Gentlemen of Gloucestershire: 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.

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All my readers are now a third of the way through my novel: so today, on my blog, I look at Northanger Abbey's story structure, and what we can learn about dramatic action from it.