‘Among all the great variety that you have known and studied,’ I said, and could not resist a smile.
‘My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover,’ she said sadly.
I felt for her, and thought that the best thing was to laugh her out of her melancholy. For although it was on the surface of it a misfortune, I could not help thinking that James and his sister had both had a very narrow escape.
‘Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel, I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not, for instance, now go to a ball for the world.’ Becoming a thought more serious, and wanting to show her that what she had lost was not so very great after all, I went on, ‘You feel that you have no longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve. No one on whose regard you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could rely on. You feel all this?’
‘No,’ she said, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘I do not. Ought I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one might have supposed.’
Thinking enough time had been spent on such unhappy thoughts, I said, ‘Come, let us explore the woods. It is still spring, whatever our relatives may be doing to upset or vex us, and the day is fine. Who knows, but we may find a hyacinth.’ I turned to Eleanor. ‘Catherine has but lately learned to love a hyacinth.’
‘Then by all means, let us go,’ said Eleanor.
Catherine became calmer throughout the walk, and jumped only twice this evening when Frederick’s name was mentioned by my father, but for the rest of the evening she was tolerably comfortable, and I must hope that by the end of the week she will be able to think of it with no more than a passing sigh.
Wednesday 10 April
The subject of Isabella’s engagement – supposed engagement – to Frederick has been frequently canvassed by Eleanor, Catherine and myself.
‘I cannot believe that Frederick will marry someone as lacking in fortune and consequence as Isabella,’ said Eleanor, as we retired to the library after breakfast, a heavy rain having set in.
‘Even if Frederick was set upon such a path, which I beg leave to doubt, my father will never countenance it,’ I said. ‘He will certainly oppose the connection, and without his blessing it will be difficult for Frederick to marry. He has his soldier’s pay, but that is little enough, and for anything more he still looks to my father.’
‘But I have heard your father say, many times, that he has no interest in money,’ Catherine ventured.
Eleanor and I exchanged glances. It was true that my father frequently said as much, but did not mean it. Why, then, he said it we did not know. To make himself seem more agreeable, perhaps? But why should he want to make himself agreeable to Catherine? It plagued me. As a friend for Eleanor? Yes. But there was something more. As a possible wife for me? But she was no heiress. Was that why he said that money did not count? But why, if money did not count, had he spent so many years throwing heiresses at my head?
‘You must give me warning if your brother is to come to Northanger,’ said Catherine, ‘for indeed, I cannot meet him.’
‘You can be easy on that score, I am sure,’ said Eleanor. ‘Frederick will not have the courage to apply in person for our father’s consent. He has never in his life been less likely to come to Northanger than at the present time.’
Catherine was somewhat mollified, but said, ‘You must tell your father what sort of person Isabella is, for your brother cannot be expected to tell him everything.’
‘He must tell his own story,’ I said.
‘But he will tell only half of it,’ she protested.
‘A quarter would be enough,’ I returned.
‘Perhaps that is why he stays away,’ said Eleanor.
And indeed it seems only too likely.
This mollified Catherine and by and by, when the rain stopped, we walked into the village, where Eleanor wanted to buy some ribbon. The conversation moved on to Catherine’s family and I learned more about her brothers and sisters, all nine of them, and thought what a difference it must make in the family to be ten children instead of three.
‘I have two older brothers besides James,’ said Catherine, ‘and six younger brothers and sisters.’
‘And did you spend your time nursing sick animals when you were younger?’ I asked her.
She looked at me in surprise.
‘No, never. I used to play cricket instead.’
‘You were almost an entire team,’ I said.
‘With Papa, yes, we were, but of course only one team,’ she said. ‘We sometimes played with our neighbours but more usually we made two teams, dividing those who wanted to play into equal numbers, though it was never very equal in other ways because William is always wanting to win and Ned is always thinking about something else – he wants to be an inventor.’
‘And what does he want to invent?’
‘Something to hang the washing out. He is forever thinking of ways to make Mama’s life easier for her, or easier for Papa.’
‘If he ever invents such a marvel you must let me know,’ I said. ‘I am sure I will be able to persuade my father to buy such a machine for the abbey. He has every labour-saving device known and I sometimes think that that is the cause of his bad temper: he has nothing left to improve.’
‘Well, if Ned manages it, I will be sure to tell you,’ she said.
It emerged that she was not particularly fond of music, having learnt the spinet at eight years old and abandoned it at nine; that her sketches were confined to drawings on the backs of envelopes; that she learnt writing and accounts from her father and French from her mother, – ‘but I am not very good at them,’ she artlessly remarked – and that her chief delight as a child had been rolling down the hill at the back of the house.
She drew such a picture of carefree happiness that Eleanor and I were engrossed, for it was a childhood far removed from our own, and although I would like my own children to have a more organized education, I confess I would very much like to see them rolling down the hill at the back of the parsonage, to the scandal – no doubt – of the neighbourhood.
Thursday 11 April
Eleanor and I returned to the subject of Frederick’s absence this morning, whilst Catherine wrote to her brother. We could not decide what Frederick was about.
‘If he truly means to marry Isabella, then he must speak to my father at some point, but he does not show his face,’ I said.
‘I think he stays away because of his engagement,’ said Eleanor. ‘We know he is on leave and there is no need for him to avoid the abbey unless he wishes to avoid our father. He knows how angry Papa will be and he dare not face him.’
‘Frederick has never wanted for courage, whatever else might be his failings: I have been expecting him for days. I cannot understand why he stays away. If he were truly engaged then I think he would come here at once. I think his behaviour is wholly incompatible with the supposed engagement,’ I said. ‘I have wondered at times whether Frederick entered into the engagement for the sole purpose of annoying our father. I have also wondered whether the engagement really exists, except in Isabella’s mind. And even if it exists I wonder whether he will see it through, or will he jilt Isabella, in the way she jilted Morland?’
‘Surely not?’ asked Eleanor, but she did not look convinced. She was thoughtful and then shook her head. ‘It is no good, no matter how much I think about it, it remains a mystery. Frederick does not even write. My father looks for a letter every morning and never finds one.’
‘But Frederick has never been a good correspondent,’ I remarked.
Catherine joining us at that moment, we set out for our walk. Catherine and Eleanor took their sketchpads with them and sat by the lake, as pretty a sight as anyone could wish for, and Eleanor shared her knowledge of art with her willing pupil whilst I entertained them with my conversation. We were enjoying ourselves so much that we lost track of time and were almost late for dinner. Catherine dressed quickly and was downstairs before either Eleanor or myself, a change from the first night when she amused herself by looking through old chests of linen!
Conversation at dinner was the same as always, with my father worrying that Catherine might be bored, and that the sameness of every day’s society and employments would disgust her with the abbey.
‘I wish the Lady Frasers were here,’ he said. ‘They would be good company for you. Such well-behaved, pretty girls. We might have a ball if they were here, eh, Henry? But perhaps we can have one without them. I wonder how many young people are in the neighbourhood. What do you think, Henry, Eleanor? Are there enough for a ball?’
He knew as well as I did that it would be difficult to find seven young people within ten miles at such a dead time of year, when most of our friends and neighbours were in Bath, or visiting relatives.
‘But we must not neglect Miss Morland. We must show her something of the country. The next time you go to Woodston, Henry, we will take you by surprise some day or other.’
I was much taken with the idea and said, ‘An excellent scheme,’ and Catherine looked delighted.
‘And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure?’ I asked. ‘I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be obliged to stay two or three days.’
‘Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is no need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I can answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor’s table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor from Brock-ham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland, never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be with you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may look for us.’
The matter was settled. I withdrew at once and made preparations for my departure, then attended the ladies, booted and greatcoated.
‘Our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for,’ I said by way of apology, ‘and because I am to have the pleasure of your company at Woodston on Wednesday, I must go away directly, two days before I intended it.’
Catherine was gratifyingly disappointed, wanting to know why that should be, and not knowing whether or not I was serious when I said that I must frighten my housekeeper out of her wits, in order to prepare for the visit.
My room in particular will need a great deal of tidying if it is to be fit to show visitors, for I must attempt to get rid of the litter of papers, the tangle of fishing lines and the hairs left by the dogs.
Catherine protested that it was not necessary and that my father himself had said that I must not make any effort; little knowing that he expects me to arrange everything perfectly, whatever he might say.
If it were not already Saturday I might have returned in the meantime, but tomorrow is Sunday and I must not neglect my duties. Poor Langton has taken enough of my sermons these last few weeks, and I must give my parishioners the benefit of my instruction, which of course is more beneficial than Langton’s instruction, since he has two fewer capes to his greatcoat and rides a horse with only three legs; or at least, travels at the pace of such a beast, which is the same thing.
I have given instructions to my housekeeper and therefore between us we hope to make the place tolerable for Wednesday’s visitors.
Sunday 14 April
The weather being fine, the church was full this morning. The Miss Bridges were wearing their finest bonnets, and Miss Lowry had surpassed herself with her flowers. There was a newly stitched hassock to be admired and a new baby to be kissed. Miss Jenson had made me a pot of jam, which her mother declared to be the finest in the country, and I accepted dinner invitations for Monday and Tuesday, having no excuses ready. And so the Jensons are to have the pleasure of my company on Monday and the Viscontis on Tuesday.
Monday 15 April
The parish meeting was like all the parish meetings that have gone before and like all the parish meetings that will come after: a lot of hot air expelled by various worthy burghers on subjects as pressing as the right of way across the long meadow, the state of the path that runs beside the stream and the repair of the wall at the crossroads. The arguments raged, their proposers declaiming with the passion of the orators in the Houses of Parliament, and with glances so angry that a battleground full of generals could not have produced anything finer. But at last the matters were resolved, if not to the pleasure of all, at least to the satisfaction of some. And so the subjects will sleep until the next time they are raised and are canvassed with equal vehemence.
This evening was spent at the Jensons. Mrs Jenson remarked on the masculine nature of the parsonage and the need for a woman’s softening touch, whilst the Miss Jensons sang, played and chattered cheerfully in French, all but beating me over the head with their accomplishments. But alas for the Miss Jensons! My heart is already taken, and by a young lady who neither sings nor plays nor speaks French, at least not particularly well, but who nevertheless amuses me, endears and enchants me.
Tuesday 16 April
Knowing that my father will expect to find everything ready, there was much still to do this morning, and I was not finished with the house and the grounds until well after four. There was just time for me to dress before setting out for the Viscontis.
I had thought I was safe, for the Viscontis have no daughters, but two nieces just happened to be visiting for the day – quite unconnected to my visit, as Mrs Visconti was at great pains to assure me. The two nieces sat meekly in the corner whilst Mrs Visconti spent the evening commiserating with any poor bachelor who led a lonely existence in his solitary abode, without the benefit of a pretty wife. On many occasions I changed the subject, but she defeated me each time, showing her true Latin heritage, for whatever diversions I created, I discovered that all roads led to Rome: no matter where each conversation began, it ended relentlessly at the need of an established bachelor to take a wife.
Mrs Jenson was right about one thing, however: the rectory is very much a man’s domain. I have my dogs and my guns, my books and my fishing-rods, but there is a lack of anything softer. Eleanor has tried, and her prettily painted firescreen sits in the library, whilst her samplers adorn the walls, but the place would be enlivened by yards of muslin and, yes, I confess it, by Catherine sitting on the swing in the garden, her face a picture as she is transported to all the horrors of an Italian castle by Mrs Radcliffe.
I hope her adventures in the abbey have not put her off such fare, for she was very ashamed – as if it were the end of the world – when I discovered her thoughts about my father. To be sure, I was shocked at first, but on reflection I find that I like that about her. Not for me the unthinking, unfeeling woman who wears a halo of common sense and sees nothing in an abbey but an old building with inconvenient passages. Far rather would I have a
young lady whose head is in the clouds, when those clouds are filled with such startling adventures.
Wednesday 17 April
I woke early, surprised at how eager I felt to show Catherine my home. I exercised the dogs and attended to business, looking at the clock more than once in an effort to make the hands turn faster, but at last my guests arrived, and exactly when they could be reasonably looked for! I hastened out to the carriage and was delighted to see Catherine’s expression as she ran her eyes over the front of the parsonage, for it was easy to see how well she liked it. As the carriage rolled to a halt I handed Catherine out, taking pleasure in her touch, and the smallness of her fingers in mine. She looked up at me, smiled and blushed, and I thought she had never looked prettier. Then she petted Caesar, who gambolled around in the way only a large Newfoundland puppy can do, and laughed at the terriers as they ran around in circles. A good start!
We had scarcely gone inside, however, when my father started interrogating her on her view of the parsonage.
‘It is not much, Miss Morland, not at all what you are used to, but not too bad in its way, I think?’ he asked.
She, poor creature, was too overawed by his attentions to say very much, but her eyes said all that needed to be said, at least to me: that she thought it the most agreeable house in the world. But my father did not perceive her pleasure, and went on asking for compliments in the manner of a beauty desiring constant flattery. Poor Catherine!
On he went, saying it was nothing compared to Fullerton or Northanger but, considered as a mere parsonage, it was not altogether bad. By then, Catherine was luckily too much taken up with looking round the room to pay him much attention. His talk of throwing out a bow in one breath and then objecting to his own suggestion by saying he detested such things in another, passed her by.