Chapter Eighteen Back to Previous Chapter Henry Tilney was ever a student of human nature, and breakfast at Pemberley the next morning offered a fascinating selection of subjects. Darcy, dressed in his best green coat, fitted riding breeches, and polished top-boots, was in excellent spirits; Bingley was inattentive, a dreamy smile upon his face; Caroline directed forced smiles at Darcy but had little to say; and Catherine and Georgiana chatted gaily, seemingly unaware of the emotional currents swirling about them. Hurst, as usual, paid more attention to his food than to his companions. "What do you ladies have planned for this morning?" Darcy asked Catherine and Georgiana. Catherine looked at Georgiana expectantly. The younger girl blushed when she realized that she was the center of attention at the table. "I hoped to practice on my new pianoforte," she said shyly. "Then I place myself under your command, my sweet," said Henry, bowing in Catherine's direction. "It is a very fine morning. Would you like to ride about the grounds?" Catherine's face lit with pleasure, and Georgiana told her, "You may ride my mare. I dare say she needs the exercise." "I am off to the stables myself," said Darcy. "I shall see that the grooms are instructed to saddle the mare for you, Mrs. Tilney, and to provide anything that you need." "I thank you, sir. But I do wish--" Catherine hesitated. Darcy smiled at her encouragingly. "Yes, what is it? You need not be afraid to speak." "Oh, I am not afraid," she said. "But I wish that you would call me Catherine, as Georgiana does. You and Henry are such particular friends, and it sounds so formal to hear you always call me Mrs. Tilney! Mr. Bingley calls me Catherine," she added. "Hmm?" said Bingley, waking from his reverie upon hearing his name. "Beg pardon, Cathy, I did not attend." "You see?" cried Catherine triumphantly. Darcy laughed. "Well, I shall not call you 'Cathy,' as I haven't Bingley's dashing ways. But if you wish it, Catherine, I shall address you by your Christian name." Catherine and Georgiana were both all smiles and shining eyes. Miss Bingley and her sister exchanged a glance, and Caroline lifted her nose into the air and sniffed audibly. Darcy glanced at Miss Bingley, his eyebrows raised; her face grew red, and she looked away. Darcy rose from the table. "As much as it pains me to tear myself away from such charming company," he said with a smile at his sister and her friend, "I must be off. I bid you all good morning." "Riding out so soon after your arrival, Darcy?" Henry asked him, a twinkle in his brown eyes. "To anywhere in particular? I am sure that nothing could take you from your guests save an appointment of great significance." Darcy's lips twitched. "I have many duties that must be attended to, Tilney." "Ah, yes, duties. Duty is a fine thing, and certainly should be tended. Your--tenants--will admire the promptness with which you fulfill these duties, to be sure." "I hope they may," said Darcy with a bow. "I am persuaded that they will admire your exquisite tailoring as well. Are those boots new?" Darcy was very near laughter now, so he did not answer, but only shook his head as he left the room, clapping Henry's shoulder as he passed. Henry, to his credit, only flinched slightly under the additional pressure that Darcy inflicted with the gesture. When he was gone, Miss Bingley regained her natural sense of superiority. "My dear Mrs. Tilney," she crooned, "I know you are accustomed to country manners, and I feel it incumbent upon me to guide you in the way to go on among more worldly company." Catherine said nothing, but smiled politely. Caroline continued, "Mr. Darcy was too genteel to say so, but it is not quite proper for him to address his friend's wife by her Christian name." "Perhaps not," said Catherine agreeably, "but Henry and Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley have known one another for so long that they are very much like--brothers." Henry, who was drinking his tea, managed not to choke upon it. Miss Bingley frowned. Catherine continued, "It would be entirely proper for my husband's brother to address me so familiarly--do not you agree?" "Oh, certainly," said Miss Bingley coolly. "But Mr. Darcy and Mr. Tilney, however particular their friendship, are not really brothers. I confess that Charles's manners are rather too easy, but Mr. Darcy is not one to forget the proprieties." "That is very true. Yet Mr. Darcy agreed to call me by my Christian name. Clearly, he looks upon Henry as being a brother--or very close to it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must change into my riding habit. Good morning to you." Catherine left the breakfast parlour, her head held high and an admiring Georgiana trailing in her wake. Henry finished his breakfast, bid the remaining guests a good morning, and went to the chamber he shared with Catherine. She was in the process of donning her habit, and had only one arm in the sleeve; nevertheless, Henry seized her and kissed her with great enthusiasm. Catherine emerged from his embrace slightly flushed, but smiling. "What was that for?" "For being your adorable self." "I am myself every day, Henry." "Then I must kiss you every day." "You already do." Henry, unable to help himself, kissed her again, and left her to her toilette while he went to see about their horses. The grooms had obeyed Darcy's commands with great promptitude. A handsome chestnut mare, outfitted with a gleaming sidesaddle, was waiting outside, along with Henry's own saddle-horse. To his surprise, Darcy had not yet departed, but was just mounting his horse. "I expected that you would be halfway to Lambton by now," Henry greeted his friend. "I was just about to leave." "Thank you for seeing to our horses. Catherine will be along in a moment; shall we go with you?" Darcy hesitated. "I think today it would be best if I went alone. I hope you do not mind." Henry frowned. "No, I do not mind, but--so soon, Darcy? Is that wise?" It was his friend's turn to frown; though comprehension dawned in a moment. "No, no--I shall make no proposals today. I believe I still have some more work to do in that quarter. I have already suffered mortification at your sister's hands," he added with a wry smile. "I hope, if nothing else, that I have learned to choose my moment rather better." Henry laughed. "Godspeed to you then, Darcy!" he said as Catherine emerged from the house, the trailing skirt of her habit draped over one arm. Darcy tipped his hat to her, then turned his horse and rode away. "Is he going to call on Lizzy?" asked Catherine as Henry helped her into the saddle. "Yes, but you must not tease poor Miss Bingley about it." Catherine frowned as they cantered away from the house. "I am very fond of Mr. Bingley, but I really have not patience with his sisters! It is hard to believe that they are related!" She rode in silence for a moment, her brow creased in concentration. Finally she said, "Henry, do you think it possible that Mr. Bingley was kidnapped from his true family, and adopted, as you were?" "Alas, I fear that one Gothic romance per circle of friends is the best we can hope for." "I suppose you are right," she sighed, quite disappointed. They rode into the woods and ascended to the higher grounds, stopping when they gained the top of the hill. Catherine looked out over the valley and the opposite hills with the long range of woods overspreading them. "I know that such a view is not picturesque," she said earnestly, "but I must confess that I find it very pleasant, and all the green is most refreshing on a warm day." "It is a pleasant view, my sweet, but the artist's eye is too nice for such simple pleasures. It demands foregrounds, distances, and second distances; side-screens and perspectives; lights and shades." "Oh, I understand you completely; yet I find many attractive objects within my view here." Henry observed to himself that Catherine was by far the most attractive object in his view, but merely suggested that they continue their ride round the park. They made a descent among hanging woods to the edge of the water in one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Rather than take the horses through the narrow pass, they turned back toward the house. Catherine's looked back longingly. "I should like to come back here for a walk, Henry! I like the looks of that path! It is so very gloomy!" Henry smiled. "Very well. We shall endeavour to do so before our visit ends." They wound their way around the park for some time, letting the horses walk slowly as they took great pleasure in all the beauties of the Pemberley estate; suddenly, their attention was claimed by the sound of pounding hoofbeats, and they turned to see Darcy riding toward them at a gallop. "Tilney!" he cried, reining up as he reached them. "You must go to Lambton directly." "Has something happened to my sister?" cried Henry in alarm. "Not Elizabeth," said Darcy. "Lydia has eloped with Wickham. Elizabeth had word in a letter from Jane just as I arrived." Catherine cried out in dismay. Henry asked in a quiet, steady voice, "They are gone to Scotland?" Darcy's eyes were compassionate as they met his friend's. "No, not Scotland. The letter said that they have been traced as far as the London road." "But how could they be married in London without Mr. Bennet's permission?" asked Catherine. "Lydia is not of age!" "Forgive me, Catherine," said Darcy. "I do not like to speak of such things in your presence, but I am well acquainted with Wickham's character. It would not surprise me if he never intended to marry Lydia." "Then he must be a very wicked man indeed," cried Catherine. "I have never met Lydia, but I cannot believe that she could be so bad as to run away with a man who did not mean to marry her!" "Lydia would not be the first young lady that Wickham has beguiled," said Darcy. Catherine blushed as she realized his meaning. "Tilney, are you able to ride to Lambton?" Darcy asked him gently. "Shall I call the carriage for you?" "I can ride," said Henry. His eyes had lost all traces of their usual good humour, and his jaw was set firmly. "Very well. Catherine, may I escort you back to the house?" "I think I should go with Henry," said Catherine. Henry had appeared to be struggling with a decision since Darcy had told him about Lydia's elopement, but when he looked up, the struggle was over. "Yes, Catherine will come with me to Lambton. Thank you, Darcy." "Then you should be off," said Darcy. "Send word, or come back yourself." He hesitated, and then added, "God bless you. My thoughts are with you." He gripped Henry's hand and turned his horse back toward Pemberley. Henry and Catherine were immediately admitted to the Gardiners' lodgings. Henry went to his sister and embraced her. "I am so glad that you are here, Henry," said Elizabeth as she clung to him. "I suppose Mr. Darcy told you of our troubles?" "He did. I only wonder that my father has not written to me himself." Elizabeth smiled wanly. "You will soon learn that he is a most negligent and dilatory correspondent. That he has not informed you of this sad affair does not surprise me at all. Jane writes that is gone to London with Colonel Forster." "May I see the letters?" Elizabeth handed Henry two letters. He read through the first one quickly, and then the second with closer attention. "It seems that we must own ourselves greatly in Colonel Forster's debt," he said when he was finished. "He has done much of the ground work, tracing them as far as Clapham and then onto the London road. They are probably in town; I can think of nowhere else that they could be so well concealed. Do you return to Longbourn?" "Yes, as soon as can be." "Very well. Catherine and I will accompany you, if we may," he added, turning to Mr. Gardiner. "Of course," said Mr. Gardiner. "I expected you would." He drew Henry aside. "We shall see the ladies back to Longbourn, and then you and I can travel on to London to find my brother." "And Wickham," said Henry in a low tone that made Mr. Gardiner look at him more closely. Henry and Catherine returned to Pemberley within the hour to pack their things. Darcy was quietly helpful, and soon the Tilneys and their baggage were loaded into a chaise and four and the coachman instructed to carry them to Lambton without delay. "This cannot be kept secret long," Henry said to Darcy as he helped Catherine into the carriage. "Nevertheless, I would not see my family's business discussed openly." "You may depend upon me," Darcy replied. "I shall not speak of it to the others." "Thank you," said Henry. "Thank you for everything. I hope that Catherine and I can return to Pemberley under happier circumstances. I hope that--" he hesitated, and held out his hand. "Good-bye, Darcy." "Tilney," said Darcy in a low, urgent voice. "Do nothing rash. I know that you will try to find Wickham, but--listen to me, my friend. Do nothing until you have spoken to me. I shall be in contact with you soon." Henry observed his friend's face carefully. "Do you have an idea of their whereabouts?" "I do not," Darcy replied. "But I shall make enquiries amongst certain parties. Trust in me, Tilney, and do nothing rash. You are a married man, and have Catherine to think of. Please, wait until you hear from me." Henry nodded, shook Darcy's hand, and climbed into the chaise. Mr. Gardiner's coachman had raised the top of the carriage, for which they were all grateful, having lost any taste for sight-seeing. Elizabeth sat between her aunt and Catherine, and Henry sat opposite with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth's eyes were still red, and she clutched a handkerchief; Catherine held her hand and tried to say consoling things, but her own distress was so great that she could not provide her sister with much comfort. They talked over the affair tirelessly as they traveled, however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures by its repeated discussion. Catherine and the Gardiners were inclined to share Jane's dependence on whatever honour Wickham still possessed to bring the affair to a satisfactory conclusion. Elizabeth could not be so sanguine; she spoke bitterly of Lydia's wildness and indifferent education, and recounted Wickham's behaviour toward Mr. Darcy--a story new to Catherine, and one that shocked her into wide-eyed silence. "Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is," said Elizabeth, her eyes brimming with tears. "We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating." Henry did not join in the discussion, but stared out the window, a new coldness in his eyes that gave Catherine great private pain. She watched him in unhappy confusion, no more able to comfort him than she had been able to comfort Elizabeth. They traveled on as long as there was daylight, but as the sun dropped slowly behind the horizon and the shadows began to grow, they stopped at an inn and engaged rooms for the night. Henry changed into his nightshirt, absently leaving items of clothing lying about the cramped chamber. Catherine picked up behind him without comment or censure. She was a little afraid of this hard-eyed Henry who spoke to her, not unkindly, but in uncharacteristically terse sentences, and longed for the return of the laughing, teasing man she had married. Not knowing what else to do, she brought forth a volume of Udolpho. "Shall we read a chapter, Henry?" "Forgive me, Cat. I am not inclined to enjoy it tonight. We should be abed in any event; we must rise early tomorrow if we are to arrive at Longbourn before dark." He kissed her on the forehead, put out the candle, and lay down. Catherine stood for a moment holding the book. Finally she put it down and climbed into bed. The tears that had been close to the surface since they left Derbyshire brimmed over, and she turned on her side away from Henry. She lay rigid, desperately unhappy and utterly unable to sleep. After a time, Henry stirred, and she felt him moving closer to her. His arm slid around her waist; a simple gesture, but one that allowed the fear and anxiety to leave her body in a warm rush. She laced her fingers through his, taking comfort from the warm weight of him behind her and the understanding that the Henry she loved was not lost forever. They traveled as expeditiously as possible, and reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. "It is a comfort to me," said Elizabeth as the carriage turned up the drive, "that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. I dare say she has taken all the concerns of the household upon herself." They were met upon arrival by the Gardiner children, who jumped happily upon their parents and Elizabeth and stared shyly at Henry. They seemed to take an instant liking to Catherine, who was accustomed to small children and spoke to them kindly. Elizabeth had hastily kissed the children and run into the vestibule, and was talking with Jane. Henry went in after her and saw that Elizabeth's prediction was correct. Jane appeared pale and fatigued, but she forced a smile when she saw Henry. "How glad I am that you have come!" she cried, embracing him. "My mother has been asking for you, and Lizzy, and Mr. Gardiner." They all repaired to Mrs. Bennet's apartment, where she received them exactly as might be expected: with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage; blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must be principally owing. "But now you are here, brother. I know you will be kind to us. And Henry! You must go after your father," she sobbed, clinging to Henry's hand. "I know he will fight Wickham, and he will be killed!" "Mr. Gardiner and I mean to go to London tomorrow, ma'am," replied Henry. "We will do everything in our power to recover Lydia." "Oh, my dear boy!" cried Mrs. Bennet. "That is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And tell my dear Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, Henry, how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all." "I believe that there are more important matters to settle than Lydia's wedding clothes, ma'am." "That is what I just said," replied Mrs. Bennet fretfully. "We will get them after she is married. And, above all things, you must keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in--that I am frightened out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me; such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. Your father must not be allowed to fight Wickham! If anyone is to fight Wickham, it is you. You are by far the properest person." Catherine had stayed quietly behind Henry, not wishing to attract undue attention from her mother-in-law; but at this last careless sentence, her eyes grew wide, and she looked sharply at Henry, as one who has at last understood a difficult puzzle. "My dear Fanny," cried Mr. Gardiner impatiently. "You must cease all this talk of duels. I am sure that we will be able to help Lydia without resort to such terrific ideas." Mrs. Bennet, however, was inconsolable, and presently they left her to the kind ministrations of the housekeeper. The others went downstairs to the dining parlour, but Catherine pulled Henry into an empty sitting-room. "What is it, Catherine?" Henry's voice was rather sharper than usual. She hesitated, wrung her hands, and finally blurted out, "I want you to promise me that you will not fight a duel with Wickham." Henry blinked in surprise. "You should not listen to Mrs. Bennet," he said gently. "She is distraught, and knows not what she says." "Nevertheless," said Catherine stubbornly, "I want you to promise me." Henry opened his mouth as though to speak, but said nothing. Catherine burst into tears, turned away, and buried her face in her hands. "Cat," said Henry brokenly, "what can I do? She is my sister, and she is only sixteen!" Catherine whirled around, her face contorted and wet with tears. "What does that signify? I was only seventeen when I left home for the first time, and I knew better than to elope with a man such as Wickham, or any man at all! How has such a sister a greater claim upon you than your wife?" "Of course she has not a greater claim upon me!" "Then promise me!" Greater men than Henry Tilney have surrendered when faced with the tears of a beloved woman. "Very well," he said at last. "I promise that I shall not fight a duel with Wickham. Do not cry, my love." He pulled her into his arms and held her close as she wept. "You know, Cat," he said when her sobs had subsided, "really I should consider myself the injured party in this dispute. You can have no opinion of my marksmanship if you are so convinced that Wickham would kill me in a duel." Catherine trembled, and for a moment Henry thought she had once more begun to weep; but when she raised her head to look at him, she was smiling. "You sound like yourself again. I have been so frightened when you spoke to me the past two days! You seemed so angry!" "I was angry; I am still; but not with you." He toyed with an errant curl that had escaped the confines of her lace cap. "I have not been so angry since I learned that General Tilney had sent you away from Northanger." "When you came to Fullerton a few days later, I thought you were like a hero in a novel." She smiled up at him mistily. "I cannot begrudge Lydia her champion. However," she added hastily, "that does not release you from your promise!" "No, my sweet." He kissed her. "You will find that I always keep my promises." "I know you do. You promised that we would be married, even when the General would not give his consent, and here we are." She wiped her eyes with her fingers. Henry immediately produced his handkerchief, and she put it to use. After a moment she asked, "Will you take me to London with you?" "You would be a comfort to me, without a doubt; but I would have you stay here at Longbourn and render what assistance you can to Jane and Lizzy." "Very well, Henry. I will stay, if you wish it, and be of use if I can." She wiped her eyes again and sighed. "I should probably bathe my eyes before dinner." They went into the passage, and Henry turned toward the stairs, but Catherine called him back. "Thank you," she said softly. Henry smiled, and touched her cheek, and left her. The next day's mail brought no word from Mr. Bennet, and Henry began to understand Elizabeth's comments about their father's negligence in correspondence. Even if Mr. Bennet had no pleasing intelligence to send, Henry would have been glad to be certain of that. Once the mail had been brought, there was no longer any reason to tarry. Henry kissed his sisters, and last of all Catherine, and climbed into the post-chaise. He lowered the glass, and Catherine reached up to clasp his hand. "Remember your promise," she said. "I shall, my sweet. Good-bye." The postilion leapt into the saddle, and the chaise rumbled down the drive. As they turned onto the road, Henry saw Catherine standing in the drive, a white handkerchief fluttering in her hand, but she was soon lost from his sight. 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.