Chapter Eleven Back to Previous Chapter Henry dismounted outside the church and tied the horse's reins to a rail near the water-trough. He could see the General's chaise at the church gates, some distance in front of him; a footman opened the door and helped the General step down. The General waved the footman away and turned back to give his hand to his daughter. Henry hung back, not wanting to cause a commotion if the General were to see him before the ceremony began. Even from that distance, Eleanor was radiant. She wore a silk gown, white as always, simple yet elegant in style, and a straw hat with white ribbons that tied beneath one ear. She carried a bouquet of spring flowers, their bright colours as joyous as the bride's face. The General bowed low, then offered her an arm. As she turned away from the chaise, she caught sight of her brother, watching her with a proud, loving smile. Unprepared to see him, she gasped aloud; the General's eyes followed hers and his self-satisfied expression melted into anger. No avoiding it now, he thought grimly, and walked up to the gate, reaching it the same time as the General. "You are not welcome here," the General said haughtily, barring the gate with his body. "You cannot deny me," said Henry quietly. "In this house," indicating the church, "you are not the master." "Father," protested Eleanor, pulling at the General's arm, "let him come in. I want him there. It is my wedding day, sir, surely you will grant me this indulgence?" The General's face softened and he smiled down at his daughter. "Very well. I can deny you nothing today, my child, when you have made me so happy and proud." He glanced back scornfully at Henry, sniffed audibly, and stood away from the gate. "You'll wait here till we go in," he added, and Henry nodded agreement. Eleanor smiled at him and again took her father's arm, and they proceeded into the church. Henry waited a few beats and followed, slipping into the rear pew. The small church contained few people, and nobody seemed to notice him except Mr. Taylor, already in his place at the gate to the chancel, who caught Henry's eye and nodded to him with a smile. The arrival of the rector of Woodston surprised him not at all. The General placed his daughter's hand into Lord Whiting's and added an obsequious little bow that made Henry roll his eyes in disgust. Good Lord, he cannot even be joyful that his daughter marries where she loves; he cannot see past Whiting's title. His disgust soon dissipated in the beauty of the ceremony. His heart was full of joy for his sister, for the happiness in her eyes as she lifted them to her groom, for the smile that graced his lordship's handsome face as he gazed back at Eleanor. They had waited long, had Eleanor and John, and had loved one another truly, and today that faith and love would have their reward. When the newlyweds and their witnesses went to sign the register, Henry left the church, mounted his horse, and rode toward Northanger at a gallop. He knew that he did not have to tell Eleanor where to meet him. He had a wait, however; the General must have importuned her to greet the assembled guests, mostly mere acquaintances whom the General wished to impress by presenting them to his newly-titled daughter. But she did come, to the shady, damp, cool path that had been their mother's favourite walk. He heard her before he saw her, heard her rushing feet, heard her cry his name, and then Eleanor flung herself into his arms. They held one another for a long moment, then Henry released her and inspected her, smiling. "Well, your ladyship, you look every inch the Viscountess!" "Oh, Henry! Surely you are not going to use my title!" Eleanor was truly anxious. "Father could not wait for me to sign the register before he was calling me 'your ladyship.' I hate it. I just want to be Eleanor, and be John's wife." "Dearest Eleanor! Forgive me. After all the time we have been separated, as soon as I see you I fall into my old, regrettable habit of teasing you, when I should be congratulating you. Your scruples do you credit, but do not forget that without your title, you could not be John's wife." He lifted her chin with his hand. "Your dress and your title are very fine, my love, but the most beautiful thing about you today is the joy in your eyes. I wish you and Whiting every happiness." He kissed her cheek. A single tear ran down Eleanor's face as she whispered, "I thank you, dearest, dearest Henry!" They embraced again, and then Lord Whiting's voice was heard calling his wife. "I am down here, my love," she called, wiping her eyes. The Viscount came into view, pushing a few impertinent branches out of the way. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Henry, with a trim figure and long legs that perfectly displayed his closely-fitted coat of blue superfine and dove-coloured pantaloons. He carried his hat, revealing well-cut, pomaded fair hair, carefully brushed into the latest style. "Good heavens, Whiting," said the very impressed Henry. "You are looking prosperous! Quite the contrast from the last time I saw you!" He fingered the lapel of the Viscount's coat appreciatively. "Weston?" "But of course," said his lordship neutrally. "There are advantages to wealth and a title, my dear Tilney, and I plan to take full advantage of them." He smiled at his wife. "The first and most important was securing your sister's hand. The rest are just trappings." He lifted Eleanor's gloved hand to his lips. "Well said, brother," Henry declared. "No one has to know that as a student of the law, you owned a great coat that rejoiced in a mere three capes." "I shall deny it to my grave," Lord Whiting assured him. "And the great coat?" "Given to one of the grooms." "Excellent." Henry shook his new brother's hand with a smile. "Welcome to the family, my lord. May God have mercy on you." "As long as the General has had mercy on me, I am content." He paused a moment, then added, "And I am glad you are here, Tilney. You've made Eleanor very happy." "I dare say not as happy as you have made her, but I could not miss it. I am just glad that the General did not take it into his head that you must be married in town. As it is I can ride home to Woodston tonight." Eleanor shook her head impatiently. "He wanted the wedding in London, but I protested, and he at last acquiesced." She looked shyly up at her brother. "He has become quite accommodating since my engagement." "I am sure he has," said Henry dryly. "Which puts me in mind of something," said Eleanor. She glanced at her husband, who nodded encouragingly. "As I said, Father denies me nothing these days. Please let me--and John--speak to him on your behalf." "About what, Eleanor?" asked Henry tightly. "The display at the church gate told me all I need to know of the General's mind in regard to my place in the family." "Perhaps we can at least persuade him to give his permission for you to marry Catherine." Henry's head lifted and he looked intently at his sister. "Could you do that, do you think?" "There is no harm in trying. John and I travel to Windlestrae this evening, then on to Brighton tomorrow. If I make him angry, it does not signify. He no longer has power over me." "Eleanor, my kindest, most generous--" At a loss to say more, Henry simply folded her back into his embrace, making her laugh merrily. "Come back to the house, then. No time like the present." Eleanor linked one arm through Henry's and the other through her husband's, and led them back to the Abbey. Inside, a footman answered Eleanor's question with the intelligence that the General was in his study, and the trio approached the study door, which stood partly open. Eleanor raised her hand as if to knock, but stopped when she heard the General's voice ring out in tones of fury. "No, Taylor, I certainly shall not give my permission for Henry to marry that Morland chit! I owe it to my family's good name, and the memory of my wife, to keep him from making connections that can only be considered disgraceful." Mr. Taylor's voice could be heard murmuring, then the General cried, "No, sir, I do not believe that my wife would have wanted it! Although I told her this would happen when she brought the brat home. He was likely born on the wrong side of the sheets, or the product of some unholy alliance of the lower classes. I predicted that some day he would seek out his own kind, yet for Mary's sake I took the child in, brought him up, gave him everything I would have given my own blood, and this is how he repays me, by allying my name with trash! I will not have it, sir!" Eleanor, her eyes wide, glanced back at Henry. His face had paled and grown still like a marble carving. He pushed past her, though she tried to stop him, and entered the study. Mr. Taylor stood by the side of the General's secretary, his head bowed deferentially, while the General glared at him. They did not immediately notice Henry's entrance, but eventually they both turned to look at him. Mr. Taylor's face immediately showed alarm. "Mr. Tilney--" he started, but Henry interrupted him, his eyes fixed on the General's. "Did I hear you correctly, sir?" he said, his voice low but perfectly clear. "Did I hear you say that I am not of your blood?" Mr. Taylor again tried to speak, but the General raised his hand to stop him. "No, Taylor, it is time he knew. I took you in, Henry, a foundling, left at the church by God knows whom. My wife brought you home, and I raised you as my own, at her bidding. Were it up to me you would have been sent to one of the cottages." Henry felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. His vision whirled and buzzed, his heart beat like a timpani drum, and he was unsure that his legs would continue to support him for much longer. Mr. Taylor approached him, put an arm around his shoulders, and continued kindly, "Henry, I remember when your mother brought you home. She had just lost an infant son of her own, and then she found you--it was as if Providence had given her a gift to make up for the child taken away. She always thought so." Henry, his grief too new to countenance such kind comfort, turned away from Mr. Taylor with a moan of anguish. He yanked the door open and went out into the passage at a near-run. He ignored his sister, who stood weeping in her husband's arms, and the cries of his curate to return. The General stood behind his secretary, his arms folded and his eyes as cold and stern as any opponent had ever seen them on a battlefield. Eleanor found him in her bed-chamber, staring up at the portrait of her mother. He had dragged a chair in front of the portrait and slouched there, long legs sprawled out in front of him carelessly. One hand aimlessly rubbed his mouth, and his eyes held an expression of deep sorrow that pierced her heart. She moved behind the chair and placed her hands on his shoulders. Henry covered one of her hands with one of his, squeezing gently. "No matter what he says, you will always be my sister." "And you my brother." She fell silent, stroking his hair and waiting for him to voice his thoughts. "I look like her, Ellie!" he cried, his pain obvious in the use of her childhood nickname, which she had left behind upon her mother's death. "Everyone says I have the look of the Drummonds!" Eleanor leaned over and kissed the top of his head, comforting him with gestures, as she had no words to do so. "It all makes sense now," he said after a moment. "There were so many things I never understood. I wondered why she was so insistent that I take orders. I once asked her, and she smiled and said it was in payment for a miracle. I suppose she meant that she found me in the church after her infant son died. And when she--when she lay ill, that last day, she called my fa--General Tilney to her and begged him to provide for me as he always had. She did not ask on your behalf, or on Frederick's, and I thought that strange; yet I attributed it to the fever." "She always loved you," said Eleanor with some emotion. "She loved you, Henry, do not doubt that." "I would not," he said. "She loved us all. Even General Tilney; she loved him as best she could, as a dutiful wife." He took a deep, ragged breath. "She was one of the best women who ever lived." Eleanor still stroked his hair. "She was." Finally he pulled himself from the chair and turned to smile at the Viscountess. "I am glad that this revelation did not come before your marriage. It hurt me so to leave you here alone all these months after my estrangement from the General; to think that it might have been permanent would have wounded me grievously." He held out his arms, and she moved into them, and they held one another tightly. "I can almost think that Mamma orchestrated it all," said Eleanor. "She left you as my protector, my confidant, and my friend, almost as long as I needed you." She smiled up at him. "Not that I have no further need of you, dearest Henry." "You have Whiting now. You need no other protector, my love. And we shall see one another often! Windlestrae is so close to Woodston, you shall never be rid of me." "You must bring Catherine to visit me in my new home. You will marry her now, will not you?" Henry did not immediately answer, and Eleanor pulled herself from his embrace. "Henry Tilney, you will not keep that poor girl waiting any longer! There is no good reason for you not to marry now! You have no need of the General's consent!" "Then whose consent should I seek?" he asked her gently. "How can I offer myself to Catherine now? I know not what sort of people I come from--the General is correct; my natural parents were in all probability poor and ignorant, and of uncertain character as well. The Morlands would not allow our marriage without the consent of the man whom they thought was my father; how can they consent to allow their daughter to marry a man of unknown birth?" Eleanor was indignant. "Your natural parents may have been of low birth, but you were raised as a gentleman, given an education--you have a good profession, a fine home, and the assurance of a considerable fortune someday. Any parents worthy of the title should count themselves blessed that you addressed their daughter!" "Perhaps," he said softly. "But I cannot do it. I cannot disappoint Catherine again, or myself. It is best that she does not know about this until--until I know who I am." "I know who you are," said Eleanor with a smile. "You are Henry, and that is all that matters." She stroked his cheek affectionately. "Oh! what a Henry you are!" Henry laughed and kissed her on the forehead. "Thank you, Eleanor. But I must find the truth before I can ask the Morlands for their daughter's hand." "How do you intend to go about seeking the truth?" Henry turned back to Mrs. Tilney's portrait and gazed up at it. She looked back down upon her children lovingly. "I am going to Rebecca's cottage. If anyone knows anything, it will be she." At the edge of the Northanger grounds were ranged a group of small cottages for the use of pensioned servants of the Abbey. Henry made his way to one of them, returning the cheerful greetings of those he met on the way, who fondly remembered the pleasant nature and warm condescension of young Mr. Henry. He stopped at the last cottage and gently knocked on the door. After a few moments, it was opened by a gray-haired woman whose face split in a delighted if somewhat toothless grin. "Mr. Henry, I declare!" she cried. "It has been months and months since you've been to the Abbey! I suppose you're here for Miss Eleanor's wedding--the Viscountess, I should call her, now." "She would not like it if you did, Becky," he said, smiling fondly at his old nurse. "Oh, she's a grand lady now, Miss Eleanor is. I knew she would be, someday. She was meant for it, if you follow me." "I do, and I agree with you completely." He hesitated, then asked, "May I speak with you a moment, Rebecca?" "Of course, sir! Come in, come in!" She opened the door wider to permit him entrance, and he went inside. The cottage was neat and clean, if not richly furnished, and Henry felt instantly at peace. He recognized some items from Rebecca's chamber at the Abbey, where he and Eleanor and even Frederick had always run after being scolded by their mother or chastised by the General. It had been a place of refuge to all of them, and in the tiny cottage, Henry felt wrapped once again in that warm comfort that he had always felt in Rebecca's presence. She was bustling around now, putting water on the fire to boil and spooning tea into a brown pot. "You will take tea with me, Mr. Henry? Of course you will, you always do when you come to visit old Becky. Some bread and butter, too, with butter all the way out to the crust, the way you always liked it." She went off to the tiny kitchen. He took a seat next to the fire, across from Rebecca's own chair, marked by the presence of a sewing box and a large bag of very small articles of clothing. She was making baby clothes, either for the poor of the parish or for Eleanor, he thought in some amusement. Becky always plans ahead! She came back in with a tray, and he rose to help her, but she waved him off. "No, no, Mr. Henry. I like waiting on you and Miss Eleanor and Mr. Frederick. It makes it seem like old times." She handed him a cup of sweet, milky tea, and a plate with bread and butter; nursery supper. He smiled to himself at Rebecca's perfect confidence in his preferences being the same that they had been as a boy. Rebecca sat across from him with her own tea and gave a contented sigh. "It's so nice having you all home. Miss Eleanor was by t'other day, and Mr. Frederick yesterday." She blew on her tea gustily and took a sip. Henry set down his cup and plate on a small table and asked, "Did you know that I was adopted, Rebecca?" Her eyes grew wide over the top of the teacup. "He told you, didn't he?" "Who, Becky?" The nurse was visibly agitated. "The General! She made him promise not to tell, but he did, didn't he?" "It was accidental. I overheard the General talking to Mr. Taylor about it." He pulled the crust from the bread and added bitterly, "I was the only one who did not know, apparently." "You were not meant to know. Mrs. Tilney, may she rest in peace, never meant for you to know, nor Mr. Frederick nor Miss Eleanor. She didn't want you to feel that you were not a part of the family." Rebecca leaned toward Henry and pointed firmly. "You were as much her child as the ones she gave birth to, Mr. Henry. Don't let anyone tell you different." "I know that," he said, and she nodded and leaned back in her chair, satisfied. "But I have to know," he continued. "I have to know from whence I came. Were you at the Abbey when my moth--when Mrs. Tilney brought me home?" "I was," she said. "I nursed your brother from the time he was weaned, and you and your sister the same." She sighed. "It was like a miracle. She said the Blessed Virgin gave you to her to replace the baby who died. Your mother always had a bit of the papist in her," she added apologetically. "It came from that French school she went to, you know." Henry simply nodded. Rebecca continued to speak. "They didn't know if Mrs. Tilney would live through the labour. It was early, you know, much too early, and it went on and on for hours. Mr. Frederick just clung to me and cried. He couldn't know what was going on, poor mite, but he knew something was wrong with his mamma. The baby finally came, and he was so tiny--he would practically fit in his father's hand. He lived only a few hours, and they had him buried and gone before your mother could get out of bed. The General--he was only a Colonel then--thought it would help her not to see him, not to know, but the poor thing was wild with grief. She was supposed to stay in bed, but she slipped away one afternoon, nobody knew where she went--we thought she was sleeping, and next thing we knew she came home with this basket with a baby inside it. A fine, healthy little man, all bright eyes and dark curls, a couple months old I guessed. The Colonel didn't want to keep you, not at all, but your mamma was so excited and happy he couldn't bear to disappoint her and send you away." Henry tried to imagine the General, young and in love with his beautiful wife, tenderly allowing her to keep an unknown child and agreeing to bring it up as his own although every feeling revolted--it was a new aspect of the General, and one he would keep in mind whenever he felt bitter toward the man who had raised him. "I have something for you." Rebecca rose and went across the room to a large trunk that stood against one wall. "I've saved them for you all these years. I had a feeling you would ask questions one day." She pulled a few things out and set them aside, then finally brought forth a basket and a white wool blanket. She brought them over to him. "This is the basket that you were found in, and the blanket you were wrapped in. I put them aside for you, in case you ever wanted to see them." Henry took the items in his hands almost reverently. He imagined the scene--his foster mother in the tiny church, weeping and praying for the soul of her dead son, asking the Blessed Mother to relieve her heartache somehow, then hearing his cries, finding the basket--it was so small! Had he once fit in there? He lifted the blanket. My mother knitted this, he thought in wonderment. My natural mother. An unloving mother could not have made such a warm and lovely thing. Both of my mothers touched this blanket, and this basket. He turned the basket over, looking for some sign of the two women who had loved him, and noticed, to his amazement, that there were tiny initials etched in the bottom of it--E.B. Henry returned to the Abbey just in time to see the Whitings off on their first trip to Windlestrae as man and wife. He embraced Eleanor, ignoring the General's baleful glance; the Viscount extracted Henry's solemn promise to visit them when they returned from their wedding-trip, and at last the chaise rolled away. Henry put the blanket in his saddlebag and strapped the basket to the saddle. He glanced back at the house, wondering if he should take the coward's way out and simply ride back to Woodston without speaking to the General. But Henry had already stood firm in the face of the General's anger during their exchange after Catherine had been sent away, and with Eleanor no longer an inmate of the Abbey, there was no reason to avoid another confrontation. The General was in his study, frowning over a letter. He glanced up at Henry's knock on the half-open door, stared at him a moment, then waved at him to enter. "I wished to tell you that I am returning to Woodston, sir," said Henry in tones of barest respect. The General gazed up at him steadily. "You wish to retain the living, then? I assure you I have no intention of rescinding it. And you may rest assured as well that all provisions of my wife's marriage-articles regarding your eventual inheritance shall be observed. And you may continue to use the name Tilney. I gave it to you when you arrived in this house, and it remains yours." The older man's pompous magnanimity grated on Henry. He knew perfectly well that the General had no power to rescind the living even if he wanted to, nor to circumvent Mrs. Tilney's marriage-articles, but for Eleanor's sake, and his foster mother's, he forced out a few words of thanks. "I do not scruple at telling you that I did not want you in this house, raised with my heir as an equal. But my wife wanted you here, and so I gave her permission to raise you. And I did the best I could for you, Henry. I sent you to Oxford, gave you a good living, built you a parsonage--how many squires would have done half as much, eh? How many fathers, for that matter? Not many men have the power to provide so well for a younger son, let alone an unrelated ward." "I express my thanks once again for your generosity, sir," said Henry stiffly. "I did it not for your sake. Make no mistake about that." The General glanced away, a strange expression softening his stern features. "I did it for Mary, and for no one else." "I also wish to tell you that I still intend to marry Catherine Morland when her parents allow it, or when she comes of age." The General continued to read his letter, and did not look at Henry. "You are free to be a fool if you like it. I no longer care whom you marry. Neither one of you will have admittance to this house." No longer able to stomach the General's presence, and afraid of what he might say if he stayed, Henry abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the study. As he exited the house, a voice called his name, and he turned to see Captain Tilney standing by the doorway. The sight of his foster brother excited all of Henry's wariness; their relationship had never been warm, although in the past few years it had devolved into a kind of grudging tolerance of one another. However, Henry feared that the knowledge of his true situation in the family might awaken the old animosity between them, and he braced for an attack, either verbal or physical. But Captain Tilney's expression held no animosity. He said, "Henry, I want you to know that, when Northanger is mine, you and your family will always be welcome here." This was so unexpected that Henry had no words to immediately respond, and Captain Tilney continued to speak. "My mother accepted you as her son, and that is good enough for me. You were raised here, and as far as I am concerned, Northanger is your home and you are still a member of this family." "Thank you, Frederick," said Henry, all astonishment. He extended his hand, and the other man took it. Captain Tilney nodded and said, "Well, then, goodbye," in a curt, dismissive manner so exactly like the General's that at another time Henry would have found it laughable. He rode back to Woodston and fell into bed, exhausted from the emotions and events of the day. However, the same emotions that fatigued him did not permit him to sleep, and for the first time, he felt utterly alone in the world. Eleanor had her husband, Catherine was far away, and he had no one in whom to confide. He remembered something and jumped out of bed, lit a candle, and went to his library. He sifted through the untidy jumble on his secretary until he found a letter from Darcy, who had written that he had returned to town and issued yet another invitation to join him. I'll do it, he decided suddenly. I shall go to town and see my friends. And with that thought, he was at last able to sleep. 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