I thought of her sweet nature and I shook my head in disbelief. That anyone could so use her....

‘She must have passed close by Woodston as she travelled,’ I said. ‘I wish I had known. I would have stopped the coach and escorted her myself.’

‘And now we are to see no more of her. My father has forbidden me even to think of her! And all because he imagined her an heiress, through no fault of her own. When I think of the way he encouraged her, and encouraged you to think of her, and now he has done to you what he has done to me, banished your beloved—’

‘But I, at least, have my independence, and need take no notice,’ I said.

‘But what do you intend to do?’ she asked.

‘What I have intended to do for many weeks past. Ask her to marry me.’

‘But our father has expressly forbidden any such thing. You would not dare cross him.’

‘Indeed he would not,’ came a voice from behind us. Our father had entered the room. ‘Eleanor, you are not ready. The coach will leave in half an hour. If your things are not packed you will go without them.’

I nodded to Eleanor and she left the room.

‘And you, sir, will do the same,’ he said.

‘No, I will not. I will do what I would have done anyway, before many more weeks had passed: offer Miss Morland my hand.’

‘You will do no such thing!’ he roared.

‘You cannot stop me,’ I said, looking him in the eye. ‘I believe she is in love with me, and I am most certainly in love with her. Do you now expect me, having encouraged her affections, to jilt her? For I am bound to her in honour as well as in affection, as much as if there had been a formal engagement between us.’

‘But there is no engagement, and once you are in Hereford and she is back in Fullerton, there will never be any suggestion of one.’

‘I am not going to Hereford.’

‘You will do as you are told!’

‘No, sir, I will not. You cannot command me. I am my own man. You must go to Hereford without me – though why you still think it necessary to go, since it was an excuse trumped up at a moment’s notice, to rid yourself dishonourably of Miss Morland, I cannot imagine. And I am going to Fullerton.’

‘Why, you—’

I left him blustering, and we parted in dreadful disagreement. I was in such an agitation of mind that I returned almost instantly to Woodston to compose myself. But tomorrow I go to Fullerton.



Tuesday 30 April

I am now over half-way to my destination. Tomorrow my fate will be decided. Will Catherine forgive me for my father’s behaviour? What will her family think? Will her father allow me to pay my addresses to her, after the way she was shamefully used? I can only hope so.



MAY

Wednesday 1 May

This morning found me at Fullerton, a village not unlike Woodston, where I looked about me and saw, at some small distance, the church, and beside it the parsonage. As I made my way to the gate I found myself the object of every eye, for travellers were evidently little seen in the neighbourhood. As I approached the house I found that I was observed by a collection of children, Catherine’s brothers and sisters, who had gathered at the window on hearing the telltale sounds of a visitor. I rang the bell and was admitted to the drawing room, where I found Catherine alone. She sprang up and said, startled, ‘Henry!’

And with that one word I knew she was mine.

She blushed and stammered and offered me a seat, which I took, but hardly had I sat down when her mother entered the room, closely followed by sundry brothers and sisters.

I sprang up and Catherine introduced me.

‘I must apologize for my sudden appearance. I have no right to expect a welcome here after what has passed, but I had to be sure that Miss Morland had reached her home in safety. I knew nothing of her sudden departure, being attending to business in my own parish, and I am more sorry than I can say that she was left to endure such a journey alone,’ I immediately began.

Mrs Morland was generous in her reception of me, saying, ‘Well, now, if that is not good of you, Mr Tilney. I am sure it was not your fault that Catherine had such a strange journey and there is no harm done, as you see. Besides, it is a great comfort to find that Catherine is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very well for herself.’

I began to apologize for my father but she did me the kindness of judging me apart from him and saying that she had long been wanting to thank me for my friendship towards Catherine.

‘She has told us a great deal about you and your sister in her letters. We are always happy to see Catherine’s friends here. The future is what matters, and the present, not the past. Pray, do not say another word about it.’

I was not ill-inclined to obey her request, for, although my heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not in my power to say anything at all. Seeing Catherine again, having so much to say to her that could not be said in company, rendered me mute and I sat down again in silence.

Mrs Morland sent one of the younger children for Mr Morland, feeling, no doubt, that he would introduce a new topic of conversation. Whilst we waited, she asked about the weather, my journey, and a dozen other such commonplaces. I made the usual replies whilst watching Catherine, who looked anxious, agitated, happy and feverish. She guessed, of course, why I had called. If I had been merely solicitous over her safety I could have written her a letter. A visit spoke of something more.

At length, no more remarks about the state of the roads and the mildness of the day for the time of year could be made, and we awaited Mr Morland in silence, only to learn some minutes later that he was from home. When the conversation dwindled to nothing I roused myself and asked after the Allens, then saying that I wished to pay them my respects I asked Catherine if she would show me the way.

‘You may see the house from this window, sir,’ said her sister Sarah helpfully.

Her mother silenced her with a nod and Catherine and I set out.

‘Miss Morland ... Catherine,’ I said, as soon as we had turned out of the drive. ‘I have that to say to you which ... I think you can guess ... that is to say ... Catherine, I think you know what my feelings are for you.’

She blushed and said, ‘You like me as the friend of your sister.’

I took her hand, which relaxed in mine as she felt the touch of my fingers, for I had removed my gloves on entering the house and neglected to put them on again, whilst she had forgotten hers.

‘As more than that,’ I said. ‘Much more. I thought I would have plenty of time to say this ... I thought you were to stay at the abbey for several weeks more ... but now I can wait no longer. You have my friendship, my love, my affection, my heart. Tell me, Catherine, do I have yours?’

She looked down, and murmured, ‘You do,’ so quietly that I had difficulty hearing it.

I smiled.

‘I know you like my parsonage and I think you like me. If I promise to fit up the drawing room in the way you like, will you come and live there with me? Will you be my wife?’

Her reply was everything I could have wished for. To be sure, she was incoherent, and her sense of obligation and pleasure were so mixed together with an assurance that her heart had long been my own that her words were incomprehensible, but the smile in her eyes told me all I needed to know.

I took advantage of the quietness of the lane to kiss her.

We were disturbed by the clop of hoofs and sprang apart before the horseman turned the corner, then smiled and laughed. I gave her my arm and we walked on together, with the sun shining far more splendidly than usual and the bees buzzing lazily and the birds chirruping in more than usually good voice.

As we turned into the lane I knew I must give her an account of my father’s behaviour and although I was ashamed to do it, I told her all. She was startled to find that he had thought her an heiress, but not at all surprised that the mistake had been caused by John Thorpe, whose family had caused hers such distress.

‘So that is why I was invited to Northanger Abbey,’ she said.

‘By my father, yes, but not by Eleanor or myself. We wondered why he was making so much of you, but as we knew you to be poor we thought he was being kind to Eleanor at last and securing for her the cheerful company of a valued friend.’

I told her that it was Thorpe again who, on seeing my father in London, and being angry because Catherine’s brother refused to have anything more to do with Isabella, had claimed that Catherine had deliberately lied about her fortune in order to mislead everyone.

‘Though how my father could have believed it, when he knew you and knew you to be incapable of such deceit, I cannot imagine. His anger was not really at you, but at himself for being so easily duped.’

‘And the visit to Hereford?’ she asked.

‘I am ashamed to say there had been no prior engagement, he simply arranged to leave the abbey at once so that he could request you to leave – nay, throw you out of the house. I thought your suspicions of him foolish when you first arrived at the abbey, but you were not so far wrong in your estimation of him: in driving you out of the Abbey at a moment’s notice he behaved like a veritable Marquis of Montoni.’

A few minutes more brought us to the Allens’ door, where we knocked and were admitted, to find the Allens at home. I said very little to any purpose, and Catherine said nothing at all, but the Allens I hope will forgive us when they know all.