There Must Be Murder (2 page)

Catherine did not immediately notice Henry’s
entrance. She lay upon the sofa in an attitude that even the most
generous observer might consider unladylike: her chin rested upon
her hands, which were crossed over the arm of the sofa, and a
slippered foot extended carelessly from a froth of petticoats as
she gazed out of one of the big windows towards the little cottage
beyond the orchard. She had been reading, but the forgotten book
had dropped to the floor, where Ruby Begonia, the terrier most
attached to Catherine, slept in a patch of sunlight. Henry wondered
what made her smile so; his vanity did not extend to imagining that
she was thinking of him.

He said her name; she started, and then laughed.
“You have caught me daydreaming!” Ruby Begonia yawned, stretched,
and jumped up to run to her master to have her ears scratched.

Catherine made as if to sit up, but he said,
“Nay, my sweet, stay as you are. I should hate to lose sight of
such a pretty ankle.”

“Henry!” she exclaimed in austere tones as she
sat up and arranged her skirts demurely. She was accustomed to his
teasing, but not yet to the liberties that a husband might
take.

“Well, it is a very pretty ankle; but I suppose
your scruples are as they should be. But that is not why I looked
for you. The post has just arrived, including a letter from
Naughton.” Mr. Naughton was Henry’s curate. They had been fellows
together at Oxford until Henry took over the Woodston living. Mr.
Naughton was content with the academic life, and had no thought of
marriage; however, he had a widowed mother and unmarried sister to
help support, and was happy to receive a yearly stipend in return
for riding to Woodston on Sundays when the rector could not be
present. “He is happy to take Sunday services for as long as
necessary, so we are free to pursue our scheme for Bath.”

“Delightful! How soon can we leave?”

“As soon as you can pack your trunks. Matthew is
readying the curricle, but I shall procure a chaise to carry us and
our luggage.”

Catherine bent to scoop the little terrier into
her lap. “May I bring Ruby Begonia?”

“She will be happier here in the country, I
think, where there are squirrels and rabbits to chase, but
MacGuffin would enjoy a visit to Bath. The waters might do him
good; he is looking a trifle gouty lately, do not you think?”

“By all means let us bring MacGuffin. Dove says
that he pines when you go away without him. Have my trunks sent up
to my dressing-room, and I shall begin packing directly.” With the
assistance of Mrs. Dove, the housekeeper, Catherine’s new
wedding-clothes were wrapped in tissue and folded into the trunks,
and the chaise, loaded with their luggage and a sleepy Newfoundland
dog, was ready to carry them to Bath the following morning. Matthew
had left at dawn, driving Henry’s curricle, and would be in Bath to
receive them.

A pair of pistols, primed and loaded, hung
inside the chaise where Henry could easily reach them. The presence
of these firearms did not unsettle Catherine in the least; indeed,
she experienced a private shiver of delight over the idea of being
waylaid by highwaymen. Fortunately for Henry, who had no share in
that particular species of delight, the journey was uneventful, and
they entered Bath early in the afternoon.

Catherine found the sights, sounds, and smells
of the city as overwhelming and delightful as they had been the
first time she had entered Bath, and she looked about her with an
eager smile, trying to take it all in. Henry watched her with a
smile of his own, finding new delights in Bath as seen through his
beloved’s eyes. Even MacGuffin caught their excitement and heaved
himself to his feet, from which height he could see through the
side glasses of the chaise as easily as his master and
mistress.

Matthew awaited them at a coaching-inn near the
Abbey courtyard, and they were quickly established in a private
room. After refreshing himself with hot tea and sandwiches, Henry
set out to secure lodgings, and by nightfall the Tilneys were in
possession of first-floor lodgings in one of the stately houses of
Pulteney-street. The large sitting-room looked down over the street
and the wide pavements; there was another room comfortably fitted
out as a dining parlor, and a bedchamber with a view over Bathwick.
There was a dressing room for each of them, and the maidservant was
already unpacking Catherine’s trunk and looking askance at the
Newfoundland, who took a quietly polite interest in the
proceedings.

“Come away from there, Mac,” said Catherine. “Do
not drool on my gowns. Come and lie here on your blanket, there’s a
good lad.” She managed to coax him away from the trunks with the
help of a good fire in the sitting-room, before which the
Newfoundland settled himself peacefully.

“There is a ball at the Lower Rooms tomorrow,”
said Henry, who was reading the paper. “I suppose you must visit
all the shops before we make our appearance.”

“Oh, no, not all the shops; Papa was so generous
with my wedding-clothes that I have plenty to wear.”

Despite such sartorial riches, Catherine did
find herself in need of a few indispensible items the next day; and
Henry, all good nature, escorted her to Bond-street and
Milsom-street, where the best shops in Bath were located.

Catherine noticed Henry look up at the windows
of the lodgings he had engaged for his family the previous winter.
His expression was inscrutable; he was not a man to brood, but
Catherine sensed that Henry’s relationship with General Tilney had
none of the easy affection of hers with Mr. Morland.

“Would you have preferred to take lodgings here
on Milsom-street?” she asked him.

“No, my sweet; my taste runs to the newer parts
of Bath. I would have preferred to take lodgings on Pulteney-street
last year, but General Tilney particularly wanted Milsom-street.
Have you everything you need? The time for your public debut of the
season approaches.”

They arrived at the Lower Rooms as the minuets
were ending. The season was full, and the crowd ringing the dance
floor numerous; the last couple retired, and the throng pushed onto
the dance floor, forming sets for the country dances to follow. As
Henry guided Catherine expertly through the mob, the ebb and flow
of humanity brought them suddenly face-to-face with the master of
the ceremonies.

“Mr. Tilney!” he cried. “I am delighted that you
have returned to Bath, sir. And. . . Miss Morland, is it?”

“You see before you the success of your
endeavors, Mr. King,” said Henry. “This is Mrs. Tilney, who was
Miss Morland when you introduced me to her last year. I dare say
you have made a few matches in your time, and here is one more to
add to your list.”

“Indeed I have made a fair few matches,” said
Mr. King, “though my exertions are not entirely directed toward
such permanent arrangements. I felicitate you, Mr. Tilney; and give
you joy, madam. Pray forgive me, but I must give directions to the
musicians. The country dances will begin momentarily.”

Henry took Catherine’s hand and led her to one
of the sets that were forming. Mr. King announced that the dance
would be “Haste to the Wedding,” and the dancers swept into motion
as the music began.

“A fitting choice,” said Henry. “This is our
first dance as a married couple, Cat. We are proof of the parallel
between marriage and a country dance. From the vantage point of
being an old married man of nearly two months, I flatter myself
that the metaphor holds up admirably. Here we are, at the Lower
Rooms, surrounded by other ladies and gentlemen but with no other
thought than to dance together—at least for the first two
dances.”

“Just remember, if you dance with any other
ladies here tonight, that you are married to me.”

“I am not likely to forget, my sweet, for a
hundred reasons.”

Catherine made the agreeable discovery that
dancing with Henry had not lost its charm, and that two dances with
him as her partner passed as quickly as they had the previous
winter—in other words, all too quickly.

As the musicians finished with a flourish, Mr.
King appeared at Catherine’s elbow in the mysterious way that
belonged to truly accomplished masters of the ceremonies, and to
her surprise asked her to lead the next two dances. “It is a
bride’s right,” he told her, “and I hope not a disagreeable duty,
as I have taken pains to procure for you a partner whom you already
know.”

The only young man amongst Catherine’s
acquaintance who might be in Bath was John Thorpe; and it was with
a sinking feeling that she agreed to lead the dance, thinking it a
very onerous duty indeed; but then she realized that Mr. King was
looking expectantly at the young man standing beside him, who was
smiling at her in a very familiar manner, though she did not know
him at all.

Henry’s voice came from behind her. “Mr. King,
your scruples are very kind indeed; but I am afraid that Mrs.
Tilney is not yet acquainted with my brother-in-law. Do not trouble
yourself, sir, for it is the work of a moment. Catherine, may I
present Eleanor’s husband, Lord Whiting?”

Mr. King was all apologies; but Catherine’s real
delight at meeting Eleanor’s husband, and the Viscount’s own good
breeding and charming manners soon did away with all the discomfort
of the moment, and Mr. King soon bustled off to inform the
musicians of Mrs. Tilney’s choices.

“Eleanor’s over that way,” said his lordship to
Henry, nodding towards the chairs. “Sitting out this dance, and I
have been strictly charged to send you to her.”

“Yes, of course,” said Henry, his eyes already
eagerly scanning the chairs. “You are in good hands, my sweet;
enjoy your moment in the sun. I will watch with Eleanor.”

“Give her my love,” said Catherine, “and tell
her that I shall come to see her directly the set is finished.”

Henry immediately disappeared into the crowd,
and his lordship gave Catherine his hand to the top of the set,
where Mr. King stood waiting. “Mrs. Tilney has chosen ‘Mrs. Darcy’s
Favorite,’” he informed the other dancers, and Catherine blushed at
the attention, kind though it was, turned upon her.

Lord Whiting turned out to be an excellent
dancer, perhaps even better than Henry, though Catherine would
scarcely have credited such a notion. The demands of leading the
dance precluded conversation until they reached the bottom and had
a turn out. His lordship said, “You will forgive me if I am too
familiar, Mrs. Tilney; I have heard so much about you from Eleanor
and from Henry’s letters, that I feel as though we are already very
well-acquainted.”

“And I have heard much about you, sir; Eleanor’s
happiness is clear in her letters. I am surprised to learn that you
have come to Bath, though.”

“It was an unexpected trip and arranged with
great haste, as was your own, I apprehend. We arrived only
today.”

“You are not unwell, sir? But I suppose you
would scarcely be dancing if you were gouty.”

“No, I am very well, I thank you; and you are
correct, madam. Considering that most visitors to Bath claim to be
here for their health, it really is astonishing how many of them
turn up at the rooms when there is a ball.”

Catherine assented, thinking his lordship quite
a clever young man; and as another couple had reached the bottom of
the set, they rejoined the dance and had no more opportunity to
speak except for the usual commonplaces of a ballroom until their
two dances were over.

The viscount led Catherine to the chairs; Henry,
taller than those around him, saw her before she reached the chairs
and moved as if to intercept her, but when Catherine saw Eleanor
seated nearby, she ran past Henry to bestow a warm embrace upon
her.

Eleanor returned the embrace, but she looked
past Catherine with an expression of apprehension, an expression
that Henry, who now stood beside Eleanor’s chair, shared; an
expression that Catherine had seen before on both brother and
sister.

She took a deep breath, tried to ignore the
sudden nervous patter of her heart, and turned to make her curtsy
to General Tilney.