‘Am I? I only ask what I want to be told,’ she said.

‘But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?’

‘Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother’s heart.’

‘My brother’s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at.’

‘Well?’

‘Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week’s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her.’

‘Well,’ said Catherine, after some moments’ consideration, ‘you may be able to guess at your brother’s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go.’

‘My dear Miss Morland,’ I said, ‘in this amiable solicitude for your brother’s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe’s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this, and you maybe sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, “Do not be uneasy”, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant.’

She still looked doubtful and grave, and so I added, ‘Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney’s passion for a month.’

She was comforted and I envied her, for I wished I could be comforted so easily; in short, I wished I knew what Frederick was thinking of. It is no use me asking him, he will not answer; and so I am glad we are to leave Bath and that he will soon quit the place, too. After that, James Morland must take his chances with the next handsome rogue who happens to come by.


Saturday 16 March

This morning I returned to the abbey to make sure that everything would be prepared in advance of our return next week. If only my father had not been so vigorous in his renovations then Miss Morland would be able to revel in a large and gloomy chamber hung with tapestries, and a rug placed askew to reveal the edge of a trapdoor; instead I can offer her nothing better than the guest room, with papered walls and a carpeted floor, bright windows and comfortable furniture and – worst of all – a cheerful air.

Having given the housekeeper notice of our impending return I rode over to Woodston. It was already dark by the time I arrived, the days not yet being long enough to provide me with an easy journey, but it was one I wanted to make so that I would be able to preach tomorrow and to give my curate warning of my intentions.

Though Bath has been very enjoyable – unexpectedly so – I find I am glad to be home.



Sunday 17 March

An interesting service, attended by a full congregation and a large complement of coughs and sneezes, so that I counted myself fortunate if I managed to get out one sentence in ten without interruption. Everything I have learnt about volume and diction has come from other orators but in justice to myself I can say that the art of timing my words to match the gaps in the assorted barks and splutterings of a March congregation is all my own. I believe I will write a paper on it, for I am sure it will be of use to more than myself.

After the service I was presented with the usual collection of pen-wipers, and believe I now have enough to last me the rest of my life.



Monday 18 March

Back to Bath, bearing a note for my sister which had arrived from Mr Morris. She took it upstairs and returned to the drawing room some time later with sparkling eyes that spoke of delights perused and perhaps a few tears shed, too. I am sorry for her. But if my father is prepared to encourage Miss Morland as a friend for her, then there is a chance that in time he will come to see Mr Morris as a possible match, for his attitudes on fortune seem to be mellowing. I hope so. Eleanor has never shown any interest in anyone before, though she has met plenty of young men; indeed, in the last few weeks in Bath she has danced with several dozen. But none of them has aroused her interest in the way that Morris has.

I found myself thinking that my mother would have liked him, for she had a romantic nature to contrast with my father’s worldly air; and then I found myself thinking of their three children, who were a mixture of both, giving that curious blend of idealism coupled with cynicism that infects both Frederick and myself, he with more of the latter since his disappointment and me with more of the former. And Eleanor, hopeful like my mother, but also steeped in my father’s realistic nature, dreaming of her Mr Morris but knowing that Papa will never consent to the match, unless a miracle should happen. And when did a miracle ever happen, except in the pages of a novel? What deus ex machine can save her from the unhappiness of disappointed love? What God, descending on a platform from the back of the stage, can relieve her heartache? Aphrodite, perhaps, to solve the lovers’ obstacles? Ares, maybe, to give my father, the soldier, a change of heart? Or Minerva, goddess of wisdom, to show him the error of his ways.



Tuesday 19 March

Our father has changed the plans again, and we are now to leave Bath on Friday instead of Saturday. The Allens have been asked for their approval of the new day and have given it, so everything is now set for Friday.



Friday 22 March

Miss Morland joined us in Milsom Street for breakfast, as arranged. She was brought to us by Mr Allen. I was glad to see how carefully he watched over, and how he looked about him, to make sure that we were suitable people and that we would do everything in our power to make her stay with us a happy one.

My father was affability itself. Whether it was the thought of returning to the abbey, or whether the waters have really done him good, I do not know, but he was in good spirits and showed to great advantage. He was courteous in his welcome to Miss Morland, saying how grateful Eleanor was to have her company, and he was charming to Mr Allen, who brought Miss Morland to us.

‘We cannot thank you enough for being willing to part with your fair friend,’ he said to Mr Allen. ‘We have seen how her company has brightened your stay in Bath, and we know that you must miss her when we take her away from you.’

‘That we will,’ said Mr Allen. ‘Catherine’s a good girl, and she has made my gout bearable, which is a thing I did not think possible. She is always cheerful and her good humour puts me in a good humour myself. Mrs Allen feels it as much as I do, we have been very glad to have her with us. But young people like to have other young people about them, and we are pleased that she has made such a good friend in Miss Tilney. We will only be in Bath for one more week ourselves and then we will be returning to Fullerton.’

‘We know how important you are in that neighbourhood. Bath’s loss is Fullerton’s gain,’ said my father.

Mr Allen bowed. Then, having satisfied himself that Miss Morland was amongst friends and that she would be well cared for, he said goodbye and took his leave.

‘And now we have you all to ourselves,’ said my father to Miss Morland. ‘We have prepared a small repast, nothing such as you are used to, but a simple meal to set us on our way.’

He led the way into the dining room, where breakfast was set out and where we were, belatedly, joined by Frederick. My father continued to frighten Miss Morland with his deference, in between annoying Frederick by his lectures and worrying Eleanor because she could see that his exaggerated courtesy was making us late. He would not hurry Miss Morland, however, and kept pressing her to eat, so that we did not leave the table until a quarter to ten, and the clock was striking the hour when the trunks were at last carried down to the carriages.

‘Ten o’clock! We should be away!’ he said.

But we were not, and the delays continued whilst he found fault with the seating arrangements in the chaise, giving the maid instructions to move some of the parcels, so that Miss Morland was only just able to prevent him from throwing her writing table out by mistake.

At last, however, the door was closed upon the three females, and they set off, with my father and myself following in my curricle. We stopped for lunch at Petty France, where my father berated the waiters, complained abut the postilion, and generally made us all uncomfortable, so that scarcely anything was said but by himself. However, he then had a happy thought, and said, ‘The day is fine, and I am anxious for you seeing as much of the country as possible, Miss Morland. Why do you not take my place in the curricle and I will travel with my daughter? You need not have any fear that Henry will overset you. He is a very good driver.’