‘I am only sorry that I have been the cause of Miss Tilney’s sorrow,’ he said.

‘You were not to know. Besides, I think it is perhaps a healing sorrow. I hope so.’

‘And so do I. You know, of course, that I am in love with your sister?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I had guessed as much, and I am sorry for you. I am sorry for you both.’

‘As for me, I can never be sorry to have met your sister. Do you think there is any chance that your father would listen to my suit?’

‘None in the world,’ I said. ‘I have no wish to pain you, but so it is. Not unless you have any way of making your fortune.’

‘Alas, no. I earn a competence, and your sister would be comfortable if she married me – as long as I resist the urge to lend money, which, believe me, is a lesson well learned! – but she would have none of the elegancies of life to which she is accustomed.’

‘There is no chance of your inheriting the title from your uncle?’ I asked.

‘None at all. My uncle has three sons, all in the prime of life and burgeoning with good health.’

‘So, short of a freak which would carry all four of your relatives off at once, you have no money, no title – and, I take it, no chance of obtaining any of them?’

‘No, none at all,’ he said sadly.

‘Then if it is at all possible, I beg you to put Eleanor from your mind. There is no hope for you, you know. My father will never consent.’

‘I would put her from my mind if I could, but I fear it is impossible.’

I am sorry for it. I like him. But my father will never countenance such a match.


Tuesday 13 November

A letter from Mrs Hughes. It could not have been better timed, for it was handed to Eleanor after breakfast, which she had eaten quietly and with little evidence of pleasure. But she brightened as she opened the letter, and better yet, it contained a suggestion that Eleanor should accompany her to Bath in the spring.

‘Capital!’ said my father. ‘We will all go. It will give you an opportunity to see how happy your friend Charles is with his wife and children,’ said my father to me. ‘If he could find a wife there, I do not despair of you finding one there, too. My friends Longtown and Courteney mean to take the waters in February and so we will make a party of it. Frederick should be home on leave then as well. We will take rooms in Milsom Street. You will have the shops to entertain you, Eleanor, and you will want to buy some new clothes I am sure. You must look your best at the assemblies. General Courteney’s nephew is coming round to his uncle’s way of thinking and I make no doubt that he will be willing to make you an offer by Easter.’

This was hardly the kind of thing to make my sister look forward to the visit, and so when my father had departed I said to her, ‘Morris is in love with you, you know.’

‘Yes, I do know. I had a walk around the garden before breakfast, I wanted some air and I happened to meet him by the arbour. He told me that he would wait for ever if necessary, as long as he knew there was hope.’

‘And did you give him hope?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Is it too late to advise caution?’

‘I am afraid so,’ she said.

‘Well, I do not despair. He will be with us for another two weeks and it is possible that you will discover something to his discredit in that time and change your opinion of him. Let us hope so, at least.’

‘I fear there will not be anything,’ she said. ‘I own I think he is the most charming young man in the world. He was so kind this morning, so generous, so thoughtful. He spoke with such sympathy and such real tenderness that my liking, which has been growing ever since I met him, was elevated to some higher feeling, so that now I know it would be impossible for me to ever marry any other man.’

‘It might be impossible for you ever to marry this one.’

‘Perhaps. But in a few years’ time, when my father sees that I am on the verge of becoming a confirmed spinster, then perhaps he will relent.’

‘He is still determined to have you marry one or other of his friends’ relations.’

‘And I am even more determined not to have them. He cannot force me, or lock me in a cellar, and if by some mischance he finds a series of labyrinthine caverns beneath the abbey and threatens to imprison me there, why, then, I will simply emulate Julia and—’

‘Faint?’

She laughed.

‘No,’ she said, ‘escape to a convent.’

‘Alas, there are no convents in the immediate vicinity, but you are welcome to escape to Woodston, for I am sure that a parsonage will suit your purposes just as well.’

‘And a great deal more comfortably,’ she said. ‘Very well, if I have need of it, I will take refuge there.’



Wednesday 14 November

Coming upon my sister and Mr Morris in the library, I decided to retreat unseen, leaving them to finish A Sicilian Romance together. I retrieved the book after dinner, seeing that they had finished it, and have just now finished it myself. Ferdinand, like Hippolitus before him, had not been killed, but simply injured, and had found his way to his family again. Hippolitus and Julia, of course, were married, and Julia’s mother was freed. Thus good was rewarded.

Evil, too, was rewarded when Julia’s wicked stepmother poisoned the evil marquis because he upbraided her for being unfaithful, then she rid the world of her own wicked presence by killing herself.

The mysterious light in the castle was caused by the lantern of the servant, Vincent, who had taken food to Julia’s mother during her captivity. And it was the marquis, of course, who had imprisoned her and claimed that she was dead, so that he could marry his second wife.

Vincent’s pangs of remorse for his evildoing had preyed upon his mind and led to his cryptic comments as he lay on his deathbed, so all was explained. A fine ending to a fine novel!

In real life, alas, things are not so simple. Wives cannot be got out of the way by imprisoning them, husbands cannot be poisoned and good and virtuous heroines do not always marry the men they love. But even so, I hope that my sister’s goodness and virtue will in time, by some miracle, be rewarded, and she will be free to marry her Mr Morris.



Thursday 29 November

The house party is nearly over. Our guests will be leaving tomorrow, and I will be removing to Woodston on Saturday.

I wish I could find a young lady I could love half as much as Eleanor loves Mr Morris, but I console myself with the fact that at least I will not have to spend the rest of my life with Miss Barton and Miss Halifax. Though my father has extolled their virtues for the past four weeks, he has not prevailed upon me to make an offer for either one of them.

1799

JANUARY

Tuesday 1 January

With the old year behind me it is my New Year’s Resolution to finish the decorating of the parsonage. Eleanor has promised to help me choose the decorations for the drawing room, which is still unpapered, and she has agreed to accompany me to London next week. I am hoping to have the room decorated before we leave for Bath. I have promised to buy her some new novels as a thank you for her help. Since rediscovering the pleasure of Mrs Radcliffe, she now reads all that lady’s books avidly, and we are both looking forward to The Mysteries of Udolpho, a romance, founded on facts; comprising the adventures and misfortunes of Emily St. Aubert, which promises to be even more horrid than A Sicilian Romance.

‘And, of course, with such a title, it must be true!’ said Eleanor.

‘Indeed, for there is no denying that marvellous and terrible things happen all the time. Luckily Mrs Radcliffe seems to know all the details and sets them down for us so that we can enjoy them at our leisure!’

In the meantime I am winning the respect of my parishioners, who were at first bemused by my sermons but, I flatter myself, now find them refreshing. Certainly attendance has gone up since I was ordained and took over the living, and it cannot all be because I am young and unmarried.



Monday 21 January

A most successful trip to London. Some of the papers and paints have been chosen and a pile of novels have been purchased. Eleanor is looking forward to more shopping in Bath.



FEBRUARY

Monday 4 February

My father has arranged to meet his friends in Bath and I have promised to go there next week and take a set of rooms for us. Meanwhile, I must make arrangements for the services when I am absent, for although I will no doubt be returning to Woodston from time to time, I expect to be in Bath for some weeks.



Tuesday 5 February

I wrote to Charles Plainter, telling him that I will be coming to Bath. Since he now lives there it will be a good chance to see him again.



Friday 8 February

A reply from Charles this morning, insisting I stay with him and Margaret until I have found a set of rooms. I sent a note of thanks in reply and I am looking forward to it. The country at this time of year is dreary and Bath will do us all good.


Thursday 14 February

An easy journey and a joyful arrival. Charles’s three children ran around me and Margaret welcomed me warmly, saying, ‘I am glad you are come, Henry. We have not seen you for an age.’

The house is well set up and Margaret gave me her advice on where to look for my furniture for the parsonage. So did every other lady at the table, and whilst there are few delights in life to match that of speaking of furniture, I was glad when the ladies withdrew and I was left to talk to Charles and his friends.