Chapter Fourteen Back to Previous Chapter ~ In which the First Corollary of Fan Fiction is satisfied ~ Henry slowed the horse’s pace and directed him into the drive leading up to the inn. He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to the boy who ran to meet him. The boy led the horse away for food and water, and Henry went inside in search of sustenance of his own. He was soon established in a private dining-room, and bread, cheese, cold meat, and a pitcher of ale were brought. His hunger was quickly assuaged, but he lingered over his ale, remembering the last time he had been at this inn, the night before he asked Catherine to marry him. All through the long ride from Longbourn he had thought of Catherine, of her dark curls and her large, light eyes, sometimes blue, sometimes grey--an attractive contrast that had struck him upon their first meeting at the Lower Rooms at Bath. He had found her sweet and pretty and unaffected, and as Mr. King had whispered to him that Miss Morland had no acquaintance in Bath, he had exerted himself to be charming. She did not respond in kind to his nonsensical flirtation, but considered his words and answered him seriously. He had been diverted, but not particularly taken with her. She was just another girl. Then Eleanor had come back from the Pump-room one day and said to him, laughingly: “I know a secret, Henry. I met a young lady today who holds you in very high regard.” He had been intrigued, but did not want to let Eleanor see; she would have teased him to no end. “And who would that be, dear sister?” he responded lightly. "Why, Miss Morland! ‘Oh, Miss Tilney, how well your brother dances! Did you think his partner pretty? I was so sure that he was gone from Bath, and so surprised to see him again. Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?’ With the implication being, of course, ‘For if you are there, Miss Tilney, I am sure that your brother shall be in attendance as well.’ She could not stop talking of you." "Of me? Miss Morland?" The thought had fascinated and diverted him, and he brooded about the house for the rest of the day, not noticing Eleanor’s smile as she watched him. Henry had not given much thought to marriage, and had certainly not come to Bath to seek a wife, or so he had told himself. He had come to be company for Eleanor, and to deflect the General’s overwhelming energies away from her, a job he had given himself after Mrs. Tilney’s death when he noticed Eleanor wilting under her father’s oppression. But Woodston could be a lonely place; there was no resident squire, no neighbours of education and wealth except Mr. Taylor, who was busy with his own family. The villagers were good people, though hardly knew what to say to him, burdened by the double hardship of addressing both the rector and the squire’s son at the same time. There were too many solitary evenings when he longed for companionship, and though he had not made a deliberate decision to search for that companion, he was not adverse to the idea should he encounter her. And here was a girl who was interested in him, and he knew that Catherine Morland was not sufficiently worldly to be interested because of his situation and fortune; she was interested in him for himself. The idea was entirely novel, and entirely bewitching. By the time of the cotillion ball the next evening, he had been nearly bursting with impatience to see Catherine again. He sought her on purpose as soon as he entered the crowded ballroom; she was standing behind Mrs. Allen, with her fan over her face, but when he addressed her, she smiled happily and gave ready acquiescence to his request for a dance. While they were working their way down the set, her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood behind her and talked to her without pause. Henry watched them in growing annoyance. He overheard a bit of their conversation: Thorpe said something about “the prettiest girl in the room.” From her blush it appeared that the compliment had been paid to Miss Morland, though Henry thought objectively that her friend Isabella Thorpe in truth owned the title. Catherine’s intimacy with Miss Thorpe troubled him; he had immediately pegged the older girl as one of the legion of heartless flirts who populated the Rooms, admitting the attentions of any man who showed an interest. Watching Catherine speak with Thorpe, Henry wondered how much of Isabella’s influence had worked upon her. At last Thorpe was borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of passing ladies, and Henry was surprised to find that he was relieved, and even more surprised to find himself questioning Catherine rather closely about the obligations of marriage, though he couched his questions in the language of flirtation. She seemed confused by his comparison of marriage to dancing, and did not understand the metaphor behind his words. He pressed on, unable to help himself. “Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" He watched her face carefully. Catherine considered his words for a moment. "Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." "And is that to be my only security? alas, alas!" "Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides,” gazing up at him shyly, “I do not want to talk to anybody." Henry was a little surprised at his relief at her words, but he managed to speak with the same light tone. "Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage.” Her ingenuousness was refreshing. Listening to her wide-eyed descriptions of the joys of Bath was like walking in a field at dawn, freshly after a hard rain; clean and sweet, with all the promise of growth and beauty, reaching up to the giving warmth of the sun. When they reached the bottom of the set, Henry felt a hand on his arm and turned to see the General. “Who is that young lady? Who is your partner?” the older man demanded in a harsh whisper. “Miss Catherine Morland,” Henry replied in a low voice. “Who is her family?” “She is in Bath under the protection of Mr. and Mrs. Allen, sir.” The General retreated, and Henry turned back to Catherine, whose cheeks were blazing and whose gaze was anchored firmly to the floor. Henry moved closer to her and said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine's answer was only "Oh!" -- but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. Her eyes followed the General through the crowd with some attention, an attention that could only be interesting to Henry. In his chamber after the ball, when he was alone with his thoughts, he wondered why the General had demanded to know his partner’s name; he usually took little interest in such things. Had Eleanor said something? Or was there something in his own demeanour that had betrayed his interest in Miss Morland? He put out the candle and lay down, locking his hands behind his head and staring into the darkness. You are placing too much importance on this girl, Tilney, he scolded himself. You barely know her. You have danced with her twice, spoken with her a few times, and you are already considering her as your partner for life! That firm, common-sense thought was swiftly betrayed by another: Fortunately, you have the opportunity to become more closely acquainted with her, on your walk tomorrow. Sleep did not come quickly that night. Henry swallowed the last drop of ale and paid the innkeeper. His horse had been fed and watered, and was prancing restlessly in the grip of a stable boy. “Ready to run, lad?” said Henry softly, rubbing the creature’s neck. “So am I.” The stableboy boosted him into the saddle, and he tossed the boy a coin and turned the horse onto the road to Salisbury. He set the horse’s pace at a comfortable trot and allowed his thoughts to roam ahead, not even taking notice of the ancient ring of stones off to the side, a sight that would normally command his full interest. His thoughts had leapt ahead to Fullerton, and at the same time back to Bath. His misgivings about Catherine seemed justified when he and Eleanor were on their way to Pulteney-street to meet her for their country walk. Henry noticed Eleanor staring at a passing gig, and glanced up himself, only to see that Catherine was a passenger in the gig--and John Thorpe the driver. He turned back, unable to believe his own eyes, and saw Catherine turned around in the gig looking back at him. Rubbing my nose in it! He was angry with her, both because she had broken their engagement and because she was driving with Thorpe, though he did not like to admit to himself that he was jealous of her driver. They presented themselves at Mr. Allen’s nonetheless and were told that Miss Morland had driven out. Eleanor felt for a card, but had none about her, not having equipped herself for paying calls. She asked if there had been a message left for Miss Tilney, and was told there was none, and not knowing what else to do, they simply went away. Henry was quiet as they walked. Eleanor glanced up at him keenly, and said, “I am sure it is just a misunderstanding, Henry. Miss Morland is not at all the sort of girl to be purposely rude.” Henry merely bowed. Eleanor continued, “After all, it is nearly an hour after the time we agreed upon last night. I daresay she thought it too dirty for a walk after all the rain.” “It is not too dirty for a drive, apparently,” said Henry in a tight voice. Eleanor laughed. “Apparently not. Well, we can still have our walk, and when next we meet Miss Morland, I am sure she will explain herself as properly as we could wish.” “Perhaps,” he said, and lapsed back into silence. His anger did not abate; he told himself that he was angry for Eleanor’s sake, that he thought at last she had found a friend, but he knew that he was really angry at Catherine for going off with Thorpe so quickly, despite her protestations in the dance. How he would have enjoyed taking Catherine out for a country drive in his curricle! But it could hardly be proper to do so, even with the nominal chaperonage of Catherine’s brother and Isabella Thorpe in another gig. Yet she had accepted such an invitation from Thorpe--from John Thorpe! That swaggering, blustering fool! Well, if such a man was more to her taste, better to find out now than later. The following night at the theatre, he saw Catherine on the other side of the room, in a box with the Allens and the Thorpes. She was laughing at the play, and looked so young and pretty that he could not help admiring her, just for a moment. Then he saw Thorpe eyeing her with satisfaction and turned away in disgust. He watched the play with feigned attention, wondering if she had seen him; finally he looked over at the box and met Catherine’s gaze. She was no longer laughing. He bowed, coldly, and turned back to the stage, determined to give her no more notice; but he was always aware of her there, glowing on the edge of his vision, and able to stand it no longer, he glanced over again. Her head was drooping, her pretty eyes fixed on her lap, where her hands were worrying her fan. Her friends took no notice of that misery, laughing at the play and talking amongst themselves. Henry felt his anger rise again, at Catherine for deserting him, at her friends for not recognizing her pain, at himself for being the author of that pain, and at Thorpe out of sheer jealousy. Such sensations were all very new, and very unpleasant to Henry. When the plays concluded, he murmured an excuse to the General and made his way to their box, telling himself that it was best if he knew directly whether Catherine still had regard for him, or whether that regard was now reserved for Thorpe. He greeted Mrs. Allen with an external calm that he hoped did not betray his confused emotions. Mrs. Allen seemed unconcerned, as usual, but Catherine clutched at her friend’s arm as she expressed her apologies at missing their appointment. "Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought me so rude; but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen? Did not they tell me that Mr. Tilney and his sister were gone out in a phaeton together? And then what could I do? But I had ten thousand times rather have been with you; now had not I, Mrs. Allen?" This was better, but two days’ worth of ire would not be so easily washed away. He said politely, "We were much obliged to you at any rate for wishing us a pleasant walk after our passing you in Argyle-street: you were so kind as to look back on purpose." "But indeed I did not wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of such a thing; but I begged Mr. Thorpe so earnestly to stop; I called out to him as soon as ever I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, did not--Oh! you were not there; but indeed I did; and, if Mr. Thorpe would only have stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you." Was there a Henry in the world who could be insensible to such a declaration? Henry Tilney at least was not. Reserve was no longer possible in the face of such sweet artlessness. He could no longer doubt Catherine’s feelings; he had only to sort out his own. Henry was not accustomed to being adored. In his experience, he was the less-rich friend, the younger brother; what sensible young lady, given the choice, would choose Henry Tilney over Fitzwilliam Darcy or Charles Bingley or Captain Frederick Tilney? But Catherine’s regard for Henry shone from her beautiful eyes, lifted to his whenever he spoke. And the more time he spent in her presence, the more he became intoxicated by that regard. In finding himself irresistible to her, he found her irresistible as well. Henry spurred his horse to a gallop as he rode through Salisbury, barely glancing at the spire of the cathedral that loomed over the other buildings, turning onto the road to Fullerton and slowing down to a trot once again. Only nine more miles to Catherine. Those sweet days of growing affection had been troubled only by the General’s sudden attentions to Catherine. The day after Henry had met Catherine at the theatre, the General had said to him at breakfast, “You know, Henry, it is high time you married.” Henry had been in the process of taking a sip of coffee, and he managed not to choke upon it. “Why—why do you say so, sir?” “I think a clergyman should marry whenever he can. It sets the example in his parish. And I think you would not mind the companionship, eh boy?” To Henry’s utter horror, the General added a lascivious wink to this statement. Eleanor stared at her plate resolutely, unwilling to enter such a discussion. “Well, I--” “And I do not have to tell you to choose your wife carefully, now do I? The Tilney name is not to be bestowed upon the unworthy.” “No, sir, I think--” “That Morland girl, now--she is pretty enough. You think so too, Henry, do not deny it. I saw you talking to her at the theatre last night. She would do well for you, I think. Speak quickly if you are interested. There are many others who would take your place.” Henry and Eleanor exchanged astonished gazes at this statement. The General had forbidden Eleanor’s marriage to John White, a perfectly respectable man whose only failing was his lack of a large fortune. They had both witnessed lectures to Frederick to find a wife with a fortune commensurate with his own. Yet he had practically commanded Henry to marry Catherine Morland, a clergyman’s daughter! Such behaviour was incomprehensible, as were the General’s obsequious attentions to Catherine, and his command to Eleanor to invite her to accompany them back to Northanger Abbey. Henry regretted having to leave Catherine almost as soon as they arrived at the Abbey, but his parish required his attention; and he would be back in only two or three days. But when he returned, he had found Catherine lurking about the gallery by his mother’s apartment. She started and cried out when she saw him, and her demeanour was guilty; Henry started out with every good intention, to cover both their embarrassment at the encounter by making general conversation, but her remarks led him to ask more pointed questions that finally drew out of her the suspicions about the General, suspicions that were so foolish and inconceivable that they stunned him. Henry told himself that he had performed a necessary office and that Catherine needed to be made aware of the severity of her transgression; but her tears as she ran from him made him feel like an ogre. In frustration, he uttered an oath, whirled about, and slammed his fist into the wood paneling of the gallery, earning nothing for his action but swollen knuckles. His face burned as he remembered how he had teased Catherine with an invented Gothic story on the way from Bath to Northanger; he should have known then how the silly novels she had read had affected her. Northanger was until recently the only home he had ever known, but looking around him with Catherine’s eyes, he realized that the house, however comfortable and modern, contained much to stimulate an overactive imagination. You have forced Catherine to examine her conscience, Tilney, he told himself bitterly. Best examine your own. You know her ignorance of the wider world and are in a position to educate her, yet instead you feed that ignorance for your own amusement. You are in no position to stand in judgment. That evening, he tried to be especially kind to Catherine, and saw her blossom under his compassion into the sweet, unaffected girl he had met in the Lower Rooms, before Isabella Thorpe and Mrs. Radcliffe had worked their dark magic upon her. And it was then, in his anxious solicitude, in his real wish for the return of her comfort, that he knew for certain that he loved her. A week later, Catherine was at Woodston, gazing about her with a smile of pure delight and carrying in her arms one of his terriers, which one of the small Taylors had bestowed with the unlikely name of Ruby Begonia. Catherine belonged in his house; it was already hers, from the cold, disused drawing-room to the half-grown shrubbery to the canine inhabitants, who were quickly her slaves. The house had been waiting for Catherine to bring it to life. When the chaise rolled ponderously away that evening, Henry knew that it was only a matter of time until Catherine Morland returned as Catherine Tilney. But he did not feel comfortable making an offer while Catherine remained at Northanger. He would wait until she returned to her parents’ protection, then present himself to the Morlands and request permission to marry their daughter. That was how a gentleman comported himself. And he could not hurry her return to Fullerton, not when her companionship was so welcome to Eleanor. He would be patient. But on his next trip to Woodston, as he ate his solitary meals and brooded by himself in the sitting-room, thinking how pleasant it would have been to have had Catherine’s company, how her eyes would have sparkled in the firelight while he read aloud to her, he wondered if he were not being overly nice. He prowled the house restlessly, his steps turning time and time again to the drawing-room, seeing it fitted up with paper and paint and draperies, Catherine comfortable in a chair by a brightly-burning fire, a book in her hand and Ruby at her feet, a welcoming smile upon her face as she turned to greet his entrance. As if the dog knew his thoughts, he felt a tiny paw on his leg and looked down to find her begging for attention. He picked up the fuzzy creature and held her nose to his own. “Ruby, would you like me to bring you home a mistress?” he asked her genially, and was rewarded with an enthusiastic face-licking. Well, Tilney, he laughed to himself, you can continue mooning over Catherine like some sort of benighted Valancourt, or you can offer for the girl. He determined that when he returned to Northanger he would do just that, propriety be d---ed. He had little doubt of what her answer would be. The next day he set out for Northanger, and never had twenty miles passed so quickly beneath his horse’s hooves. As he drew close to the Abbey, he saw several horses approaching, and on recognizing the General’s bay saddle-horse, he pulled up and greeted him heartily. The General glowered at him. “We are paying a visit to Lord Longtown. You will accompany us, Henry.” Henry was all astonishment. “Lord Longtown? All of us? Eleanor and Miss Morland as well?” “I have sent the Morland chit away, and none too soon. I am thankful you were not caught.” He pointed to Henry menacingly. “You will think of her no more.” “You sent her away? What can you mean, sir?” “I put her in a post-chaise and sent her back to Wiltshire. She was not what she appeared to be, Henry. We have all been taken in. Fortunately, that young Thorpe warned me in time.” “Thorpe?” Henry cried. “What does Thorpe know of Catherine that we do not?” A dreadful suspicion grew. “You thought she was rich, did not you? That is why you promoted a match between us! Did Thorpe give you that information as well?” “He did,” said the General. “He was taken in, as we were. His sister became engaged to the Morland boy, and when the settlements were being arranged, they made the unpleasant discovery that the family are a forward, scheming, bragging race, without a fraction of the fortune they boast of. The girl claimed to be the Allen’s heir, but that turned out to be false as well. Thorpe broke up the match between his sister and young Morland when he learned all.” “With all respect, sir, you are a fool.” The General’s face grew red and he opened his mouth to speak, but Henry went on. “James Morland broke his engagement with Isabella Thorpe because she was dangling after Frederick! The Thorpes are the grasping family, sir, not the Morlands, and Isabella Thorpe sought your fortune as surely as John Thorpe sought the Allens’ in a match with Catherine. She never claimed to be the Allens’ heir. You let your own avarice be guided by Thorpe’s, and I hope you are ashamed of your actions.” “How dare you speak to me thus!” roared the General. “Have you forgotten yourself?” “I have not forgotten myself, sir. You have. You have forgotten all sense of honour and what is due to your good name. You directed me to win Catherine Morland’s heart, and I believe that I have, as surely as she has won mine.” He turned his horse about. “I am returning to Woodston, sir, and tomorrow I shall ride to Fullerton and offer Miss Morland my hand in marriage. The demands of honour as well as affection allow nothing less.” “Go, then,” warned the General, “and know you shall never have admittance to my house again.” Henry galloped away without another word. He knew himself to be right, and could only regret that he had not had the opportunity to see Eleanor before he left. He returned to Woodston, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, and on the afternoon of the following day, he had begun his journey to Fullerton. He rode for hours, then stopped at an inn along the way, not wanting to appear before Catherine to beg for her hand travel-stained and weary. On the next day, he presented himself anxiously at the parsonage, unable to take his eyes from Catherine’s face, which paled at first seeing him and then flushed when her mother entered the room. Henry had been surprised and pleased at the welcoming words of Mrs. Morland, wishing that his own parent were as reasonable and kind. But he needed to talk to Catherine, to explain his father, and first to explain himself. He suggested a walk to the Allens’, and consciously asked Catherine to show him the way. Miss Sarah Morland had said, “You may see the house from this window, sir,” and he knew that the young lady probably meant well; thus he simply bowed, and was grateful when Mrs. Morland bade her eldest daughter to accompany him. They walked down the path to the Allens’ until they entered a small copse of trees that hid both houses from view. Henry stopped walking, and Catherine turned back and gazed at him questioningly. “Miss Morland,” he said, “you must know that I did not come here only to call upon the Allens.” She nodded mutely. “I did not even come here only to ascertain your safety, though I am glad you are well.” She blushed and looked down at her gloved hands, tangled in the strings of her reticule. “Catherine,” he said softly, stepping toward her. “Catherine, look at me.” She raised her head, her eyes enormous. Henry held out his hand. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly reached out and placed her hand in his. He raised it to his lips. “Dearest Catherine,” he murmured. “Somewhere between the Lower Rooms and Northanger, you captured my heart. May I hope that I have captured yours as well?” She gasped, and squeaked out, “Oh, yes!” He smiled. “I hoped so, but after the way you were driven from the Abbey--” he stopped, unwilling to ruin this moment with unpleasant memories. “Make me the happiest man in the world, Catherine. Tell me you will be my wife.” “Oh!” she cried, and then almost as an afterthought, added, “Yes!” Henry looked both ways; they could not be seen, either from the parsonage or from the great house. He stepped closer to Catherine and hesitated for a moment, then said thoughtfully, “Catherine, I do not like that hat.” “Oh!” she cried in surprise, reaching up to touch it. “It is very pretty, indeed,” he added, “but the brim is so large that I cannot get close enough to kiss you. And right now I want to kiss you very much. Thus, I cannot approve of such a hat, however pretty. I am sorry to pain you, my sweet.” Catherine stared at him for a moment; then, her eyes never leaving his, she reached up, undid the ribbons that secured the hat under her chin, and removed it. Henry smiled, pulled her close, and kissed her at last. He had wanted to kiss her that night at the theatre, when she had rumpled poor Mrs. Allen’s dress in her eagerness to communicate her regard for him. He had wanted to kiss her countless times since. And here she was, soft and warm in his arms, with no impertinent hat brim to foil him, and Henry Tilney was not a man to waste such an opportunity. With such a pleasant memory to carry him, it was no wonder that Henry was smiling as he reined in his horse outside Fullerton Parsonage. He swung one leg over the horse’s neck and slid from the saddle, grunting a little as his boots struck the gravel. He had been riding most of the day, and his joints were stiff and sore. The sound of the door opening caught his attention, and he turned to see Catherine and her sister Sarah run outside, both laughing. Sarah saw him first, and stopped short, staring at him in astonishment. “Miss Morland,” he greeted her with a bow that was only slightly stiff. He turned to her sister and said, “Hello, Catherine.” She would not come closer to him, but stood watching him from several feet away. “I shall tell Mamma and Papa that Mr. Tilney is here,” said Sarah, and slipped inside the house. Catherine and Henry gazed at each other for a moment. Finally Catherine said, “Are you real?” Henry smiled. “I am real, my sweet. And I am glad to see you.” She moved closer and reached out to grip the sleeve of his coat. “I have had this dream so many times.” She rubbed the material thoughtfully for a moment, then wrinkled her nose and said, “But in my dreams, you do not smell of horse.” Henry laughed and touched her chin. “Now that is the common-sense Catherine I love. Forgive my dishevelment, but I have ridden long hours to reach you. Am I forgiven if I tell you that I bear good news?” Before Catherine could answer, the parsonage door opened again and two of Catherine’s younger brothers ran out, shouting hellos. Henry greeted them with a smile and asked if they would be so kind as to water his horse. They took the reins happily and led the horse toward the stable. Catherine said consciously, “Will you come in, Henry?” He followed her inside the house and into the small drawing-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Morland were waiting for them. Henry greeted Catherine’s parents respectfully and took the seat that Mrs. Morland begged him to take. The three of them watched him expectantly. He took a deep breath and said, “I have an extraordinary story to tell you. I know that you were not able to give your permission for my marriage to Catherine because General Tilney had refused his. The truth is, General Tilney is not my father.” Catherine exclaimed, and her parents exchanged surprised glances. Henry added hastily, “I know how this sounds, but allow me to explain.” He told them his story, how he had been taken away from his birth parents and raised by the Tilneys, and they listened with great attention. Catherine listened to Henry’s story with increasing discomfort. He was the heir to an estate! He might marry anybody! It had been more than a year since he had seen her—did he still love her? Was he come to Fullerton to break the engagement? Her heart was constant, and she thought his was as well--his letters had certainly indicated as much--but she could not be sanguine. Henry had offered for her under very different circumstances, as a second son with a small fortune. Such a change in a young man's circumstances was not unknown, but she had never encountered such a change, and she had read too many novels where the heroes contracted bad marriages in their careless youths and knew only misery from it. With such thoughts whirling through her mind, she came to a determination as she listened to him, an awful determination that rent her heart. “And so Mr. Bennet has kindly given his permission for my marriage to your daughter,” Henry finished, drawing a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and passing it to her papa. “I hope I may persuade you to do so as well.” Mr. Morland opened the letter and read it with great attention. He passed the letter to his wife, and said, “Well, Mr. Tilney, that is an extraordinary story indeed. And so you are now the heir to Longbourn?” “That is correct, sir.” “And you will retain your living?” “Yes, I plan to live at Woodston.” Mr. Morland exchanged another glance with his wife. "You know that Catherine's expectations have not changed, and are not likely to do so." "That does not signify to me, sir." Henry smiled at Catherine, and she wavered in her determination for a moment, but then hardened her heart. She would do what was best for Henry. Catherine had a sense of honour as well. “Papa,” she said quietly, “may I speak with Mr. Tilney alone for a moment?” Her father hesitated, then said, “I dare say that would be a good idea. Very well.” The elder Morlands rose and passed from the drawing-room. When the door was closed behind them, Henry grinned at Catherine and said, “That was very clever of you, my sweet. You obtained some time alone for us. Let us not waste it.” He moved as if to take her in his arms, but the well-read Catherine could not be put off by such an animated expression of regard. She put up her hands as if to ward him off, and he stopped, his face reflecting his astonishment. She rose hastily and moved to the other side of the room. She felt thoroughly miserable, but with a heroic effort, her chin rose high in the air as she spoke. “Mr. Tilney,” she said formally, “I know your sense of honour would prohibit you from breaking a prior engagement, but in light of your new circumstances, if you wished to be released from our engagement--” here she stopped, trying to strangle a sob but unable to do so-- “please feel that you may do so honourably, and I assure you that I would not censure you in any way.” A single tear rolled down her cheek as she spoke these last words. In the few seconds when she had determined to offer Henry the opportunity to end the engagement, Catherine had imagined two possible outcomes. Either Henry would fling himself at her feet, avowing his love and begging her not to deny him his heart’s desire, or he would look his relief for a moment, thank her coldly for her consideration, and leave, never to darken her door again. She had read of both. Her fear that Henry would take the latter course rendered her unable to look at him for a moment--she pictured a future for herself as a wizened spinster, perhaps living as the companion to an old, blind woman. Or perhaps she might take the veil. Finally, she gathered the courage to raise her head, and saw through her tears that her beloved had done neither. He was watching her, smiling broadly, and he held his arms out to her and said, his voice full of affection and laughter, “Sweet Catherine, how I have missed you!” Catherine did not stop to question the capricious vagaries of fate that resulted in this strange circumstance. She ran into those outstretched arms, felt them close around her, and rejoiced. Horse smell and all, he was still her Henry. Henry closed his eyes and laid his cheek against the top of Catherine’s head. Her hair smelt of lavender, and he breathed deeply. He had missed her terribly, this adorable girl who had his heart so firmly in her keeping. “I appreciate your sacrifice, dearest,” he said softly into her hair, “but you needn’t fall on your sword. If they made me a Duke you would be my Duchess.” Catherine tipped her head back and looked up at him anxiously. “Truly?” “Truly.” She smiled through her tears, and he whispered, “Now kiss me quickly, Catherine, before your parents come back.” Catherine laughed, then complied. The happy couple enjoyed a few moments of perfect felicity; then Henry, who despite the distraction at hand had a weather eye out for the door, released her. When the Morlands re-entered the drawing-room, they found them standing with their hands clasped, smiling at one another. Mr. Morland cleared his throat. “So, Catherine, is everything settled?” “Yes, Papa,” said Catherine, her eyes shining. “Then your mother and I have no objection. You may marry Mr. Tilney.” “Oh, Papa!” cried Catherine, releasing Henry and running to kiss her father. There were embraces and handshakes all around, and Catherine’s brothers and sisters were called in to join in the congratulations, and in the midst of all the celebration, Mr. and Mrs. Allen were announced. They were quickly acquainted with Catherine’s happiness, and their congratulations were added to the general tumult. “You must come to Fullerton to dine tonight,” Mrs. Allen said to Mrs. Morland, “and bring dear Miss Morland and Mr. Tilney with you.” “I thank you, ma’am,” said Henry, “but I must ride to Salisbury and bespeak a room at the inn. I should have done so on the way here, but I was anxious to arrive,” he added with a smile for Catherine. “An inn!” cried Mr. Allen. “Nonsense, sir! You shall stay at Fullerton.” “That is very generous, sir,” said Henry in some surprise. “I thank you!” “We cannot have Miss Morland’s fiancé staying at an inn. Do not you agree, Mrs. Allen?” “Oh, yes. I have a new gown that I should like to have Mr. Tilney see. I am sure you will agree, sir, that the muslin is very fine indeed. And it was a prodigious bargain.” “I should be very happy to inspect your gown, ma’am,” said Henry gravely, and so the matter was settled quite satisfactorily. Two weeks later It was a fine, warm June day, and the bees buzzed busily about Catherine and Henry as they walked through Mrs. Allen’s garden. Butterflies flitted from branch to branch, their colourful wings reflecting the brilliance of the flowers. Henry selected various blossoms as they walked, adding them to Catherine’s posy. Catherine still had many questions about Henry’s new family, and he had endeavoured to answer them. “We must pay a visit to Longbourn as part of our wedding-trip,” he told her. “I want you to meet my father, and my sisters.” “Oh, yes! I should very much like to meet your sisters.” She hesitated, then added, “But what about Eleanor?” “Though we are truly second cousins, Eleanor and I have worked it out amongst ourselves that we shall always consider ourselves brother and sister. We shall visit Windlestrae as well, so you will have an opportunity to spend some time with her, and meet her husband.” “I am glad.” They walked for a bit, and she added, "I am sorry if I bother you by talking so much of your family, but it is such a strange and interesting story!" Henry stopped to cut a white rose and tucked it into the center of Catherine’s bouquet. “Indeed. Upon reflection, it seems that my life has taken on an element of the gothic, do not you agree?” Catherine, her eyes shining, said, “Oh, yes! ‘Tis better than something Mrs. Radcliffe could write!” Henry was very much amused. “I know you can give no higher approbation, my sweet.” They made their way to a green bench and sat upon it. Catherine rearranged the flowers in her bouquet to her satisfaction as Henry watched her with a smile. “Does this mean that you have learnt to love flowers at last?” Catherine breathed deeply of the blossoms' sweet fragrance. “At this moment, I love everything in the world!” “And am I included in that number?” She smiled up at him, still a little shy with endearments. “You most particularly.” Henry lifted her chin gently and leaned close, but was again foiled by fashion; the brim of Catherine’s very fetching straw hat did not allow him to get close enough to kiss her. A few quick motions on Mr. Tilney’s part banished the poor hat to the clean grass, and restored them to perfect felicity. Henry traced a finger down Catherine’s cheek. “Your sweet kisses make it difficult to leave you, but leave you I must. Stay here; I would remember you as you are, not weeping as I ride away.” Catherine smiled up at him. “I shall not weep, Henry. We will be married in only two weeks. I shall miss you, but knowing that we will soon be together forever will cheer me.” Henry laughed. “Always the pragmatist, my Catherine! Very well. Walk back to the house with me and I will take my leave of the Allens.” They rose from the bench, and Catherine picked up her hat and started back toward the house, but was stayed by her beloved’s hand. “First, my sweet one, I will take my leave of you.” And here it must be recorded that Henry, despite his professed desire that Catherine learn to love a rose, was quite heedless of the safety of her bouquet. And it must also be recorded that despite her promise, Catherine did weep, but not until Henry was out of sight, and then only a very little. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.