Chapter Sixteen Back to Previous Chapter During the first few weeks of their marriage, Henry and Catherine were naturally delighted with each other's company, although they were obliged to make certain adjustments in their expectations. I leave it to the reader to imagine Catherine's surprise when she discovered that the husband she had always considered without fault was, in fact, rather slovenly in some of his personal habits. He thoughtlessly laid down books and articles of clothing anywhere, and left them until someone else--usually Catherine--picked them up and put them away. The numerous Morland children, brought up in a parsonage with a minimum of servants, had been taught to pick up after themselves from the time they could walk, and Catherine became increasingly impatient with Henry's litter. A few days after they arrived in Scotland, Henry asked Catherine if she had seen his blue waistcoat. His things, as usual, were scattered about their lodgings. "I know not," she replied, rather more sharply than usual. "You probably left it lying about somewhere. Perhaps it got thrown away." Henry rummaged through the clothes press. "Thrown away? Who would do such a thing?" "My mother would have! If we did not pick up our clothes and toys, they were given away to poor children. 'Tis a shame that no one at Northanger ever did the same for you. I might not be forever tripping over your things." Henry stopped his activity and stared at his wife in surprise. "What do you mean?" "I am very sorry, Henry, but I am not accustomed to this chaos!" He looked around, clearly confused. "It is not so bad." He laughed and returned to his task. "My room at home is much worse, I assure you." "Well, then, keep your disorder in your own room! I shall not tolerate it in mine! Do not expect me to find your things, either. If you put them away properly, you would know where they are!" Catherine clapped her hand over her mouth, blushing furiously but strangely relieved as well. "You feel very strongly about this," Henry said, watching her thoughtfully. "I do," Catherine murmured. "Very well, then. I must endeavour to remember to pick up after myself." He crossed to where Catherine stood and took her in his arms. "Or at least endeavour to keep my disorder out of sight. Do you forgive me?" "No, you should forgive me," she said into his shoulder. "I detest shrewish wives, and always said I should not be one." "Telling me that something I am doing makes you unhappy is hardly shrewish, my love. However, I think from now on you should not try to conceal such things." He tilted her chin up and kissed her. "You know I shall not censure you." "I know, but I did not think I should begin only a day after we were wed." "Was it that soon?" said Henry, laughing. "I am careless with my things. Eleanor would scold me about it occasionally, but not quite so forcefully as you. A gentle reminder from time to time probably would help." In Henry's turn, he was mortified by the discovery that Catherine's thick, dark curls, which he so prized and had dreamed of daily during their separation, were not natural, but were instead put into her hair with a hot iron every morning. The first time he witnessed the process and was treated to the unpleasant smell of burnt hair due to the inexperience of the young maidservant provided by the innkeeper, he fled the room in dismay. Fortunately, his sense of humour returned quickly, and he teased Catherine every morning about the time she spent at her toilette. One night, Catherine came to bed with her hair done up in curl rags, confined with a large round cap. Henry did not like Catherine to wear a cap during the day, though he had bowed to the prevailing fashion for married women, insisting only that the cap be as small as possible and of a very pretty lace that looked well against her hair. The cap Catherine wore that night owed nothing to fashion; it was thick cotton, and tied with a simple bit of cord. Henry stared at Catherine in silent revulsion for a long moment. At last he put down his book, extinguished the candle, and turned on his side away from his wife, muttering a hasty good-night. Catherine was astonished at this behaviour, but said nothing at first. She lay down beside Henry, occasionally glancing over at the back and shoulder he had chosen to display to her, and wondered. Perhaps they had walked too far that day, and Henry had the headache from all the sun. She asked him in a low voice if he felt ill. "No, I do not feel ill." There was another silence, and then Catherine ventured, "Then why have you not kissed me good-night?" Henry said nothing; after a moment, he rolled over, kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek, and turned away once again. Catherine said miserably, "That is not precisely what I meant." "Well, you cannot expect me to feel romantic when you come to bed looking like somebody's grandmother!" "What do you mean?" she cried. Henry turned over and waved his hand at her head. "That cap! It makes you look positively middle-aged! I knew the bloom would come off the rose at some point, but good Lord, Catherine! We haven't been married a fortnight!" "Well, you said this morning that I took so long to curl my hair that you nearly fell asleep waiting for me, and one time you ran away. If I cannot curl my hair in the morning, I must wear curl rags to bed." "Oh, Cat." Henry's voice was once again tender, and Catherine's heart leaped. "I was teasing you, sweetest girl. I am sorry if you thought I was in earnest." "Then you do not mind if I take the time to curl my hair in the morning?" "If it means you will come to bed with your beautiful hair unbound for your husband, my love, take as long as you like." "Then I will!" Catherine sat up and pulled off the cap. "Here, help me take these out." Henry eagerly joined her; though his fingers, unaccustomed to the task, were clumsier than hers, soon they had all the bits of cloth removed and placed neatly in the cap. Henry would have tossed the bundle upon the floor, but mindful of Catherine's admonition about disorder, he carefully placed it on the bedside table. Catherine shook out her hair, which hung nearly to her waist and held a curl well. Henry watched her for a moment and then observed, "You may consider it perverse, Cat, but I rather enjoy our little quarrels." "You do? I hate them!" Henry ran his fingers through Catherine's hair, arranging it around her shoulders. "The quarrel itself is unpleasant," he admitted. "But the reconciliation, my sweet--" He pulled her down into his arms, the dark waves of her hair falling about them like a veil. "Oh, the reconciliation is glorious, indeed." Henry was pleased to discover that Catherine knew very well how to ride horseback, as it was the easiest way to reach the sites of the mysterious old buildings they had come to visit. They rode out nearly every day in fine weather, and by the end of a fortnight, even Catherine's passion for ruined edifices was fairly well sated. One morning they set out to see the remains of a nearby abbey. The day was all blue skies and sunshine, and Henry was in high spirits. "Do you still think I am the nicest husband in the world?" he asked Catherine as they rode along. Catherine frowned at him, knowing that he was teasing her for something she said on their wedding night. "I think you are a very--satisfactory husband." "Satisfactory!" Henry cried, clutching at his chest. "You cut me to the quick, my sweet! I thought I was doing so well, but to be told that I am merely a satisfactory husband! To fall from being the nicest husband in the world to a satisfactory husband is a loss of dignity from which I might not soon recover." "You know what I mean," said Catherine, feeling rather harassed. "You are the nicest husband, but you do not like it when I use that word in that way." "I like you to use that word in any way you choose. I am delighted to think that you might consider me nice in the performance of my husbandly duties," he added with a naughty grin. "After all, I should not like to violate the proprieties of civilized society, even with my wife." "Henry!" cried Catherine, scandalized. She glanced around to see if anyone could have overheard, but they were quite alone. Henry was very much amused but allowed the subject to decline, though he could not stay quiet for long. At length he said, "I hope you have prepared yourself for what we might find at this abbey." "This is not the first abbey I have seen, you know." "But this is not just any abbey, Cat: this is a ruined abbey. No one has lived here for hundreds of years. Perhaps we will stumble across a waxen model of a corpse, or some instrument of torture. Its passages are undoubtedly populated by unquiet spirits, as well." Catherine gave her husband a skeptical glance. "You are trying to frighten me, Henry, but you shall not succeed." "I know that I cannot frighten you. I shall leave that to the spirits." He added in a quiet voice, "They tell me that a young lady--just about your age--was locked up in a cell by her father because she fell in love with a man of whom he did not approve. She was never seen again. Perhaps if we go into the darkest, most remote cell, we will find--" "That is quite enough!" cried Catherine. "I am not frightened! I shall not listen any further!" She spurred her horse to a gallop, riding away from Henry, who watched her with a smile that was a little wistful. Part of him missed the innocent girl who had listened wide-eyed to his description of the horrors that might be found at Northanger Abbey. Catherine had found no waxen corpses or instruments of torture there, though she had found horrors of another sort. It turned out that the abbey was not much ruined after all, with only part of one wall tumbled down. They easily gained admittance and went down the dark, dusty passages and up a narrow flight of stairs. "Look at this room, Henry!" Catherine called. He followed her voice into a large room with filthy Gothic windows, still intact and large enough to admit a great deal of sunshine even through the dirt. The remains of an old wooden bed sagged in one corner. Catherine was trying to open the window latch. "Come away from there, Cat," said Henry sharply. "That is part of the ruined wall. I do not trust it." Catherine shook her head and smiled. "I told you, you cannot frighten me. I almost have this latch." "I am not teasing this time. Now, come away." Catherine conquered the latch and threw open the window. "What a glorious view! And there are sheep, and dead trees, and rocks, and all sorts of picturesque things; come and see!" She leaned against the window frame and it crumbled under her hands, collapsing into nothingness, along with the window and a large portion of the wall of the room. Catherine reflexively took a few steps backward as the stones where she had been standing tumbled twenty feet to the ground. When it was over, Catherine stood on the edge of a precipice, frozen in terror, with only unstable footing behind her and a deadly plunge to the ground before her. Henry slowly moved as close as he dared. He reached out to her, his hand as firm and steady as his voice. "Give me your hand, Catherine." She made a sobbing noise, but did not move. "Give me your hand, love. I will not let you fall." She reached slowly behind her, her hand moving closer to Henry's inch by excruciating inch. At last he grasped her hand and pulled her out of that treacherous room to the refuge of the still-solid staircase. Catherine nearly wept with relief at finding herself safe in Henry's arms, though his embrace was a trifle crushing. She felt his heart thumping against his chest; she raised her head and said in surprise, "You were truly frightened!" "Yes." Henry's voice was oddly strained, but his grip on her did not abate. "But, you are never frightened! Even when you read Udolpho, you act as though you are frightened, but I know you are pretending." Henry was silent a moment before responding. "Mrs. Radcliffe has no power to frighten me." He kissed her urgently and added in a low voice, "The most frightening thing in the world to me is the thought of losing you." "But you were so brave in there!" "I did not want to alarm you and cause you to stumble." "I am sorry that I did not come away from the window when you bid me." "It was my own fault for teasing you. It was only natural for you to think I was making a joke." Catherine stood quietly in Henry's embrace for a long moment. At last she said, "I have had enough of old buildings. Let us go home." Henry considered this. "Would you agree to a visit in Hertfordshire first? I would like to take you to Longbourn." He grinned at her, his humour returning. "Fear not: it is quite a modern, well-built house, and you shall have nothing to fear there. You have already had enough adventure, I think. How does it feel to be a heroine?" Catherine shivered. "If that is what it is like to be a heroine, I would rather not." "Not even if your hero is the nicest husband in the world?" She smiled up at him, happy, in a way, that he had fallen back into his customary teasing. "My hero is the nicest husband in the world." Henry laughed and kissed her once more, and then took her hand and led her outside to where their horses were waiting patiently. "I shall make the arrangements, and with luck we will be able to leave for Longbourn tomorrow." Upon their arrival at Longbourn, both Henry and Catherine were disappointed to discover that Elizabeth was not there, but was traveling in the north with her aunt and uncle. Catherine was further disappointed that Lydia had gone to Brighton with some friends, as she had longed to make the acquaintance of all Henry's sisters. For his part, Henry was glad to see his father and sisters again. Mr. Bennet took Henry out daily, either to meet the tenants, to see the farm, for fishing in the stream, or just for a long walk and congenial conversation as they made up for six and twenty years of lost time. Henry maintained a cordial distance with Mrs. Bennet, paying her the respect that was due his father's wife but avoiding her company whenever possible. Thus, he was unaware of a growing tension between his stepmother and his wife. Kitty was rather lost without her usual companion, so a sister-in-law of her own age was a welcome addition to the family party. At first Catherine's status as a married woman, a state that Mrs. Bennet promoted so fiercely to all her daughters, left Kitty a little in awe; however, Catherine's good-natured cheerfulness soon won her over, and the two girls were often together. One hot afternoon the ladies had retreated to the cool of the drawing-room with their books and work. Kitty encouraged Catherine to tell them about the parsonage at Woodston. "I have only seen it once," explained Catherine, "before Henry and I were married, or even engaged." Kitty persisted, "Is it a handsome house?" "It is a very handsome house. The drawing-room is the prettiest room you will ever see! It is not fitted up at present, but Henry said that I am to make the choices for furniture and hangings and everything else. I know just what I shall choose, too," she added, warming to her subject. "Pomona green and white--shall not that be charming? It will make me think always of the apple-trees when they are in blossom, even in the winter when they are bare. I think striped wallpaper, and a little green rug, and the hangings will be green silk." "What kind of room is it?" Kitty had been drawing idly on the back of a letter; now she took up a piece of fresh paper and began to sketch on it with a pencil. "It is a large room, and well-proportioned. The windows go all the way to the ground." Kitty sketched the room and added furniture to Catherine's specifications. Jane joined in, and even Mary was curious; the girls all gathered around the table and laughed together as they made suggestions. After a time, the sketch was finished, and Catherine regarded her sister with delighted awe. "I wish I could draw like that. You are very talented!" "I must get my watercolours and colour it in," Kitty said. "Then you will really see how it shall look. I am sure Henry will like it." "And then," said Mrs. Bennet with a forced sort of laugh, "you must draw this drawing-room, Kitty, for I am sure that Mrs. Tilney would like to make plans to new-furnish it, as well." Catherine stared at her in surprise, and said doubtfully, "I do not understand you, ma'am." "Oh, do not you?" Mrs. Bennet eyed her balefully. "I suppose you would not say so to my face, but I know how these things are. I am sure that you and Henry have your own plans for Longbourn, and that you look upon it entirely as your own." "Indeed we do not," cried Catherine. "I know that Henry depends on living at Woodston for a very long time, as do I." "So you admit it! You admit that you and Henry think about the time you will have Longbourn! Well, I hope you are happy enough here, when the girls and I are turned out of the house to fend for ourselves when Mr. Bennet is dead." "I am sure that Henry would not turn you out, ma'am." "He says he shall not," said Mrs. Bennet significantly. "However, you will have children of your own, and your little parsonage will not be enough for you, after a few years of marriage, and then see if you turn up your nose at Longbourn." Seeing that Catherine was miserable at being so badly misunderstood by her mother-in-law, Jane gently reminded Mrs. Bennet that Hill would require instructions as to dinner. "Jane, you are my comfort!" cried Mrs. Bennet, rising from her chair. "I depend upon you marrying at least, and perhaps you will be able to provide for your poor mamma and the rest of your sisters." She left the room with a haughty sweep of her skirts. Kitty whispered to Catherine, "You mustn't mind Mamma. Her nerves are very bad, you know." Over the next week, Catherine tried very hard not to mind Mrs. Bennet; indeed, she tried to avoid her, but found it an impossible task. Even when Catherine retreated to a little-used sitting room in the hope of a peaceful half-hour, Mrs. Bennet seemed to find her. It was strange to Catherine that a woman who seemed to have so much antipathy for her would always be seeking her out; alas, Catherine's knowledge of the world, though much improved since her season in Bath, was still imperfect. She did not recognize Mrs. Bennet's hostility as a lack of imagination. The older woman saw Catherine as a rival: not for a lover, but for Longbourn. Matters came to a head when Jane found Catherine hidden away in her bedchamber, weeping uncontrollably over the latest slight. Jane patted her hand, soaked a handkerchief with Cologne, and performed all the usual ceremonies of women when faced with the suffering of a sister. After some more tears and kind ministrations, Catherine was sufficiently calmed for Jane to extract the cause of the younger girl's distress. "I know she is your mother, Jane, and she is Henry's stepmother, and I try to pay her the proper respect," Catherine sniffled, "but I dread being in the same room with her! Even when she does not say anything, she looks at me in the most alarming way!" "Have you told Henry about this?" asked Jane gently. Catherine looked up in alarm. "Oh, no!" she cried. "I cannot tell Henry, because then he would want to take me away, and he is having such a lovely visit with his father. Promise me you will not tell him." "Of course I will not tell him, if that is your wish." Jane was a great deal too scrupulous about her honour to break such a promise; however, the promise had not included her father, and she sought a private conference with Mr. Bennet before the day was out. No one knew what Mr. Bennet said to his wife about the matter, but he was only able to achieve mixed results. Though Mrs. Bennet no longer talked in slighting tones of the next inmates of Longbourn, she continually turned looks of such sullen resentment upon her daughter-in-law that Catherine's naturally cheerful disposition was crushed, to the point that even the distracted Henry had to notice it. It was Henry and Catherine's habit to read a chapter or two of Udolpho before retiring. Henry would pile the pillows in such a way that he could comfortably recline and read aloud, even with his arm round Catherine's waist and her head upon his shoulder. Catherine was surprised how differently Udolpho sounded when Henry read it to her than it did when she read it herself. Emily St. Aubert was a much less romantic figure when Henry abused her each time she fainted (and Catherine had never realized how often Emily did just that), and the Chevalier Valancourt's words of devotion seemed artificial and even laughable when Henry read them aloud in a simpering, affected voice. About a week after her talk with Jane, Catherine lay listening to Henry read. Her head rested on his chest, and he stroked her hair absently. The chapter included a long description of an Alpine range, and Catherine's thoughts soon wandered away. Mrs. Bennet had delivered several withering looks during dinner, although she sat by Catherine and pretended to be friendly when the gentlemen joined them for tea. Catherine had begun to feel that perhaps she was developing Mrs. Bennet's frequently advertised nervous condition, jumping in alarm every time her mother-in-law addressed her. She interrupted Henry in the middle of a sentence to say, "When you inherit Longbourn, must we live here?" A rather startled Henry replied, "Well, yes, I suppose so, but I hope that will not be for many years. Why do you ask?" "No reason." Catherine was already a little embarrassed at her question, and tried to drop the subject. Henry looked down on her keenly. "Do not you like Longbourn?" "Oh, no! It is a very nice house." "Yes, indeed. It is well-built and well-maintained. I particularly like the stonework." "You know what I mean, Henry!" cried Catherine. "I just prefer Woodston, that is all." "Is that all? I wonder," said Henry thoughtfully, "if my stepmother has something to do with this sudden attachment to Woodston." Catherine could not lie to Henry, even to spare his feelings. She nodded sadly. "Has she given you a hard time, love?" "Jane tried to explain it to me. She said that her mother worried for so long about the entailment that she cannot understand that you have no intention of turning her out when you inherit." She looked up at Henry and added desperately, "I like Longbourn, I do! It is a very nice house! But I should not like to live here with Mrs. Bennet, and it would not be fair to her to turn her out when her husband dies." "Well, Cat," said Henry gravely, "let us not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that my father will be the survivor." Catherine looked sharply at Henry, and despite his solemn expression, she knew that the twinkle in his eye meant that he was teasing her, and she giggled. Henry grinned. "I know what we shall do. I have had a letter from Darcy, inviting us to visit him at Pemberley. His sister and her companion will be there, so you shall have female company. What do you say to my scheme?" "Oh, yes! I should very much like to see Pemberley." "I will write to Darcy tomorrow." He kissed her on the forehead. "Shall I put the book away?" he murmured, his lips very close to her ear. "No, finish the chapter." Catherine nestled against Henry's chest, feeling happier than she had since she had come to Longbourn. Nevertheless, soon her thoughts began to stray back to her recent trials, and her countenance once again took on that faraway, haunted look. Then her husband put down the book, put out the candles, and took her in his arms, and Catherine thought no more that night of Mrs. Bennet, or of Longbourn, or of anything but Henry. Continued in Next 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.