There Must Be Murder (12 page)

“Nor I, my sweet; but they may be family soon
enough, if my father persists in his courtship.”

She lifted her head and looked up at him in
alarm. “I forgot. Now that you have your intelligence, what will
you say to General Tilney?”

Henry sighed and shook his head. “I do not know.
I am not sure I have the right to tell him anything. His happiness
is not in my keeping, and it would not be right to prevent it.”

The maidservant knocked on the door at that
moment, and they went to have their dinner and talk of happier
things.

By prearrangement, the Tilneys were to meet the
Whitings in Milsom-street the next morning and proceed to the
pump-room. Accordingly, Henry and Catherine set out from
Pulteney-street, leaving behind a very sad MacGuffin, who had come
to consider himself an indispensable part of any expedition out of
doors. Fond as the Tilneys were of their pet, he could not go to
the pump-room, so they left him with much petting and extravagant
promises of an afternoon walk. MacGuffin lay by the fire as they
departed, his chin resting on his paws and his eyes
reproachful.

As they passed through Laura-place and into
Argyle-street, there was a commotion on the pavement ahead of them:
exclamations of surprise, laughter, heads craning for a better
view. At last they saw the object of this public amusement, one
that astonished them both.

General Tilney stood on the pavement, holding a
lead with Lady Beauclerk’s cat on the end of it. Unlike MacGuffin,
or dogs in general, Lady Josephine did not eagerly pull on the
lead, seeking out the next interesting-smelling thing in her path;
she meandered, she leapt up on posts and stoops, and otherwise made
little progress. At the present moment she sat on her haunches in
the middle of the pavement, cleaning her paw very carefully,
stretching her claws apart so that her tongue could reach every
place between them; she was fully absorbed in her task, and took no
notice of either the general or the leering crowd.

General Tilney stood waiting, his posture ramrod
straight, his expression dignified and proud, as though he were an
ensign in formation. Catherine had to bite her tongue quite hard to
keep from laughing, feeling herself at the same time to be an
undutiful daughter. She glanced at Henry; besides a slight crease
in his brow, he did not seem to think his father’s behavior odd.
Growing up in a military family had taught him to control his
expression.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “I see you have
called upon Lady Beauclerk. May I inquire after her health?”

“She was very well when I left her,” said the
general stiffly.

“I am glad to hear it. Pray convey my
compliments, and Catherine’s, too,” he added, looking down at
her.

Catherine said, “Oh, yes, sir, if you
please.”

“Very well.”

Lady Josephine finished her toilette, stood,
stretched, and finally took notice of her attendant. She wound
herself around his legs, rubbing against them and purring loudly.
The briefest expression of something like revulsion crossed the
general’s face. “I believe Lord and Lady Whiting are waiting for
you in Milsom-street,” he said.

“Yes, we are to meet by appointment. Good day,
sir.”

“Good day, Henry, Mrs. Tilney.” He bowed, but as
Lady Josephine was still rubbing against his legs, he made an
awkward job of it.

They continued on their way down Argyle-street.
Catherine glanced up at Henry, wondering what she might say; she
judged it best to let him start any conversation, but he seemed
lost in thought.

The General’s servant showed them into the
sitting-room; his lordship received them there and sent the servant
to fetch her ladyship, preparing them with a murmured, “We have had
some bad news.”

Eleanor rushed into the room and went to Henry
directly. “My father told me this morning that he intends to make
Lady Beauclerk an offer. You must speak to the him, Henry,” she
said. “You must tell him what Matthew learned from the maidservant.
It is the only chance we have to stop this.”

“I fear it is too late for that. Depend upon it,
Eleanor, when a man humiliates himself in public for the sake of a
woman, he is too much in love to stop for worldly reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

Henry told the Whitings what he and Catherine
had seen in Argyle-street. His lordship seemed to find it a very
good joke, but a look at his wife’s face stopped his laughter. He
did, however, exchange a covert, sympathetic smile with
Catherine.

Eleanor sat as if stunned. “You are right,
Henry; it is too late. We must consider this settled. They must be.
. . engaged. How strange to talk of one’s father as engaged! And
what a mother-in-law we shall have! But at least we have the
comfort of knowing that there is affection in the match. There must
be.”

“Indeed. We must take our comfort where we can
find it.”

“I cannot help thinking of my poor mother,” said
Eleanor quietly. After a moment, she roused herself and smiled at
them. “Well, as there is nothing else to be done, we must make the
best of it. Shall we go to the pump-room, then, and let all of Bath
gossip about our family behind our backs?”

The Whitings led the way down Milsom-street
toward the pump-room, and Henry and Catherine walked a little
behind. The day was fine, and being young and in Bath and the
happiness of walking on Henry’s arm put Catherine in high spirits
that could not be dampened even by General Tilney’s intended
nuptials. She asked Henry, “Did you ever humiliate yourself for
me?”

“No, I do not think so; other than a fist-fight
with John Thorpe outside the Upper Rooms when he said something
about you that I did not quite like.”

“Henry! You did not!” A closer look at his
expression let her know he had not, and she laughed in her relief;
though a little something else would persist; a feeling that she
might like Henry to have engaged in fisticuffs with John Thorpe for
her honor.

Henry, with that disconcerting habit he had of
guessing her thoughts, said, “Would you like that, my sweet?”

She blushed, but said, “No, I should not like
it. Neither John Thorpe nor his opinion mean anything to me.”

“Very sensibly said.”

“—but not very romantic.”

“Everyday life provides little in the way of
romance, Cat; we must make our own.” He gave her a significant look
and a smile that made her shiver pleasantly.

The pump-room was pleasantly crowded with all
those in Bath who had come to see and be seen. They drank their
water, and Henry and Lord Whiting joined a group of men discussing
politics and the news of the day, while Eleanor and Catherine
circled the room arm in arm. They drew not a few appreciative
glances, being young and pretty and fashionably dressed; Eleanor’s
rank did not discourage this appreciation, Bath being a place where
rank is given consideration—perhaps more than its due.

They met some women of Eleanor’s acquaintance,
and stood comfortably chatting when a familiar voice behind her
gave Catherine a start.

“Mrs. Tilney,” Sir Philip Beauclerk murmured in
a low, confidential voice meant only for her ear. “It is not often
that I find you without your keeper.”

“I am sure I do not understand you, sir.”

“Fear not, madam; your husband is across the
room, and engaged. Your sister is occupied; you can slip away very
easily.”

Catherine had no notion of “slipping away” with
Sir Philip, but she knew, with a sinking feeling, that he must be
told of his misapprehension, and this was the best opportunity she
was likely to have. Eleanor looked at her at that moment, looked at
Sir Philip, and then back at Catherine, her brow creased in
concern. Catherine nodded and smiled to send a message that all was
well, and Eleanor returned the nod, though not the smile.

Sir Philip took her elbow and steered her away
from the chattering ladies. “Your sister approves, then? She in
your confidence?”

He would have steered her toward the door, but
Catherine said, “I would stay in the pump-room, sir.”

He glanced over to the part of the room where
Henry stood, and said, “If you insist, madam; but I had hoped for a
private audience.”

“We do not need privacy, sir, for what I have to
say.” He gazed at her steadily, and Catherine discovered that her
carefully prepared speech from Mrs. Radcliffe had abandoned her.
“I—that is—”

Sir Philip’s eyes flicked somewhere behind her,
and she knew, without looking, that Henry was there; and the
knowledge of that was like a burst of warmth within her.

“Too late,” said Sir Philip, confirming her
guess. “Your watchdog has sniffed us out, and stands ready to
interfere, as always.”

Catherine turned then, and met Henry’s eye. She
smiled, and he smiled in return, and nodded to her encouragingly,
but did not approach. He knew that Catherine wished to address the
problem herself, but he was there if she needed him. Henry was so
kind, and sensible, and dependable! That thought cheered her and at
the same time made her angry.
How could Sir Philip think
that—?
She turned back to him, and found she no longer needed
to borrow Mrs. Radcliffe’s words; her own would do.

“My husband only has ‘interfered,’ as you put
it, because I asked him to; because I could see that you had formed
certain ideas—I know little of the world or of flirtation, sir, and
I believe you have misunderstood what only was meant as civility. I
have hinted, but I see now that only plain speaking will do. Thus I
say to you as plainly as I can, sir, that I have no intention of
being your latest amusement. I am a married woman, and I shall keep
my vows.”

Sir Philip’s eyes flicked again to Henry.
“Madam, I am familiar with the methods that General Tilney employs
with his family. If you have been coerced—”

“General Tilney is different from Henry. I have
always been a little afraid of the general, but I could never be
afraid of Henry. He has all my confidence, and all my affection.”
The last sentence was said with such warmth of expression and such
a smile that could leave no man in doubt that Catherine’s words
were sincere.

Sir Philip looked at Henry and said, “You have a
faithful little wife, Tilney, and I give you joy of her.”

Only then did Henry approach them. “I thank you,
Beauclerk; I have great joy of her, I assure you.” He took
Catherine’s hand and raised it to his lips.

“Forgive me, madam,” said Sir Philip. “I hope my
misapprehension has not caused you undue distress.”

“Oh, no,” said Catherine, who in the flush of
her success could not imagine ever feeling distressed again. “I am
glad that we understand one another at last.”

“Yes; at last.” He bowed to her, nodded to
Henry, and left the pump-room.