productive, and went to find her long overdue mending.

The sound of a dog caused her to stop, and she wondered whether he was whining to be let in. Henry as a rule did not like his hunter to abide in the house proper. But Catherine decided the present circumstances must relax this prohibition and unlatched the door. She did not find Brutus on the steps; instead, he was raising a great fuss around a horse coming up the sweep. Without another thought and barely taking time to grab her pelisse, Catherine ran into the elements with a loud clamour.

It is fortunate Will was not so hasty in abandoning his chores in the loft, and brought out a lantern on being summoned. He found the rector’s wife helping a very drenched Sam Hayes out of the saddle, and quickly led them into the stable’s comparative protection.

The little boy's features wavered between exhaustion and exhilaration as he attempted to explain. "It came back, and he said as I was to bring it here, so I did!" This comment did little to enlighten his audience, and after some gentle prompting he was able to inform them that Mr. Tilney had been to see Mr. Wilcox, had taken his horse into the woods, and that this same horse had been sighted pawing around the property some time later. "Mr. Tate was mad, on account of just getting his bottle out, an' here was more work to do, an' says I was to take the thing straight back where it belonged."

Catherine was not so preoccupied by her own concerns as to miss the flaw in this plan. "But why did you come with it so dark and bad out?"

This question, clearly unexpected, bewildered the child, who turned suddenly shy. "Then, you think, he did not mean now?"

It soon became clear Sam had not told a soul of his mission, under the impression he was in orders already, and that save one potentially inebriated groom none knew of his whereabouts. "Your poor mother will be so worried!" Catherine exclaimed, which made Sam shrink to the point of bowing, the better to hide his tears with the water still dripping from his head.

"It's Dagonet sure enough," Will spoke up, having missed most of this scene while examining the horse. "See that spot? And look, it’s Mr. Tilney’s bag, with all his things." An older hand might have offered some wise reflection on not being deceived by appearances. Being young and as unnerved by the sight as the lady, Will only asked whether she wanted Sam to bed with him for the night.

"No," Catherine answered with such firmness that both lads stood up straighter. "You can drive the curricle, is that not true?" At Will's startled assent, she nodded. "Good. Get the horses watered, and then drive around to the kitchen door. Sam, come with me, we shall get you cleaned up and make ready in the house."

The bewildered servant was unsure what needed "getting ready," though based on the day's activities so far expected it meant nothing restful for him.

He was not wrong, for Catherine was determined on nothing less than setting out to deliver one wayward son back to his family, and if possible discover the whereabouts of two others. Both her housekeeper and cook tried to dissuade her of this resolution but to no avail: now that she had a purpose she was fixed on it. "I will have Will, and we will take the dog, and besides we must get Sam home before he is missed," and without waiting for more objections she ordered the boy given something hot to drink and directed a basket be prepared with food, wraps, candles, and anything else she could think of. Soon the curricle was loaded up, a thick blanket covering the supplies; and Will personally brought a little rope and hammer along, of a mind that if he had to be out he would like to have some tools as not, with these items being instilled as necessities from an early age whether they were needed for the particular task or no.

Garbed in her thickest coat and with an umbrella for further protection, Catherine confidently told her other servants they would abide in the closest dwelling of the parish after their errand was finished. Mrs. Forest looked of a mind to question the wisdom of this decision once more, but in the end only charged Will to look sharp and keep them all safe. He nodded his rather uncertain agreement while helping Catherine onto the seat, and she took the lantern from him as he lifted little Sam up to wedge between them. Brutus was in a frenzy of delight when bade to follow, barking and leaping about as they started forward.

The higher ground, though wet, was not too marshy as they made their way down the deserted Woodston lane. She had a moment of foreboding when passing the churchyard, but seeing the looks of fright on her companions spoke of courage she did not fully possess, and encouraged Will to drive on.

Sam, at least, caught some of her cheer the closer they came to their destination, even as the conditions worsened and Will struggled to keep the curricle steady. Catherine encouraged the little boy to speak, at first of anything, and then patiently leading him back to the discovery of the horse and anything else he could tell her of Henry's potential whereabouts. At the last bend in the path he was so bold as to lean over and point toward the distant woods. "I think it were that way it came from, ma'am; I heard Mr. Tilney and my father talk of someone riding in there."

For one moment Catherine considered turning in that direction, but she could not justify either taking Sam along or abandoning him, especially as he was the professed reason for the journey. So she buried her own feelings and forced herself to praise the boy as they brought him up to the perimeter of the Wilcox property, where the path had grown muddy enough it was all Will could do to bring the curricle to a halt rather than turn it onto the short drive.

"I can hop those puddles ma’am, truly!" Sam assured her with all the carelessness of youth and looking none the worse for his adventure.

Catherine debated whether she ought not to accompany him, and finally decided on sharing a few cakes to salve her conscience and instructing him to go straight to his mother with as much sternness as she could muster. "And please apologize for me, and say I would come in if I could, and that I will visit her later," Catherine continued in a rush, mad to be gone, yet determined to perform her duties to the parish as well as she could under the circumstances.

Sam ran like a hare toward the nearest building, and Will asked with some hesitation if they ought not to follow his example. "These horses aren't used to pulling together," he confessed while struggling to turn them around.

"Just a bit further," Catherine urged with a sinking heart, not at all sure if it were the right thing to do anymore, but certain she could not bear to leave off the attempt. "Is there not some trail we could follow?"

Will was hard pressed to answer: his travels primarily consisted of the parsonage and his parents' cottage, and he found it difficult to envision much beyond. "I've an uncle who boards with the tenants somewhere nearby," he mused nervously, mindful that he had the parson's wife out in a hypothetical quagmire, and fearful of his punishment if he did not think of something quick. "Mama visits sometimes. I think she goes up by the field path, like they drive the carts through."

"Then we shall use it as well," Catherine spoke with all confidence, causing Will to wish he had heeded all the matrons in his life who advised him to mind his tongue. Soon they were repositioned and heading up the way carved by much larger wagon wheels, their lighter vehicle just skimming over the shallow ruts. The dog kept to their side, less playful and more alert, occasionally bounding after something only he could see before returning.

At last they came within sight of the forest, and Will was able to guide the team onto an even narrower trail. The rain at least was not as pelting under the canopy, but their limited light curtailed any speed beyond a crawl as they cast about for any sign of their quarry.

Brutus sniffed about, alert, than threw back his head and howled before leaping deeper into the thicket. "Oh, he must have found him, Will, we must go after him!" Catherine cried, a thousand scenes from her books filling her with awe and terror at the sight. Her driver was not unmoved, and did all he could to force the curricle into every open space possible, even putting the hood down to allow for a tighter fit through the brush. She held the lantern as high as possible, catching sight of the dog still dashing back and forth. The animal had been trained well and never got too far ahead, always letting them know his whereabouts.

After what felt like ages, Will was able to manoeuvrer the curricle through a break in the trees, only to bring it up short again in a sudden panic. "We can't go there! See ahead? That's part of the canal, we'll fall in!"

Brutus was frantic, whining and baying at turns, and the horses uneasily shifted their weight at his upset. Catherine searched for any sign that they were in the correct place. "Look, Will: do you see something?"

With trepidation the boy allowed the vehicle to advance, and as they came alongside the vague shape took form. Reaching over, Will was able to grab the reins, and Catherine held their lantern higher. As one they recognized the stallion's silver military harness. "It must be the captain's," Will allowed, and they both looked about in alarm.

"They have to be nearby: we shall have to search on foot." She did not even wait for Will to help her, but climbed down herself. While the boy tethered their growing herd, she carefully lit another lantern, shielding the precious flame with her umbrella. "Here, it will go faster if we each have one," and attempting to shelter them both, Catherine set off with her reluctant companion after the dog, with cries of "Mr. Tilney!" and "Henry!" as they swept their lights to and fro.

Abruptly there was a shout, unintelligible, but sounding more human than etheral. "Did you hear it?" Catherine asked, and they both stood still.

The report came again, louder, and distinctly forming the word "Here!" Such encouragement was all Catherine needed to race ahead, forgetting Will completely at the sound of her husband's voice, repeatedly wailing his name all the while. She stopped when she heard an answering "Catherine?" and peered round, then turned to the canal itself as the dog planted himself by its side and howled. She inched forward, holding the lantern high, and gasped at the sight below her.

"Oh! Henry, are you hurt?" she called, taking in his unusually dishevelled appearance. "And where is your greatcoat?"

"Covering Frederick, who needs it more at the moment. But are you alone?"

"No sir!" Will came bounding up, fearing chastisement more than falling. "We drove out with the curricle, and found the captain's horse."

Henry's looks spoke his displeasure, but he was interrupted voicing his exact thoughts by a sneeze. "We can discuss whether that was wise later, but I am glad to see you. We must get Frederick out, his leg is hurt."

"Because of you!" came a sharp retort, and Catherine moved her lantern to take in the huddled form of the captain laying nearby.

"Unfortunately our first attempt at escape resulted in injury, which Frederick received the brunt of; and while splinted, the leg needs more support than a branch and cravat may provide. I have tried to climb out since but the ground has no purchase, and I cannot get a footing."

Here Will proved his mettle by proudly announcing he had brought rope with him, and was rewarded by Henry clapping his hands. "Excellent! Bring the horses around: between them and a few good knots we should be out soon enough."

As the boy went to do his master's bidding, Catherine remained, still holding her lantern high. "You are sure you are unharmed? It looks a ways to fall."

"I am perfectly well," was the reply, a bit too quick even for Catherine's ready credulity. As if recognizing his mistake, Henry continued, "Nothing that may not be cured by a comfortable chair by the fire. I am only sorry you are forced to share our troubles."

Disclaiming any discomfort of her own, Catherine was prevented making further inquires by Will’s return. At Henry's instruction he wound the rope in among the collar and chains of the pair, then wrapped it about himself. "Be careful," Catherine warned as she watched Will climb down.

It felt terrible to be stranded at the top of such a ravine, with nothing to do but watch and wait, listening to the men go about their labours. The dog crawled beneath the floorboard to lounge, panting but happiest of their party, and she praised his good work with reciprocal gladness. Eventually Will came scurrying back over the edge. "Very good ma'am, hold the lamp steady," he said, and then began coaxing the horses to pull their new burdens up.

She could see the figure of the captain gradually rising in his makeshift litter, and hear even more clearly his oaths. Henry, holding tight to the rope, guided his brother's ascent from below. Once they were close enough she reached out, taking his hand, and soon they were all on level ground again. At their hail Will came running back, helping his master get the sodden and very angry captain hoisted up onto the curricle’s seat. "Thank you," Henry said, leaning on a wheel as he caught his breath. "We had best turn around to Woodston, though I've no firm idea of the distance at this point."

"Oh yes!" Catherine agreed, disturbed by how worn her husband looked now that she saw him closer. "You should both get inside at once. Henry, you must sit with your brother, and take cover. Will and I are small enough to both ride behind: my umbrella will do for us."

"Nonsense: the mud will turn all over you, who are already far too wet." Henry's protests would have carried more weight if he were not drenched and dirty himself, and interrupted by coughing. Catherine at once reached into their supplies and fetched him a draught of water, ignoring protests from the passenger disturbed by her efforts.

Trying to appease her husband, Catherine recommended he sit on the back with umbrella and blanket. "I may then ride and keep your brother safe, while Will leads the team."

Despite himself Henry looked of half a mind to agree, until the boy admitted he was not sure where they were or how to guide them away. "And what would they do with the captain’s horse? The rope was too thick to loop through his gear."

"I will ride it," Henry announced, standing straighter. "You should be able to stand in the curricle, and can follow. Keep your umbrella, dear, I am afraid you may be pushed to the side and will need the protection."

She protested, demanding he use it, but Henry only shook his head and took the other lantern. "We must not delay with arguments. Come, up inside, the sooner we start the sooner we may reach safety."

Catherine allowed herself to be helped up, but held her husband's hand with firm emphasis before he walked away. "And when we arrive, you will rest? For my sake?"

"Believe me, I need no prompting for that," Henry answered, but at her look he earnestly agreed.

Reassured, Catherine settled herself as best she could while Will took up the reins, and her brother angrily demanded they set off at once. His language grew only fouler as they were jostled forward. "Could you not bring anything stronger to drink?" was his demand, prompting Catherine to honestly reply that there had been no spirits left to pack. His curses made her blush but she determined to ignore him, and kept her eyes trained on the figure with the lantern ahead.

Chapter 9

Henry kept to a sluggish trot back through the trees. He had, in fact, thought it might be safer to go around the forest, but the driving rain and absence of even the faintest path forced him to reconsider. The horses were taxed and unused to pulling together, and with three to bear the slightest irregularity might upset them. Nor could he risk a wrong turn in the open with all landmarks veiled beyond the small glow of his lamp; safer to retrace their steps and make for the hunting trail as a guide out. Weakness of the flesh proved an ample distraction from the mind's anxiety: an awful heaviness settled in his throat and lungs, while his shoulder ached as he laboured to hold both the lantern and ragged straps so unluckily cut earlier.

What he saw when they found the trail made his heart sink further: the way back toward Woodston was blocked by a large overflowing mudhole, possibly dug out by the curricle's own passage. He tried to sound it out a few feet and was compelled to turn back. "A wonder you made it through at all," he professed with blunted feeling, refusing to consider the danger Catherine might easily have fallen to, and turning his mind instead to what should be done.

Unfortunately, he saw but one alternative. "I think we had better head for Northanger, as we can find the river easy enough, and thence get to higher ground on the other side. Any other way is likely to prove as perilous as this one, and besides there is a doctor near the abbey." He did not say what they should do if that way was barred as well, entrusting to Providence what he could not command as he passed by the curricle to head in the other direction. Eventually they came to the rushing water, and while it was very high he was beyond grateful to find it had not yet submerged the old wooden bridge; still, he determined to test the boards first, even commanding Brutus wait from dashing across. The high stirrup caught his foot on dismounting, and Henry fumbled to keep his balance as he landed with a jerk.

"I am well!" he called in answer to his wife's cry, putting as much cheer into his voice as possible, and absently speculating whether a thing could be made so if said often enough. He walked forward and back, then led the stallion, striving to discover if there was any give or crack that might cause difficulties. All seemed sound, but he insisted that Catherine cross first before Will drove the curricle over.

"What of our safety?" his brother demanded at this scheme, repeating again his bitter complaints over loss of his leg.

Henry caught himself from an equally acrimonious reply as he helped Catherine down from her seat. "Follow as you can," he instructed Will, then warily advanced, not relaxing his grip on her hand till they had safely reached the far side, scorn and distemper behind them.

As they waited, Henry attempted to shield her even as she raised the umbrella higher for him. "My dearest Catherine, I am so sorry," he began, but found he could not articulate all he was sorry for. It was too immense, and his brain too fogged to detail it.

"I wish no one had been harmed," was her eventual answer. "And that it were all safely over. But it is very like a book, is it not?"

He stared, and only managed to recognize her attempt at humour from her smiles. He tried to laugh but found himself coughing, and felt her arms reach to offer support.

"Oh, Henry, you must not ride any more, let Will take your place."

"No, we should not chance unbalancing everything with my added weight, and it is a good while before we come out to the road. Do not fear, I have taken this trail before and can easily manage it." He did not quite capture his earlier confidence, and turned away from his wife's piercing eyes, not wishing her to see how little he believed his own words. Henry was saved by the curricle's appearance and quickly helped her back up, but this time did not ignore the foul abuse this action gave rise to. "Remember there is a lady present," he admonished. "And that our father will want a full accounting of what has transpired."

The simple act of remounting made him dizzy, yet he spared not a moment before setting off. His fervent prayer was to make Northanger Abbey before true night fell, and as the shower tapered off he was better able to get his bearings. Yet his inner workings seemed to worsen even as his outward situation improved: coughs came upon his frame more regularly, racking spasms he could not contain, and it felt as if every bone and tendon ached, not helped by the military style of the saddle and his own lack of familiarity with it. He would never complain about a day spent visiting again; even his worst parish outing had nothing to compare with this hellish travail.

It felt like an interminable time before they finally cleared the last oak. He tried to estimate how far they had to go and failed miserably. It was as if the drive would never end, and he like Orpheus doomed to continually wander through a frigid misty underworld, his wife behind him, doubting whether they would reach safety or no. He did not realize they were at the abbey's gates until the horse began to shy at the impediment, and he startled from his stupor enough to get it back under control, the dog cavorting at its hoofs.

"Hello the house!" he raised his voice loud as possible. "Captain Tilney is wounded!"

This hue and cry brought forth several men, and soon enough they were under the archways and blessedly out of the dank gloom. Henry accepted help without embarrassment, past caring for his pride, instructing, "His leg is broken; Doctor Morton must be sent for," as Frederick was lifted down and taken inside, then when the boy leapt to aid his mistress from her perch, "My deepest thanks, Will, for your valuable service tonight."

"Of course sir, I'll see to things here, don't you worry."

"I am sure it is in the best of hands." Henry's attention next turned to Catherine's needs, and he ordered a bath prepared. "I believe my sister has left some of her wardrobe here; have them sent to the room Mrs. Tilney will use."

Catherine protested their separating. "You are more in need of care than me, and you promised you would rest when we arrived."

"And so I shall, you have my word," Henry assured her, stifling the sneeze that threatened to spoil his picture of competence. "But my father will want to know what has occurred, and it is best I make explanations rather than leave it to servants. You should get out of these wet things at once, before you catch cold."

"I am worried you are ill. Let me come with you, and then we may go up together."

But Henry would not hear of her facing the general under such circumstances. "I will be but a short time behind you: now, please go in, there is nothing you should be concerned for now except your own comfort."

Reluctantly she left, turning back to look at him a final time before following the attendant into the house. Henry at once stopped the nearest groom as he wiped the mud from his boots. "Have the coach made ready with the surest team. Mrs. Tilney will travel back to Woodston tonight."

It was a testament to how strong the Tilney command ruled in the household that no one questioned his stern order but made to obey at once. It had been Henry's private vow that his wife never be forced to spend another night in the house she had once been so odiously banished from, and after all her misadventures he meant to ensure she did not suffer any new grievances at the hands of his family.

"Sir," a voice penetrated his thoughts, causing him to face the butler. "Your father wishes to see you now."

"Of course." He surrendered his wet hat and greatcoat, then rubbed his temples with a proffered cloth in an elusive attempt to make himself presentable. He was grateful the dark prevented any mirrors from mocking his appearance when trudging up the familiar steps, across the long great hall, and into the confines of his father's private sitting room.

"Henry!" was the brusque greeting he received upon entry. "What do you mean upsetting the house like this so late, and in this weather?"

"It was not my intention—" and he would have taken a seat, but a sharp glance from the general staid him.

"You know better than to get dirt all over the furniture, or at least you did. No telling what your habits are like now."

The barely veiled comment against his marriage caused Henry to stand ramrod straight, determined not to give an inch to the man before him. "I do know sir, and I would never dream of testing your forbearance. That is why my wife will be returning to Woodston as soon as the coach is ready."

"Why is she here?" was the next inquiry. "Get to the point: I have no patience for that insipid tongue of your's tonight."

"No sir." So Henry launched into an abbreviated version of events to date. He was forced to omit much of Frederick's disreputable conduct out of sheer expediency, not wanting to get tangled in the minutia of the tale before reaching the heart of the matter.

"I took the liberty of sending for the physician," he summarized, feeling slightly light-headed and wishing the glowing coals had been stoked back up. "Frederick does not appear in need of treatment beyond the leg, but I cannot be sure."

"He is a campaigner, he will live," the general answered with military stocisim. "D—n stupid way to extend his furlough; a good lesson for him. You will be spending the night of course."

"Yes sir, but about Mrs. Tilney—"

"You shall both stay here. No need to add to the day's folly: I will not risk any more horseflesh." He rang and gave instructions for his son and daughter to be settled "out of the way."

Henry wanted to object, but felt his throat close up and therefore only dropped a short bow when dismissed. On following the footman upstairs, he asked to first see where Catherine had been settled, and was led to a small guest chamber. "Henry!" she exclaimed, almost falling into his arms, but he stopped her.

"I am too filthy for such an embrace, I merely wanted to see that you were taken care of."

"Oh, yes, but Henry you must get warm, you look ever so chilled."

"I feel it, but I can get cleaned up easily enough, and I wish to speak to you first. My father has decreed we stay the night—"

"Good!"

"—but I have ordered the coach made ready regardless. There is no need to inconvenience us both: you might be home before midnight."

Catherine looked near to tears at the suggestion. "Henry, no, I could not leave you! Please, will you at least sit?"

"I would spoil the chair," he demurred, even as he longed to lay down and never get back up. "And I would not have you stay here a second longer than necessity requires; Will may accompany you, if you had rather not go alone. I will remain long enough to learn what is to become of Frederick, discuss whatever business my father requires, and likely arrive back in Woodston by midmorning tomorrow."

But Catherine broke into true sobs at this proposed schedule, begging him to let her stay, pleading not to be sent off, and beseeching they remain together. It was more than he could stand after everything else.

"As it seems I am outnumbered in this case I will not argue the point. But we leave first thing in the morning. Now, they may still have questions for me, and I would not have your sleep disturbed by interruptions. I shall be close by, though, pray be easy on that count." She at last agreed, and Henry assured her they would go down to breakfast together before departing. Only when his wife surrendered to the maid's attention did Henry depart, and was vaguely bemused to be shown to his old quarters farther along the gallery. Inside he found a fire, hot plate, and fresh ewer of water awaiting him like ministering angels. He ran to the inviting flames in relief, kicking at his boots and stripping his coat off, feeling as if he could have danced upon the hearth. The light meal was soon devoured, as he was overcome with a ferocious hunger; and was on the verge of ringing for more, when a coughing fit rent his frame with such violence he fell onto the bed. Still unwashed he crawled in, pulling every blanket on top, desperate to get warm, unable to fathom doing more that night.

Morpheus did not take him so soon, and he tossed and turned fitfully, dull aches threading through every fibre of his being. Worse, his chills were eventually replaced with a burning sensation, such that he could not bear the heat of the room. Stumbling about, he managed to coax the window open, desperate to quench the fire coursing through him. Coughs kept him half awake, even as exhaustion claimed him, and he only sank into oblivion when the rain stopped past one.

Chapter 10

When Catherine woke the next morning she rushed to the window and looked out. Dawn lit the sky, and for once it appeared warm and fair, without an ominous cloud to be seen. The sight was a balm for her nerves, sorely taxed by frightful dreams, but she refused to let such ideas run away with her as they had before her marriage.

"There is nothing to fear," she reminded herself. Nothing could touch them here, nor could anyone separate her from Henry now that he was her husband. Her fancies were just that, and not to be indulged. And in his ancestral home Henry would have been provided the best of care. Why, he had probably slept sounder than she!

Determined to do nothing that would hinder their departure, Catherine began her toilette alone, taking extra care with her hair. If she must face the general again she would present herself neat and smart, demonstrating what a proper wife she had become.

Afterward she paced the room, wishing she had something to read, but nervous of ringing to ask for anything, unsure of how far her father-in-law's generosity extended for this brief visit. Finally she sat in the chair by the window. Henry would find her fresh and ready, and right where she ought to be.

She did not realize she had dozed off until roused by a maid, who upon being asked about Mr. Tilney told how the gentleman was being examined by the recently arrived doctor. "They say his leg looks something awful!"

Catherine coloured at the reference. "No, I did not mean the Captain, I meant Mr. Henry Tilney, my husband. He is to take me down. I am sure he will not be long."

The young girl apologized for her mistake before curtsying and leaving the room. Catherine turned toward the window again and could see clearly for miles, the sun showing the storm's wreckage. She hoped no one else from Woodston had come to harm, and spared a thought for what her housekeeper and cook must be thinking. She began to pace again, wondering whether she ought to send a message ahead, but decided there was no cause, they would leave soon enough. But where was Henry?

When a half hour had passed she decided to seek him out. Opening the door, she spied a few souls hastening down the hall, but shrank from bidding any to aid her; if the servants were occupied with their master's orders she certainly did not wish to interrupt them. Yet she did not know which apartment was her husband's, and she was uncertain about which if any might be verboten. Doubt caught at her. Perhaps Henry had gone down already, and was expecting her to follow; or he might have been called to attend his father, or decided to confer with some other person. He would then surely wish her to wait for him. There had no actual promise they should breakfast together, but he had said they would and she was sure he meant it. What could be the delay?

She retreated back into her sanctum and pondered anew what should be her course. It was a terrible dilemma for a heroine to face, without any clear sign of what the right action was. "If only we were already home!"

The chiming of the clock stirred her to action. She would not stay in this room all day: it was silly to fret when there was no cause, and she knew the house well enough to dispense with a guide. Catherine boldly went into the hallway and walked toward the stair.

She was halfway down before encountering a footman. A softly worded inquiry revealed that the doctor, who had been summoned before first light, was still busy with his patient, and the household all very occupied in looking after the captain's needs. "Are the other gentlemen already at table?" she asked, to which she received a negative: the general was out walking, and no one else had gone into the parlour that the man was aware of.

Catherine then begged direction to the stable, thinking to find her husband readying for their departure. No one there had seen him, though Will proudly announced that everything was in readiness for their departure. "But you are sure he has not been out?" Catherine asked, beginning to worry again.

"No ma'am. Is he not in the house?"

"Yes, he must be. We will send word when it is time." Catherine turned back inside, thinking. It would not do to wander the house at random; perhaps her husband was preoccupied with weighty matters. "And if he were to send for me, and I not to be found, that would do no one any good."

She decided to step into the breakfast parlour after all. It was the logical place for her to be, and one her husband would need come to eventually. There could be no objection in her presence. She would be seen, her whereabouts would be known, and she was really feeling quite hungry. So it was that Catherine satisfied both her scruples and her appetite with the same decision, and was not altogether sorry to enjoy a solitary repast, as it prevented her needing to hear disagreeable conversation or feign further concern over her brother's injuries.

When she had finished Catherine felt much better, and was able to content herself that her husband must be doing business with his father. He was a dutiful son, on the whole, and might feel partly responsible for what had happened. She did not blame him for this abandonment, and instead ascribed all responsibility to the more likely party. As they were at the general's leisure she decided to return to her room and wait the men out rather than go in search of them. But Catherine was not fitted for idleness, at least when she had nothing to read, and so rang for paper and pen that she might write letters.

"I suppose the family are very occupied?" Catherine asked as the girl started to leave.

"The general was still out walking, and the doctor only waited his return to set out." She had not seen Mr. Henry Tilney; she knew for certain her master had walked out alone. It was very exceptionable to have his routine upset, he would not change it for anything, and no one expected him back soon.

Catherine marvelled that even a person she already believed to be uncaring could be so unsympathetic. "But has Mr. Tilney, that is Mr. Henry Tilney, really not been seen at all?" she asked.

The girl could not say, she had been kept busy with other concerns, but she could show the lady to his quarters if it pleased her. Catherine assented to this plan, and felt only a little foolish when led to the very one she knew had been his while still a bachelor. Still, she told herself, it was better to ask for guidance than furtively whisper at each like an errant child, especially as the maid's own firm knock brought no reply.

"He's likely still abed, ma'am," was her knowing advice, and as this knowledge came from serving the elder brother for the past fortnight it is not surprising she should offer such a theory.

But Catherine could not agree. Her husband and she were both of a morning disposition: if not overly early, then at least once the sun had risen. Even accounting for yesterday's tribulations she could not believe he would choose to lay in slumber half the day in the abbey, not after his strong words about leaving promptly. He would want to be waken, she was sure, and so turned the knob to enter.

Once inside she felt a sudden coolness despite the weak fire, which sputtered in its attempts to properly warm the space. She soon discovered the culprit to be a window blown open and went to shut it, discovering as she did where rain had been let in the night before. Puzzled and concerned, she turned to the bed, and found Henry sprawled in a tangle of dirty sheets and tossed blankets. Startled by his lifeless appearance, she reached a hand down to his brow and gasped at how hot it felt, and sought to rouse him without success.

Calling the maid back, Catherine asked her to fetch the doctor. "He is quite ill: get fresh water and some cloths, and something for him to drink." She forgot any compunction against trespassing on the house's regime in alarm for her husband, and barely noticed as the girl hurried away. She tried to pull the coverlet back over Henry but he refused it, albeit unroused by Catherine's entreaties.

Without knowing what else to do, she decided to get him more comfortably settled, and heedless of her borrowed clothes propped up the pillows, straightened the sheets, and manoeuvred him into a better position of rest. There was an unnatural flush on his cheeks, and she could not tell whether they were dampened by sweat or rain. In desperation she pulled out a handkerchief and began cleaning his features, again pleading with him to wake.

He opened his eyes a little, but they were glassy and unseeing, so that Catherine had to take his hand when he started to toss about. "Henry, it is me, I am here," she spoke in clear, even tones. "Please, will you not say something?"

"Catherine?" and for the first time he appeared to wake, his voice low and dreadful, then broke into coughs that forced him to turn on his side with their severity.

She could not have stood the scene a moment more and was never more thankful for an intrusion as when the door opened, bringing the maid back with the man she assumed to be the doctor. He identified himself as the same and apologized for not coming sooner. "He had not realize there were two patients: was young Henry injured in yesterday's misadventure as well?"

"No." Henry struggled to sit up. "I have none to treat, you must see Frederick."

Catherine would not let this bald falsehood stand. "But you are not well!" and turning to the physician, "He was out all yesterday in the damp air searching for his brother, and suffered a terrible fall trying to rescue him. He then rode the full way here and saw to everything; I am sure he has a fever."

"It is just the fire made overhot."

Before Catherine could commit further denials of her husband's veracity the doctor himself intervened. "I am afraid I must agree with Mrs. Tilney: there is very little fire, and you look as if you have some bruises. Now, hand me your wrist, I will need to take your pulse."

Henry looked recalcitrant but obeyed, and Catherine anxiously watched as the man's countenance sunk. "Thready and weak," he murmured, then seeing how ardently he was watched, recommended that Mrs. Tilney might like to wait for the examination to be finished in more pleasant surroundings.

"No!" Catherine cried just as Henry agreed, and she sat on the bedside with firm determination. "I will not interfere, only do not send me away. I must know how he is. Please, though, might he have something? Henry, are you not thirsty?" Coughs interrupted whatever he might have said, causing Catherine to not wait for anyone's permission but serve him herself, taking the glass from the surprised maid and helping her husband to drink.

"As to that," the doctor replied, "I will not force you to leave, of course. Ah, a cold compress should indeed help, did you think of that Mrs. Tilney?" At her assent he readily allowed her to apply them liberally on her husband's dazed person. His estimation of the young lady rose as she gave full and complete intelligence to his questions, never once shrieking or breaking into hysterics, all the more impressive when considering her share in what had transpired.

He examined his patient thoroughly, probing along his side, and at one point commanded Henry raise his arms. Catherine was alarmed at how difficult this simple order proved, and when she tried to assist he could not help an exclamation of pain. The doctor did not look surprised. "As I feared, you seem to have suffered several sprains, which will take a good time to heal properly."

This news distressed Catherine greatly, causing Henry to attempt to rise again despite the effort. "I am sure a bit of rest at home will set me to rights." His voice still held a grey timber, and Catherine noted how bright his eyes were, how fitful his movements, so unlike him that she insisted he lay back down.

"I must agree with Mrs. Tilney: you are in no condition to travel at this time. Apart from your injuries, which are not unserious, I fear you may have contracted a case of pneumonia, which will delay your healing if not treated. I think a bath and clean things should be the first order of business, after which we can start a regime of diet, letting, and rest."

"Just how long do you expect me to stay?"

"I am sure you cannot expect to get up before three days at least, not until we have got this fever under control."

"I will write to Mr. Jones and let him know to prepare for Sunday," Catherine immediately offered, "and the parsonage, that they may not expect us."

Again Henry looked ready to demur but could not keep his posture as he began coughing again, and it took both the doctor's and Catherine's combined efforts to prevent his collapsing. The maid was sent to get fresh linens and a bath drawn. It was none too soon when more servants arrived to receive the doctor's instructions, for Henry had once again subsided into delirium. It frightened Catherine to see her usually strong husband so traduced; and commending Henry to their ministrations, she retreated to afford them space to work, wishing she had something to do besides walk the gallery and pray for restoration.

She had made two full circuits of the passage, each turn like the poetic compass obliquely run back to where she had begun, and was on the point of a third when a man approached: General Tilney demanded the presence of his son downstairs. This summons, though intimidating, seemed an answer to her petitions as it afforded her some means of assisting the physician, if only by preventing an interruption. Resolved to do everything in her power to see her husband made well, she announced that she would attend in his place, and followed after the servant with tremulous steps.

Chapter 11

Since her marriage Catherine had only seen General Tilney twice; in both instances she had been with her husband and their relations, and not required to speak at all. This time marked her first return to Northanger Abbey since being summarily dismissed from it during her courtship, and she felt all the old horror rise in her as she entered the parlour, scene of so much joy and pain mixed in her memory.

The general himself stood as impressive as she remembered, and she barely had time to drop into a curtsy before he demanded to know why his son had not obeyed. Catherine rose and explained in a low voice that he was unwell and could not attend. "But I have come and may answer any questions. I have been telling the doctor—"

He interrupted before she could go into details. "The doctor? That explains his delay, I expected Morton to present a full report upon my return. Henry has no pretext for stalling: I spoke to him last night, and he was fit as ever." He ordered the presence of both gentlemen post haste. "And show this person out."

"No!" Catherine exclaimed, and running to the door stood in front of it, baring the way. "Henry is very ill and must not be moved. I will not hear of it."

Her abrupt movement stopped the man, who looked back to his master in indecision. Catherine followed his glance and recognized that she had only thought the general looked angry before; fury now wreathed his features to the point that she flinched, a thousand horrid descriptions from different novels coming to mind and none fully encompassing the weight of such a look.

" You have no right to give orders; this is not your home, and however you are allowed to run wild over in another parish, such behaviour will not be tolerated here. Now stand aside: I will see to things myself." So saying he marched forward.

But Catherine would not budge, instead standing as straight and tall as she could, clutching her borrowed skirts but otherwise betraying no sign of her distress. Not even did she step back when he came right on top of her, barely stopping before he trod upon her feet. She realized how foolish she had been to shrink and fall back before the captain: the present scenario was worse, much worse, for she knew what the general was capable of and believed in that moment he might actually push her aside. Still she would not move, nor look away, though her heart raced within her.

They stood staring no more than a few inches apart. "You dare defy me? You are not fit to wear those clothes, not even to claim a viscountess's charity, and certainly possess no right to prevent a father seeing his son no matter how stupid and delinquent his conduct."

This insult prompted a gasp of disbelief. "Henry has done nothing wrong!"

"But he has. The proof is before me."

Tears threatened to spill, and she blinked to hold them back. "If you must find fault then you may blame me, though I had no intention to trespass: I never claimed to belong to this house or deserve it."

The man before her smiled, and it was terrible to behold. "There is a small mercy, and the only reason you carry our name: you were too unimportant to argue over. It is by my forbearance that you ever gained admittance to this family, but I will not suffer any more of your machinations. Henry is more fool than I thought if he thinks to hide behind a woman rather than face me. Do not think I am ignorant of what has occurred: the thinnest of excuses offered for a job given him weeks ago, then he claims a calvary officer could not control his horse? I can see through these feints well enough, and a word with Frederick confirmed exactly who is responsible for his condition. Now, you will either move aside or be moved; I will not be gainsaid further."

Catherine knew her powers to resist were few, and in despair replied, "But you are mistaken! Henry is not to blame for the captain's injuries: rather he is made wretched for rescuing his brother. How can you be so monstrously deceived?"

"You dare accuse Frederick of lying!"

"Yes!" Fury giving her boldness, she was barely aware of herself as she stepped forward nearly into the general's arms, so that he retreated a step. "I do not know what has been said but it cannot be true. Henry only wished to do what was right: he was hurt trying to get them both out of the pit the captain had fallen into, then gave up his coat and even preserved his horse! How can you be so cruel as to doubt him? Do you not realize how good he is, who might shun his brother for acting so wickedly and offering insult in every way, and yet risked his life to save?"

She had begun to shout and now was required to stop for breath. The general no longer towered over her, but instead appeared too astounded to respond, though still in a fury. Embarrassed at the scene she had caused, she nevertheless held her head high.

"As Mr. Tilney's wife I have a duty to him, which I owe above any other party. I will not intrude any further than where he will recover, and promise to return these clothes as soon as mine are ready, but I must insist that he not be moved until the doctor gives leave. I am sorry to be the cause of any further trouble." She then turned and nearly ran into the hall, not waiting for any further recriminations, and hurried back up the stairs before anyone else could detain her.

What courage remained momentarily faltered at seeing no one in Henry's chamber, and abandoned her wholly on someone calling her name. She was doubly relieved when the maid from earlier explained the gentleman had been moved to a room freshly made up for him, and on gaining it Catherine appreciated all that had been done: Henry lay on clean linens in a new nightshirt, with a compress and snug blanket completing the ensemble. He looked more peaceful though still wane and drawn, his eyes shut in repose.

"Where did the doctor go?" she asked, and was informed that he had gone to write further instructions for Mr. Tilney's care.

Catherine nodded, and took a chair to place beside the bed. "Please may I ask if he will see me again before he leaves? And discover if my clothes have been washed from yesterday? I should like to return the ones I was given."

The girl vouched she would find out, then quietly left the room. Catherine took hold of Henry's hand, still hot, and attempted to gain control of herself again. She marvelled she had spoke as she did, and prayed her recklessness would not sink them into even greater disapprobation. "I am sorry to have made him angrier, but not for defending Henry!" was her thought, and when she considered the slander spoken could barely regret her conduct.

When the physician returned Catherine asked that she might know everything needed to ensure her husband's recovery. "I do not plan to leave his side again, and I wish to make sure I understand what is required."

Her words were a surprise to the man, who assured her there were plenty in the house who might see to Mr. Tilney's needs. "But I will go over matters, that you may oversee his care," he added gently, and admitted to having administrated a tonic to induce the state of rest she now observed, detailed the foods he had prescribed, and most importantly that everything be done to keep his fever down. "I sent for a surgeon, as a good bleeding would likely cure all; alas, I fear the nearest is detained with work in the next town over, and it may be several days before he receives my letter. I have therefore written to the apothecary for the procurement of some doses to ease his sleep, which will be difficult if his cough remains strong. He should keep to his bed, and avoid excess talking or any exertions which will aggravate his lungs. I will be back in two days but may be summoned earlier if needed."

Catherine thanked him for his kindness. "I will make sure we follow your guidance; is there anything else I may do for him?"

"You are already doing much by staying with him. Many a patient of mine has been aided by the tender presence of family. You may wish to occupy yourself otherwise when he is asleep, but it will likely cheer him to have conversation or reading when he is able to enjoy it. Only take care he is not taxed unduly."

"Yes, of course," and she thanked him again so sincerely that the doctor felt obliged to give a little bow before taking his leave.

It was but a short time later that the maid brought her requested garments. Catherine lost no time in resuming her simpler, less fine attire, and begged the other be returned that instant. "I will not be staying in the room I had last night, but I would like the paper and pen I requested, that I might send some letters home."

These items were quickly brought her, and Catherine was soon at work writing notes to all the parties she could think of: the parsonage, the curate, even her sister the viscountess, who she was sure would wish to know all. It soothed her nerves to be able to lay out things so plainly, to people she knew to be sympathetic and kind.

When she had done she considered ringing for someone to take them down, but stilled her hand on considering matters: would the general allow her correspondence? And Henry looked so calm: what if another conversation, whispered or even at the door, were to wake him? She would not disturb his sleep for anything. Instead, she quietly slipped out, avoiding any and all persons who might be on guard against her movements, and stole down to the stable herself.

She found Will pacing in front of where the horses stood contentedly eating from their troughs, the dog at his feet. "Mrs. Tilney! Where is the rector?"

"On his sickbed," she answered, pressing her parcel into the startled boy's hand. "I have written explaining all, and need you to deliver these to the parsonage. Mrs. Forest will know how to address them. We are to stay here until Mr. Tilney is better. You should take the curricle back: you know the way, on the main road?"

He assured her he did and promised to discharge his duties faithfully; and wishing his master a speedy recovery, prepared to set off.

Catherine did not wait to see him leave but hurried back in, concerned someone might prevent her from returning to Henry's side if she dawdled. She had almost reached the stair when she considered how long it might be to wait, and how the doctor had recommended reading. Turning her steps, she stopped a passing girl in the hall, and asked after the other inhabitants of the abbey. After receiving assurances that the general and physician were still in conference in the former’s private rooms, Catherine felt brave enough to trace her way to the library, furtively searching the shelves for anything which might be of interest; then crept back up with her treasure in hand.

She only breathed easier once in Henry's still somnolent presence. She decided to change the compress, as it no longer seemed cool, then after these ministrations sat and watched. His breathing sounded laboured, and his eyes occasionally flickered with activity, but otherwise he kept quite still.

Satisfying herself there was nothing further to be done, Catherine took up a volume of sonnets and lost herself in poetry.

Chapter 12

Had Henry merely dozed the next few days, unconscious and without knowledge of the world, Catherine might have been quite bored. She was not fitted for languor by nature or inclination, and was always happiest when she and her husband could find reason to enjoy the open air. An uninterrupted state of idleness, with only Shakespeare and Pope for company, might have sorely tried her troth to serve in sickness. She later reflected how wicked and ungrateful the heart of woman was: had she been spared any real affliction, she might have been provoked to frustration, or worse still, even been tempted to resent her husband for imprisoning her, albeit unwillingly.

For the truth is that while the long morning continued unabated with little in the way of distraction, the afternoon more than compensated for this respite. Henry's sleep grew fretful as the hours passed, his coughing returning in fits and starts, and though Catherine kept a steady regime of cool cloths upon him, his fever raged on. By the time the clock chimed three it could not rightly be presumed that Henry was resting at all. To Catherine's mind it seemed he barely breathed without also violently expelling that same air, with sounds that wrenched her heart as much as his own frame.

She had attempted to ask if he wanted something to eat, for he must be hungry, but it was all she could do to get him to drink the cup she pressed to his lips. He did not appear to understand her even when turning in her direction, the lucidity of the morning lost in whatever delirious state he inhabited, his voice low and unintelligible.

Another wife might have lamented the fate that made her nursemaid to her husband's ills. Catherine, though, was not such a person; as she had experience in treating sick brothers and sisters at home, she did not think it beneath her dignity to do the same for Henry. Indeed, she managed to spare a prayer of thanks that she was so close by, for however awful the experience was, ignorance would be worse still. At least she had the satisfaction of knowing he was relying on her . She revelled every time she was able to get more water in him, and grieved when she must clean up the mess made when he was unable to keep it down. She could not spare a thought for her own suffering while his continued.

This pattern lasted well into evening. Catherine did not think to ask a tray be prepared for herself, not even when the maid brought the doctor's prescribed plate of gruel and thin wine for the sick man. It did not look very appetizing to her, and she privately wondered if it was really a good thing for Henry. "Please, is there anything else cool he might have?" she asked.

But the girl was at a loss to answer, and only said she would look about as she replaced the chamber ware and supply of cloths. All too soon she took the dirty articles for cleaning. Catherine had no notion of directing she return after a certain time, or even to command that special things be sent for. She merely turned all her attentions back to her poor husband.

After some doing she managed to coax him into a sitting position. "You must eat something Henry," she said, taking up the bowl and spoon. It was not easy, as he barely seemed aware of what she was doing, but Catherine had not fed two sisters and a brother from infancy for nothing. She cajoled and guided, and was satisfied to see at least some of the bowl emptied before another fit interrupted their progress.

The drink at least helped, laced as it was with the medicinal drops, and Henry at last subsided into another nervous sleep. Catherine felt tired herself when he ceased tossing, and longed to lay beside him with arms wrapped protectively around, as he was wont to do after a trying day. Instead she dozed as she could, keeping a hand lightly pressed to his so that the slightest movement would alert her to his needs. It was only when she tried to read again that Catherine noticed how very dark it had become, and close upon that realization was another: that she had stupidly forgot to ask for a fresh candle.

That night was a long ordeal: brief snatches of rest followed by uncountable bouts of care. Sometimes she could only reach out to hold him still, and it seemed her murmurs did occasionally soothe his restlessness. All the while she reminded him of her presence, promised she would not leave him, and prayed he would recover enough of his senses to realize it. For pressed close she occasionally heard him call for his sister and once for someone else; she did not recognize the appellation but thought it might have been his mother, though dead for so many years. "And how awful if he should fancy himself all alone, with no one to care for him."

It did not surprise her that the name of Henry's father never passed his lips.

Morning brought the maid with fresh supplies. The girl was shocked to discover the lady in the same position as she had been in yesterday, mussed and beleaguered. "Are you unwell too, ma'am?"

Catherine shook her head, but could not keep a sigh from escaping. "I am very hungry," she admitted. "But I do not require much; only, is there some fruit I might have?"

The girl said she would return with something; it was of the same tone as yesterday's promise, so that Catherine did not bother hoping for relief and turned instead to the task of once again getting sustenance in her husband.

He seemed more coherent, if still weak, and readily accepted her spoonfuls. Catherine could not tell if he actually felt cooler or if it was merely a trick of her mind, but decided to press water to him regardless and was happy to see him drink it without mishap. His coughs were farther apart, and he slipped back into sleep without nearly as much resistance. Almost she could be persuaded of his recovery.

She had just begun to tidy up from this light repast when the maid returned with the housekeeper, who asked that Mrs. Tilney step outside for a discussion. Catherine reluctantly did so lest any whisper interrupt her husband's hard-won rest, and found herself solicited to leave her haven permanently. "Surely the young lady wished to change, and get some rest herself in another room: it was for them to make sure the master was fed."

Catherine was so out of sorts she nearly asked if that were the case, where they had been all this time. But she contented herself to reply that she was happy where she was.

The maid looked of a mind to disagree but the housekeeper ordered her to set about the morning’s cleaning, and waited until they were alone to speak again. "You are very good to attend your husband. But I am sure he would not want you to grow ill caring for him. Will you not repair to the neighbouring room? I promise to remain here, and you will be able to hear if there is any change."

"I am grateful for your concern but I have vowed to keep to this chamber, and I must keep my word. I only asked for a little something to eat, but if that is not allowed I will not trouble about it."

This speech, delivered without martyrdom or coyness, astonished the other woman so that she could not find any further arguments, and when the maid came out with her burdens the lady was able to make her escape back into the room unmolested. It did not occur to Catherine to find a champion among the household, or to use her position in any way that did not directly tie back to regaining Henry's health. Rather foolishly, although based on hard experience, she did not think there were many in the abbey of warm feelings, and certainly could not believe one among them would resist whatever miserly plot the general might design for his second son.

After another hour had ticked by the housekeeper returned, this time asking if the lady would please accept the food she brought. Amazed and dull with fatigue, Catherine readily accepted, and fell onto the meal with more vigour than her earlier words might have foretold. This absorption meant she barely noticed the other's work until finished, when glancing up she saw a small cot setup in the corner of the room. Seeing her looks, the older woman smiled. "The lady looked much better after a meal, would she be willing to lay down a bit?"

There was a suggestion in Catherine's mind that she ought not to violate the spirit of her promise to keep by Henry's bedside, conscious as she was of his murmurs and worried it betrayed a turmoil of the mind as well as the flesh. But her constitution, though hearty, was unused to this fatiguing work, and she decided it could not signify to be separated from him by a few feet. "And he is sleeping soundly enough, he may be more comfortable if I do not hover over him," was her lucky recollection. She thanked and dismissed the housekeeper, and though dubious of her ability to sleep when her nerves were so keyed, fell into a repose nearly as soon as she had lain down.

When she awoke it was midafternoon, and after assuring herself Henry looked no worse (even if he also appeared no better), was glad of the refreshment her nap provided. Though as the day appeared as fine as the one before, she was disappointed not to indulge in a walk about the grounds.

The housekeeper checked on her by and by, and Catherine felt encouraged to ask for candles and more writing materials. "And, would it be possible, when Mr. Tilney's tray was brought, for it to have a bit of honey added? She was sure the doctor could not object, and it might aid him in receiving his nourishment better." All was provided without question, to Catherine's great relief.

Unable to consider what else to do, she settled on more letters, and found herself penning one to her husband, an activity not practised since the period when her engagement had been a private affair, known only to their families. In doing so she found release for her emotions, unable to be voiced to the slumbering form before her, and found that like many such activities, time apart had not diminished its attraction nor distinction.

When the trays were brought Catherine ate her breakfast quickly, wishing to preserve what rest her husband still enjoyed as long as possible. She was sure his colour was much better, and though still warm his flesh was not as fiery as it had been. These encouraging signs lightened her spirits as much as her earlier rest, and she wished she could avoid waking him altogether. But she would not risk his recovery by foolish inattention to the doctor's instructions: Henry's strength must be kept up.

He startled at her touch and call with a motion more alert than any in the past day, and she felt she had never been happier than when he looked directly at her with a question of "Catherine?"

Chapter 13

When Henry Tilney awoke in a strange bed, with little awareness of how he had come to be there nor knowledge of where he was, his only comfort was to find his wife close at hand. Why she should appear sitting nearby rather than reclining with him was a pretty puzzle, as was the reason for their arriving at this unknown location. But Henry found it curiously difficult to express these concerns, and was forced by both the dryness of his tongue and disordered nature of his thoughts to compress all inquires into the one simple utterance of her name.

The joy with which he was answered, the raptures spoken in his own namesake, were almost shocking to him, and he nearly laughed at how eagerly she took his hand. He meant to observe that any man must be glad at such a welcome, with perhaps a sly allusion, but again his wits failed him, while his throat betrayed his intentions by turning his mirth into a heaving cough.

"You must not speak, you are not well. But I have some things that you must eat. Will you have it now?"

Recovering himself enough to turn back to her warm gaze, Henry was able to take in more of his surroundings, including a tray and the cookery contained on it. He knew that design, and upon further observation, realized he knew the fireplace and curtains beyond them. They all belonged to Northanger Abbey.

With that revelation the veil slid from his memory, and he nearly groaned in recalling how and why they came to be there. "It must be very late," he said, trying to trace back exactly what had last occurred. "Have you been here all this time?"

"Yes, but I have been very well treated by the servants; now, please, will you have some breakfast?"

Henry attempted to rise but felt strangely weak, only managing to prop himself against the pillows so carefully arranged for him. An unfamiliar lassitude hung on his limbs, accompanied by a dull ache that strengthened its hold with his movements. At a third entreaty he realized Catherine was still asking him about the food.

"Of course," he replied unthinking, and reached for the bowl she held.

Or at least he meant to. He was alarmed to feel so little vigour in his limbs, and when he at last managed to stretch out his hand found he could not grip either spoon or bowl without a palsy, so that she gently took them back before he could spill anything. Dropping his arms in frustration, he panted, tired beyond what he could understand.

"Do not fret Henry, I will feed you again."

"Again?" was what he wanted to ask, but he could only manage a croaked assent as his wife tenderly brought the spoon up, helping him gulp down a strangely sweet concoction that soothed his throat, even as it did nothing for his palette.

He insisted on trying to drink without assistance, and held the glass by sheer force of will only to surrender it back after a few sips when his strength could not bear out. Why he should shiver when the room was so warm was beyond his ken, and dark suspicions haunted him as Catherine put the tray down and brought a handkerchief out to wipe his face. Men who were young and hale did not lose all their strength after one day's hard labour, nor from any slight malady. Fear smote him but he shoved it down in annoyance. He must be rational. Reaching for any sense of normalcy, he realized he had no concept of what time it was.

"Thank you," he managed to speak at last, as she finished her ministrations, "but my dear, surely you should return home now? Will is full able to take the main road."

"I sent him back already. Are you too warm? Or do you wish to be covered?"

"But—" Henry had many protests wound in that one word, and found he had accepted a blanket and cool cloth before he could order his thoughts properly again. "You cannot wish to stay here."

"I wish to be with you. Now, as you are awake, I will be glad to read aloud if you like. It is not our usual material but I have found some things I think you will enjoy."

Henry shook his head, desperate to make sense of the situation. "But the hour grows late: and I did say we would leave today. And were you not planning to help Mrs. Stanton?"

He was proud to have remembered as much, so unreliable had his mind felt during this interview, and could not understand the concern coming from her gaze. "But Henry, that is not possible any more."

"Certainly: it looks as if there is plenty of daylight left."

"I mean that she will have already made other arrangements, or perhaps has circulated the alms already, considering the needs brought on by this latest storm; with her son's shop closed early tomorrow there will be no shortage of assistance if she still requires it. And besides, I am not leaving you, so there is no need to discuss it further. Please, you must rest your voice."

While not clever, Henry's wife was not in general deficient of understanding, and he begged to know why she thought the family would change their routine this week.

"But Henry, you know they spend Saturday afternoon getting all their own concerns of the week finished, for they always attend both church services," she reminded him anxiously, her tone suggesting he ought to know these things.

Irritably, he demanded to know why she sought to push the week forward by a day, which caused her eyes to widen in concern. "But Henry, it is Friday evening now."

Anyone else he would suspect of deception or cunning. It was certainly the sort of trick his brother or schoolfellows might have practised. But his wife was fidelity itself, honest above all else: if she told him the sun was to rise at night and the moon watch over the day, he would be forced to consider the probability of a new cosmic order. As it was, the news that he had lost over twenty four hours in his recollections was no less shattering to his composure. He begged her tell him more, and though she looked uncertain explained how he had fallen into a fever, with orders not to stir or exert himself until after the doctor had examined him again. "You have been very, very ill," was her solemn conclusion.

This information was not as complete as Henry could wish. "But what had occurred in the household? Had the doctor spoken of Frederick? And what had his father said at their remaining longer?" This last question was chief in his thoughts. He could not imagine the man was pleased to continue sheltering them unprepared, and he feared Catherine may have been forced to endure cold empty speeches or veiled threats during the hours passed.

"I do not know, no one has informed me. I have barely spoken to any besides the housekeeper, and did not think to ask about your brother. But I will find out, if that will ease your mind: you must be very worried about him."

Fraternal affection was not chief in Henry's concerns; indeed, provided the other man was in no real danger, he could happily wish him as much misery as Henry himself felt at present. "But did the general not say anything about it?" Knowing how Frederick's accounting of his own conduct could differ mightily from any observer's, he was sure some comment had been made to Catherine, whose distress must be acute and for whom alone his anxiety was felt.

"Only that he blamed you for his situation, but I did not allow such a falsehood to stand."

"I cannot imagine my father was happy with this refutation."

"No."

Henry waited for any further discussion of rage or bitterness endured, but Catherine only reached down and picked up a volume. "Now, what would you like to hear? I have been going through some very lovely sonnets, and marked those I thought to share. I have never before appreciated how pretty they really are, though I know you have told me so in the past. I believe I am coming to appreciate poetry as much as flowers."

She had already opened the pages before he could stop her. "I would rather hear exactly what was said to you."

"It very little signifies. I must confess I expressed myself very warmly, I am a little ashamed of it."

Coming from his most forgiving wife, this admission sounded to Henry as if there had been a great deal that signified. She frowned, obviously troubled by her conduct, and he reached out a hand to soothe her, frowning himself when he could barely manage to do more than let it hang limply onto the book she had opened.

Rather than laughing at his inability, Catherine took the hand in her own, as if he had actually achieved the feat himself. "Do not think I am upset. If we had not discussed things at the start I might have felt obligated to join him for dinner or at different times of the day; as it was, by his own order I have been able to remain by your side undisturbed. It is just like your sermon on Providence mending our mistakes for our benefit."

He wished he could remember exactly which sermon she was referring to, for he was hard pressed to determine how anything that involved his father once again causing his wife discomfort could be considered a providential act. His cheeks grew hot with a heat that had nothing to do with fever. "But do you mean you have been in this room, with me, the whole time? Without anyone to serve you at all?"

"Please do not grow upset Henry, you will make yourself worse. Here, will you not have some more water?"

A shake of the head was all he could manage, and even that action doubled the pain in his neck and shoulders. Catherine sat watching him with anxious eyes, and he saw her hair hanging loose and untended on her shoulders, in the same garments she had worn yesterday—or rather, as Catherine claimed, the day before,—and surrounded by a small nest built from the detritus of her activity while he lay in idle slumber. It was a picture from a story book, and would have made him laugh in other circumstances, did he not feel so very furious at the author of it.

"I am sorry to have made you angry."

" You have done nothing wrong." He managed to vent his feelings at last, gasping to express himself while still possessing the wit to do so. "It is entirely the fault of others. And I will not sit by and see it done." So saying, he reached down to push himself up, envisioning a return to that awful study to proclaim exactly what he should have the other night.

But he was stopped from testing the limits of his strength by Catherine's own strong arms, and was amazed when she stood above him, no longer nervous, but outrage escaping her visage. "Henry Tilney! You will not stir one step from that bed!"

"Catherine—"

"Do not say you are well, or unharmed, or any of the other lies you have uttered."

He could not recall her ever accusing him of an untruth before, even when he had been guilty of misleading her. Nor had she ever turned such ire on him .

"I am sorry to call it so, sorrier too when you are so weak and cannot defend yourself, but you did lie. You claimed not to be ill, and to need no aid, when all the time you were sinking deeper into a fever. And after you agreed to rest when we arrived, you did not! Whatever your father has said or done is nothing to that : you do not know the terror I have known; by not admitting your pains, I have entertained the worst premonitions of your health. Henry, I thought you might be dying!"

Such a tirade had never fallen from her lips to his ears, not aimed at him, and he felt the righteousness of his wrath dissolve at the accusation. His own fears returned, and he wished he could rise and assure both of them they were unfounded. Henry would not have blamed her for leaving at that moment, such was her obvious distress, and yet she instead closed the gap, sitting beside him on the bed and taking his hands in hers. "You must promise me now, truly, that you will do everything the doctor advises to get better. I know you only want to give me comfort, and that is what will bring me the greatest joy, if I know you are improving. Please Henry, will you give me your word?"

It never failed to impress him how sincerely she could believe in his virtue, even with the full acknowledgement of his own foolish behaviour. "Yes," he agreed. "And I am so very sorry to have made you suffer."

She kissed his hands, and smiled so lovingly it bid fair to outshine the sun's own glory. "I can endure anything so long as we are together. And you are so much better already: I know you will be much improved by the time the doctor sees you again. Thank you."

As a gentleman Henry felt he ought not to let her express gratitude for improvement he might not be able to achieve; as a clergyman he wondered whether it was altogether right to allow such unbridled optimism. But as a man, and one desiring more than ever to give his wife whatever relief was possible, Henry would not gainsay her for the world. Let us not judge too harshly, for how many could offer any rebuke to the kindness expressed? And were he in his better senses, might not a Henry Tilney appreciate the duties owed charity freely given?

For the present, he resigned himself to receive the grace of a Catherine Tilney without question, as ever fully dependent on her goodness when his own well ran dry. He accepted her offer of reading, and thereafter was rewarded for his submission with tender words of regard as penned by our greatest poets, spoken by one of the few who might truly mean the words therein.

Chapter 14

It was a much happier evening for Catherine and Henry both, though the lady might have been more grateful for the change in circumstance than the gentleman. She was able to appreciate every conscious action, every look and gesture, with the knowledge of just how much progress had been made. For his part, Henry was glad not to feel a complete invalid, as he was at least sensible to the world around him rather than buried beneath drugged or fevered dreams.

Yet this very alertness only made him more sensible of the infirmity still keeping him bound to his sickbed. He could not quite order his thoughts to his liking, and was ashamed when his wife needed to repeat herself before he understand what was asked of him. For a man who prided himself on always having a ready reply to any situation, this imbecility was galling. Still there were other miseries to distract him from injured pride. As he remained awake the soreness of his shoulder and back increased; the slightest movements aggravated his limbs, and even when Catherine helped him adjust his position he could not keep a gasp from escaping his lips. Then there were his coughs, which crept back upon him as daylight waned. At first he tried to stifle them, but eventually was unable, helpless to do more than accept Catherine's assistance as he fought to breathe.

Through these trials she never wavered, never even appeared tired. Somehow she was always able to anticipate his needs: he had only to look and she was fetching him a drink, or distracting him with reading or a recounting of her last letter from her family. "How miserable she must become," was the suggestion which occurred to him when he felt at his lowest. And yet since her outburst she had been nothing but comforting, a cheerful sprite keeping him company through the valley of the shadow of death.

Morbidity and depression were not natural to Henry's disposition; he believed in laughing at trouble instead of worrying over it, and enjoyed satire better than tragedy. However it would be either a very brazen or foolish man not to consider his own mortality at such a point. Once or twice in the night Henry wondered if perhaps his wife had practised on him, hiding the full extent of his injuries out of pity. Even when he sunk to such maudlin reflections, though, Henry was unable to fully believe them: what logic he was able to marshal counselled against it, and where rationality failed, his reliance on Catherine's honest nature furnished the argument. She would never knowingly deceive him, of that he was certain: so long as she believed he would improve, he must at least make the attempt.

These happy thoughts allowed him to finally fall asleep of his own accord, so that he awoke with full knowledge of his surroundings. It was such a relief to feel in command of his senses again that Henry smiled despite his discomfort.

Seeing how well he looked Catherine called the maid early, taking time to whisper most mysteriously before turning back to her husband.

"Are you taking advantage of my state to gain mastery of the home?" Henry asked, voice still weak but his wit back in full force. "Perhaps you are in league with a foul servant who has nursed a grudge against that young fool Henry for years, and who you have met while I dozed to assure that the time is nigh for your combined revenge."

He was pleased to find her still susceptible to his drollery, bringing first a startled glance and then a welcome touch of colour to her wan features, even as she warned against fatiguing his voice lest his coughing start again. It was a proper warning, for Henry did not wish a repetition of those torments, and so made do with an arch look to communicate the remainder of his feelings. When the tray returned it was the gentleman who was surprised, for beyond the expected medicinal gruel and drink was a dish of marmalade. Catherine smiled at his amazement as she took up her own bowl. "I do not think the doctor will begrudge you a little variation in diet; we have often had such treats when ill back at my father's home, and the honey you had yesterday appears to have done you good."

"O true apothecary thy drugs are sweet, as is thy visage. Thus with a kiss I live."

"I do not believe that is quite how the the line is written," was his wife's only reply, and she studiously ignored any hint to provide further signs of her favour than by helping him consume that which she had already procured.

When the maid returned it was to announce the much referenced man of medicine had sent word ahead, and was expected to make his foreshadowed entrance later that day. Henry was no less glad of this development than Catherine, and both looked to receive encouragement by his favourable report. In high spirits Henry could barely restrain testing his newfound joy for life, and when Catherine made to take up reading again, begged a play they might share instead of more verse. "But I do not think you should read any of it," was her concern as she looked through the volume, "for the doctor did say not to exert yourself."

"It cannot harm me to try a minor role. I believe it would in fact do me good, as exercise." At his wife's dubious glance, he retreated from further hyperbole, and bowed to her judgment in the matter. "I will only listen if you think it wise."

"Perhaps, if not a very large part," she admitted after consideration, "and you must let me know if you find yourself tiring."

He readily agreed, and when they had settled on Twelfth Night , next campaigned to read not only the sea captain, but all of the servants, messengers, and even the priest too. "For none of them appear often."

You or I might have gratified the earnest pleas of a stricken man dearly loved. It was fortunate for Henry that Catherine, as an oldest girl in a large family, had endured such needling before and was not so easily swayed. She refused to let him exert himself with so many different characters, saying he must be content with one, "and it may not be the Duke Orsino or Malvolio or Sir Toby," and at his saucy look, she quickly added to her list of prohibitions Viola and Olivia as well.

Therefore he had to content himself with Sebastian, a mere brother to the heroine and second rate lover, appearing late in the story and with few scenes or speeches to distinguish himself. Fortunately, he realized as the play progressed, there was plenty of room for embellishment. So it was that when rescued from the clutches of the sea, he rolled his eyes with exaggerated languor and attempted to make waves on his blanket with a wriggle of his toes.

Despite her stern preamble Catherine could not help laughing, encouraging Henry to race ahead in his mind to plan further amusement. When offered money by his rescuer, he threaded his fingers through hers, tickling them, as he promised to be her "purse-bearer," and managed a trumpeting call on agreeing to meet again at "the Elephant." It was difficult for Olivia to appear worried on her next entrance when she was so merrily distracted and murmuring "You must stop Henry" between lines.

The duel was a strain upon his genius but he had a lengthy interval to consider his course of attack, so that by the time they reached the fourth act Henry had gradually worked their joined hands to his lips. "Why, there's for thee, and there, and there," and the lady's heart would need be stone not to enjoy the felicitous means by which this Sebastian issued his challenge on each tender "there." Catherine was so entranced she forgot the fight altogether and turned the page early, denying Henry the opportunity to declare her a dream.

His disappointment did not last long, for he was able to indulge in a full soliloquy some scenes later. He began in mockery, bringing her to smiles again with raised brows and loud sniffs on the state of his sanity. But he did not let up his grip on her hand as she delivered Olivia's declaration of love, and gesturing for her to bring the book closer, got her exactly next to him as he declared he would "go with you; and, having sworn truth, ever will be true," gazing at her with as much ardour as a man on his sickbed could do.

Catherine was well and truly snared, and when she glanced at the next lines Henry managed to bring her head to rest beside his on the pillow, so she murmured nearly into his ear, "Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine!"

She made to get up and turn the page, but Henry would not release his hold. "You have forgot a bit," he said, and when she began to read the last piece over, interrupted with: "It is a direction, not a word. For Sebastian and Olivia have just gone in to be married."

"Yet it only says Exeunt , I am sure I did not miss anything else."

"Ah, but my dearest Catherine, we must interpret what the text implies, for what new husband and wife would say their vows without also exchanging tokens of their affection?"

"They do not mention anything about rings; is that not in a different play?"

It was so blessedly normal for her to misunderstand him, to wish for him to explain, that Henry nearly prolonged her confusion out of sheer pleasure. But mindful that no joke should live beyond its time, he instead revealed his intentions. "Sebastian has no other token of his love but himself. Will Olivia deny him that which he so desires to give, when he has promised to be ruled by her?"

A mere look of encouragement was all Henry needed to bend forward, illustrating by deed rather than further argument what he meant, and neither Olivia nor Catherine could complain their husband was half-hearted in his adoration. It must be admitted the play suffered a little in its resolution, as Catherine struggled to regain any sense of the story. She dropped nearly the rest of the act in favour of hearing Sebastian once again speak his vows of betrothal, and somehow it was Henry who delivered Duke Orsino's final speech to a rapt Viola, and offer more proofs that music was not the only source of love.

With the conclusion of the play, however, the object of his affection closed the book, and rising, declared that he should now rest before the doctor arrived. "As you are feeling so much better, I will take the time to finish this letter to your sister."

Henry was sorely tempted to make some remark about her playing his sister, and whether Viola was as exact in her commands as Olivia, but only asked that she ensure the recipient know how very well he obeyed his mistress's orders, "for I have sworn ever to be true."

Catherine said he had spoken enough, and facing the window to catch the light on her paper, refused to do more than sneak looks in checking that he truly meant to honour her wishes. Which he did, in a far happier state of mind than he could have imagined that morning, and despite his high spirits, found himself drawn into a light repose ere long.

Chapter 15

The doctor's visit, so long anticipated, was not as satisfactory as might have been hoped. He was very complimentary of Henry's progress, pleased beyond measure to see the patient so improved, but looked grave on finding his pulse remained unsteady. A test of Henry's limbs confirmed they were still tender, and while the fever had dampened, it was clear his coughs stubbornly refused to abate.

"Mr. Tilney must not travel before the end of next week," was the pronouncement made after this examination, and no protests from his patient would be entertained. "We cannot risk your health, newly gained and fragile; and besides, a carriage ride even on the best of roads would be very difficult to endure in your present condition." Another sevenday would make all the difference, and he promised to return before then to monitor and check Henry's progress. It was allowed that light activity might be risked now that the worst had passed, with the recommendation of walking the length of a hall and back. Nothing too strenuous should be attempted at first, but only the barest means of restoring Mr. Tilney's strength. If he continued improving and suffered no setbacks, they might consider moving further about the house or even outside. "But steady and slow were the watchwords to obey: incremental improvement was to be sought more than rapid change. Any return of the ague must be treated directly, and then all activity suspended."

Catherine listened attentively, asking what questions she could think of to assure herself she understood what was required. "What did the the doctor think of his victuals? Could Mr. Tilney attempt anything more filling?"

Fruit was approved, and the doctor commended Catherine's judgment in providing her husband with cool supplements to his regime. "Nothing better for tempting a person to better health, and nourishing besides." Bread, butter, thin soup or vegetables were also on the menu, but beef or heavy fare should be avoided, and beyond the little wine already prescribed, spirits were taboo as well. He hoped the latter injunction would be no great hardship, for while it might provide some relief, too heavy drinking would be deleterious toward an honest measure of Mr. Tilney's health and tempt him to deeds beyond his actual abilities.

Henry promised to faithfully honour every stricture, and with so little complaint the doctor looked noticeably relieved. "I could wish all my patients were as obedient," he added.

"Is my brother causing difficulty?" was Henry's knowing response.

There the physician would not tell tales, only commenting that he understood active men like the captain must be unused to confinement. "It is no great surprise he should resent captivity, after all, and the loss of his leg, however temporary, must be a blow to a man kept from taking up his duty."

Catherine wondered if perhaps more irony was meant by the latter sentence than might be implied; it had never seemed to her that the captain was overly impressed with the need to perform any duty, whether to family or society. But she reproached this uncharitable thought. The man was to be pitied regardless of his behaviour, and however little his occupation might have engrossed him heretofore, any relief from current circumstances must be welcome. Perhaps it would be the start of a reformation of his character and if so, Catherine must be careful not to be unjust, regardless of his former sins.

"But is his injury still very bad?" she asked, determined to act the part of a concerned sister in the hope it might truly be so.

"I am happy to say it was a clean break and will mend well, and the quick attentions he received will be instrumental in hastening his return to health. I understand I must bow to you, ma'am, for aiding his rescue."

Catherine coloured and denied any great responsibility, pointing toward her husband as the true hero in the story. But said husband was not so ungallant as to accept praise where he felt it undeserved. "For it was Mrs. Tilney who knew to look for us when I had wandered afield, and her actions saved both our lives." He looked as if he might say more, but Catherine was so obviously embarrassed, he instead changed the subject, saying he was glad to hear his brother was in no mortal danger.

"In fact, he is in better shape than yourself," was the next admission, "for his fever abated almost in the same hour it appeared. He seems to have been spared the worst effects of the recent tumult, and has been so well situated that were it not for the actual injury itself, I would be glad to release him upon Monday."

What a trial this news was for Catherine! How much easier it was to pity the captain, and nurture better feelings toward him, when she could imagine the poor man afflicted like her husband. It hardly seemed fair that the principal author of their present misery should escape almost unscathed, and the temptation was great to refuse expressing any happiness at the news. She could not lie; she could not rejoice whole-heartedly, but did manage to acknowledge at last that "It was good God had been so merciful." Good indeed, she decided, that it was up to her Heavenly Father to determine such matters, and not so jealous a spirit as her own. There must be general agreement to so virtuous a declaration, and the doctor took his leave, hoped all would continue well, etc.

Catherine, who had followed him to the door, closed it with a deep heaviness of heart. She had dared hope, with Henry so improved, they might escape this terrible place. Now that she knew the reality it was difficult to confine herself to the smallness of a sickroom for the length of time described, separated from the comforts of the home she and Henry had built together since their marriage; in her anguish, even the mending pile was missed. She felt herself grieved and repented her ingratitude at the same moment, and struggled to keep her feelings from showing as she took up her place by the bed once more. It would not do for Henry's spirits to be further dampened by her weakness. Searching for any distraction, she picked up her letter again. "I have some space left here: do you have anything else for Eleanor before I send it off?" And she took up her pen, staring down at the paper to marshal her unruly feelings.

"Yes: tell her that our brother is a knave and a coxcomb who does not deserve the mercies he has been shown, and who in all likelihood will be unmoved either toward deep reflection or better feelings by this experience. You may further add that doctors are horrid men with no sympathy for their charges, and that kind-hearted ladies who have their heads turned by callow young men at assemblies are to be pitied above all others. Indeed, I think we should start a new epistle, and you may advise as a Christian matron to your unmarried sisters how best to avoid being unnaturally yoked to their less charitable brethren, instead devoting themselves to a life of quiet reflection and thoughtful study. Perhaps you might advise them on further reading materials for guidance: I think you are very fond of Mr. Mackenzie's works, did not your mother send you his most recent publication?"

At this last Catherine could not help starting up in protest: she was sure she had never claimed to prefer those works, even if her mother had procured her a copy, and she was about to argue the point further when she realized in chagrin that Henry had been only in jest, as she should have realized had her attention not been directed elsewhere.

"There, that is much better, I am sure I could not hope to survive the next week if I was always to be looking at the top of your head."

"I do not believe your sister would say you deserved to survive after that speech."

"Eleanor would say worse if you wrote any of what I just said, and would furthermore scold me for practising on your credulity at such a time. It was perhaps ill done: have I upset you, my dear Catherine?"

"No, not at all." For despite herself, Catherine felt her spirits lifted and could now smile at his impudence. "I know you were not serious, and only meant to make light of our troubles. I confess you did take me by surprise, for it sounded as if you were quite angry at your brother to begin with."

"Perhaps I am. The more I consider it the more I do not know how you are not, as the most grieved of the whole party." Here his tone changed, and eyeing her with real concern, asked "Would you not be more comfortable at Woodston? You see I am far from shaking off my mortal coil, and it will be very dull for you to remain bound to an invalid barely allowed to traverse the gallery beyond. You have already far exceeded any obligation required by your marriage vows."

It was a very pleasing suggestion, and had the curricle been within easy reach Catherine was not sure she could have resisted. But in recollecting the journey would require dependence on the general's generosity, and knowing how worried she would be without the means of assuring herself of Henry's improvement—for she did not trust that anyone would think to send word to her if his health declined,—it was refused. "I hope you do not think I am so wayward as to need only the commands of duty to serve you."

"There are many superlatives to describe such a wife; wayward , being left off the list, must be supplanted by a better adjective. Perhaps we might substitute steadfast or indomitable ? No? Will you accept magnanimous then? With five syllables it must be admitted to bearing some pretensions of approach, even if it is not truly nice enough to capture the person we seek to admire."

Catherine could not help laughing now, even as she had felt near to tears but five minutes earlier. "How can you always be so teasing Henry?" she asked, the puzzlement of her entire relationship with this man never fully understood.

He smiled as well at his success, and taking her hand in his with only the barest sign of discomfort, answered, "I hope I may always be able for so worthy an object. The day I cannot beguile fair Catherine out of her troubles will be a dark one indeed. I am not so ungrateful a ruffian as to take my responsibilities as husband lightly, you see."

"No, not lightly at all; but will you not add anything to the letter?"

"And prove I partake of my fraternal duties no less ardently than those of the marital variety? I suppose I must, if I hope to redeem myself in either your or Eleanor's eyes. It is certainly provoking to have so amiable a wife; how is a man to nurture resentment or give way to his temper with such an example before him?"

Catherine smiled but held her pen ready, and after Henry had dictated some lines assuring their sister of his improvement and giving his love, she declared he was as virtuous as he had made her out to be.

"I do not know if I deserve the compliment, but I will take it all the same, for the pleasure I choose to believe it gives you of my accepting. A truly virtuous husband would not accept either idle words or the sacrifice you offer to make this coming week; I am as out of patience with my own conduct as Frederick's when I think of it again."

"Then do not choose to think about it so much," was Catherine's artless advice, to which Henry smiled sincerely.

"A very good idea: let us avoid any talk of troublesome persons further, and content ourselves only with the pleasing notion of how pained Eleanor will be when she reads your first letter, followed so close at hand by the happy tidings we are now sending, that it will be as if the disturbance never occurred at all."

Banishing one relation from her mind, bound as he was to his bed and unlikely to cause further incident, proved easy enough to accomplish. But as Catherine completed her correspondence, with further instructions to the parsonage and parish regarding their continued stay at Northanger Abbey, the master of the estate weighed heavily upon her thoughts. It was out of the question for Henry to stir from the house on the morrow. But whether it was correct for her also to remain at home of a Sunday was doubtful. She could no longer claim he required her constant presence, and was not able to pretend that her reluctance to attend services was out of concern for him alone. Rather, if she were to obey the strictures of the commandments, and what is more, the expectations placed on a parson's wife, she must put herself in the general's presence once again. And not just for one interview; to do as she knew she ought, she must accompany him in his carriage, sit with him in the pew, and might even be expected to dine with him upon their return. This action could lead to even further penance, for by observing one meal with him she might rightly be seen as under obligation to share all as a daughter would.

How she wanted Eleanor at this moment, who had Henry's judgment but also the sympathy of a woman's position. If only she might receive an answer to her letter immediately and counsel from one with more experience than her own, unbiased by the present circumstances. Yet instant communication was not possible. Catherine must depend on her own understanding, and while she chatted with Henry the dilemma of how she should act was never far from her thoughts.

Chapter 16

The work of Catherine's pen was not the only correspondence to be shared, for scarcely had she sealed the envelopes then a maid brought letters fresh from Woodston, along with packages that were revealed to contain all the comforts the faithful Mrs. Forest could conceivably arrange: changes of clothes, favourite books, even Catherine's netting-box were all provided, along with calm assurances that the parsonage was well in hand and would be ready and waiting for their safe return, whenever that should be.

Also included was a short reply from the curate promising to lift them daily in prayer, as well as lead the entire parish to do likewise come Sunday. He was not eloquent, it must be admitted, but what he lacked in rhetoric was more than compensated for by a decent, dependable nature, so that his words were accepted with all the tenderness they were meant to employ.

"I am happy Jones has such an easy text to deliver on short notice: the second letter of John is straightforward enough, and is so brief he cannot help but finish on time." With this assessment Henry was content to trust the entire matter into the other's hands.

"Now, Catherine, you must take another room," was the next subject her husband broached. "You cannot be stuck within these walls for another week together, and you will become ill yourself without proper rest."

Here Catherine had no powers of resistance; she accepted the truth of his words not only from her own feelings but the idea that however much Henry appreciated her devotion, he might wish for some privacy during the remainder of his convalescence. As to her concern over the general's sensibilities, she had fairly well made up her mind that she must attempt some conference with the man that evening, unpleasant as the interview might prove, if only to satisfy the common forms. One could not remain in even so large a house as Northanger Abbey without acknowledging the host for an entire week.

Perhaps she should share her plan with Henry; he might instruct her on the best approach, and was likely to have many opinions on the nature of duties owed. But despite his cheerfulness, Catherine suspected her husband was more weary than he let on, and as the hours passed it became harder for him to disguise his yawns. Rather than expose him to further agitation, therefore, she decided to take all the responsibility of kinship upon herself. "And after all, it was I who spoke so rashly, and that at least must be made amends, if nothing else."

The housekeeper was very pleased to hear the young lady would retire to the adjoining room, which she had already prepared with the foresight of an experienced retainer, and Catherine allowed herself to be led away with a parting injunction that she be sent for if Henry should need anything. The servants lost no time in setting her to rights: her things were brought in, clothes laid out, all with steady assurances made that Mr. Tilney would be looked after with prompt regularity.

"Thank you; please, could you inform General Tilney that I am able to join him for dinner, if he is amendable?" For Catherine had always found it easier to do the right thing quickly rather than delay, and having made her decision was impatient to see its completion. If the housekeeper felt surprise at the request she hid it well as she engaged to deliver the news personally, leaving the more incredulous-looking maid a strict command to prepare Mrs. Tilney for the evening meal.

Whatever were Catherine's fears about the impending encounter, she was at least given the restoratives of a fresh bath and skilful hands to arrange her hair, which had become quite unruly from the previous days' neglect. Henry might have rejoiced to see her so relaxed under the influence of these kind attentions, and Catherine herself recognized that for all its faults, Northanger Abbey provided some benefits as well.

By the time the clock chimed again she felt ready to meet her father-in-law, her best available attire donned, skin cleaned, and excuses rehearsed. Only she had not been given permission to join him, and as the minutes ticked by could not help worrying that all her preparations had been in vain. Would the general keep her at bay in resentment? Was he even now planning how to take his revenge on her? What had occupied him the past few days, with his sons both abed and an arrant daughter defying him? Catherine's mind raced with suppositions, explanations, and conjectures, so that it was a relief when the summons finally came.

She went downstairs with growing trepidation, but held to the justice of her cause. It was only right she face whatever cross words the general presented. She would not let them discompose her: Henry was past danger, nothing could rob her of that peace, and if the price of his continuing so was the accommodation of their host's resentment, at least he had more right to those feelings than previously, for they would be aimed at the proper cause of her own rebellious conduct and not any imagined fault of her husband's.

The great hall was as grand as she remembered it, though not nearly as haunting or imposing as when she first walked its floor. Standing before the dining parlour was General Tilney. It was perhaps the light of the candles or the measure by which illness had transformed Henry's features, but for the first time she perceived some resemblance between their persons, so disparate in their respective dispositions as to almost deny it. The elder Tilney was looking at his watch, unaware of her presence at first, and with such a look as she had sometimes seen her husband use when concerned about an appointment. "But what could the general possibly be nervous about?" was the question that struck her just before he turned, and all likeness fled as he assumed a stern hauteur .

"Dinner is ready," he said without preamble, and while not offering his arm gave way for her to enter first, with all the formal correctness of a supper party.

It was a quiet affair at first, for Catherine was not sure how to start the conversation and the general seemed determined against it. Once or twice she attempted to compliment the surroundings or the food, but a fierce glance from her companion stilled her tongue. How marked a change from their earliest interactions, in the days when she had first been introduced as Miss Morland! She now recognized he had courted her, with far more obvious determination than his son then evinced. Their situations were now reversed: it was Henry, with greater sincerity and compassion, who sought her good graces, while the general lagged in the commonest courtesies. At least, she comforted herself, he did not appear angry at her.

They had just finished the soup when the general spoke at last. "I understand from Morton that Henry will be dependent on Northanger Abbey for another week." She was not sure if any reply was required, so only nodded her head in assent. "I did not think the case so serious. I have met with my solicitor, and we have been out to inspect where the river is diverted. This business of flooding and abandoned works is intolerable: it really must be addressed. I have told Greves so; I have had a great deal to do."

Again, she was not sure whether he wished her to speak or no, so she did him the courtesy of listening rather than attempting any reply. It was almost as if she was not in the room at all.

"I will not stand by and see such neglect. They will hear of it, they will not come off lightly in the matter. You need have no fear on that score."

Here Catherine felt he had actually addressed her, though she had no idea what he was talking about. In deference to his feelings she murmured a polite inconsequence, as much to express sympathy as any real comprehension.

"You understand, I see. Even you , it is so plain a matter. I am glad of it. They will be made to see reason. And if not, there is always the court of law, though there is nothing I despise more than legalities between neighbours. But if it must be, it must be. I will not have my sons incapacitated, and who knows what else on my land ruined, without mounting a counterattack."

There was a strange disturbance about his features; she had seen harshness there before, yet a something else was also present, and she was reminded of that unguarded look on her approach. She wondered, could the general be worried about his family? It did not seem so from his words: he talked on of suits, and countermeasures, and the necessity of seeing his rights enforced, with so much vigour that anyone would suppose his primary concern was the protection of his property rather than his family. A Catherine Morland would have been very perplexed to make out what he was trying to communicate.

Catherine Tilney was not necessarily better informed; but her experiences, both within this very house and as helpmeet in a not too peaceful parish meant she no longer believed matters were always as simple as she had formerly understood them to be. That the general was not a kind man she could not doubt, as much from his children's own admission as her observations; but further speculations as to his character were both unprofitable and unwise, and she did not hazard to guess what he meant beyond the plain words of his speech. Where there was uncertainty as to motive, Catherine had always sought to believe the best, even when so many had proven the reverse of her generosity. But the Gospels did not invite her to examine the ill behaviour of others when governing her own, and besides, she had already decided to grant Henry's father his due that evening.

"I suppose you have entertained yourself?" was the sudden question that caught Catherine out of her musings, and it was a moment before she regained sense enough to assure him that she had lacked for nothing.

"Hmm. I am told you have been offered every courtesy. You will of course inform me if anything is wanting."

"Yes sir."

They lapsed into another albeit different silence. It was almost as if the general meant for her to say something, but Catherine was not sure what it was. Did he wish her to complain? Was he merely looking for her to betray her worst feelings? She had already done that when they last parted. She certainly could not have anything to say about the law, which she little understood.

"You must be glad of the captain's prospects," was the happy remark she at last hit on, for surely he would celebrate as an officer if nothing else.

"Quite," was the short reply. "He has been very lucky." And then, "One is tempted to say too lucky, but it is best not to question fate who is so fickle a mistress, like all such women."

This comment was not of a kind to strengthen conversation on the lady's part, and Catherine despaired of finding any common ground between them. Every potential topic was either forbidden or impossible; the usual role she took in her husband's witty dialogue would not do with his father, and she felt her ignorance in attempting to understand what would please. Rather than deplore her position Catherine only considered how amazing it was that Eleanor had endured a similar one for so many years, and how good a brother Henry was to have kept her company as long; it was wonderful to know that after so much patient submission, their sister now possessed a peaceful home and a husband nearly as good as Catherine's. These welcome reflections allowed her to listen without comment to the rest of General Tilney's talk, with insinuations so subtle she could not hope to recognize them, and therefore did not bother trying.

When the meal was done the general stood and she did likewise, wondering if he would demand her company in the parlour. "You must be very tired," was his comment instead, and when she agreed, excused her with a terse command that she be provided with a lamp.

It would have been very easy to let matters rest at that, constrained but civil, yet Catherine must satisfy the strictures of her conscience. "Thank you for your kindness," she said, dropping into as proper a curtsy as she could devise. She did not look up to see the general's reaction, too nervous was she over what might be found, and instead quickly continued, "And for your forbearance, for Henry's sake. He is much improved; the doctor has been so good. I am sorry I have not been more grateful. I will be glad to make amends."

It was not near as pretty a speech as she had planned, rushed and breathless and made looking more at his shoes than his person. She was sure he must be insulted by her lack of refinement.

When there was no response she dared glance up. The general was staring at her with a look she could not name, his eyes more cold and removed than ever. "The carriage will be ready after ten. See you are properly dressed." And with that she was dismissed.

After she had checked to see that Henry was sleeping well and retired to her own room, it occurred to Catherine that she had not actually asked the general to take her to church as intended. How clever he was to read into her words, as Henry sometimes claimed to. It struck her that, however little the gentlemen shared in taste or principals, they must have some resemblance after all. This observation explained much she had sometimes wondered about in her husband's manners. What it could tell her about the general's remained to be seen.