(illustrator) Cassandra Chouinard - There Must Be Murder

Catherine, remembering Mr. King’s news, thought the general might have something particular to tell Henry. “Of course you must go with your father. We shall have our walk another time.”

Miss Beauclerk, listening to this conjugal tete-a-tete with what Catherine thought a rather impertinent interest, said, “May I claim you for an hour or two, then, Mrs. Tilney? I have some commissions in town that cannot wait, and I would like it very much if you would accompany me.”

“There is no need to trouble Mrs. Tilney, Judith,” said Lady Beauclerk. “Married women have so many things to do; dear Mrs. Tilney has no time to chaperone a spinster nearly ten years her elder about Bath.”

Miss Beauclerk winced at her mother’s words, and Catherine felt the sting of them herself. She had been on the verge of refusing, of pleading letters and household matters requiring her attention, but instead she said, “I have some commissions of my own, ma’am, and I should be very glad of Miss Beauclerk’s company.”

Henry smiled down at her, a smile in which Miss Beauclerk had no part, and pressed her hand. “Very well, then. You two shall look after one another, and MacGuffin shall look after you both.”

“Delightful!” cried Miss Beauclerk. “What a handsome fellow we shall have beauing us about, Mrs. Tilney!” She scratched the dog’s ear, and he put back his head, eyes closed in ecstasy.

“Will you take some claret, Henry?” asked the general.

Henry accepted the glass of wine and sipped it silently. On the walk to Milsom-street, the general had spoken of some improvements he had recently made to the offices at Northanger Abbey and asked after Henry’s shrubbery. Henry let the general lead the conversation, waiting for him to introduce the subject of Lady Beauclerk, but the general seemed more interested in asking after his tenants at Woodston.

“You are very quiet today,” said the general. “Surely you do not still hold a grudge about that misunderstanding last year with your wife? I allowed your marriage, and that should be an end to it. No one can say I am a tyrannical father.”

“No one is saying you are a tyrannical father. The gossips of Bath have much more interesting news to retail. Tell me, sir: when may I offer you my congratulations on your impending marriage to Lady Beauclerk; and why did I not hear this news from your lips, but as common gossip known to everyone in Bath except your own children?”

“Gossip? Who gossips about the Tilneys?”

“Everyone who saw you conduct Lady Beauclerk to the Lower Rooms last night and to the pump-room this morning, and who knows you have been daily in her company for the past several months.” The General was silent. “Do you deny it, sir? Do you deny that you are trying to fix your interest with Lady Beauclerk, before her husband has been dead a year?”

The General poured another glass of wine. “No. I do not deny it.” He took a deep draught.

“It is well that you have been on the spot, as they say, for I see you have a few rivals here in Bath. Lady Beauclerk’s fortune is a handsome one, is it not? And will remain hers in the event of a remarriage?”

“Lady Beauclerk is a handsome woman, and a good neighbor and friend. It is not to be wondered at that she would have — admirers.”

Henry stared at his father. Could it be that this misguided courtship had more than financial motives? “I dare say the Abbey is a rather lonely place these days.”

“Some might find it so, but the military man has resources, Henry. Do not forget that.” He paused, thoughtful for a moment. “You suspect me of trying to acquire Lady Beauclerk’s fortune for my own, do not you? I confess that it is a handsome fortune, and not a small consideration.”

“Are you distressed for funds, sir? Has Frederick been extravagant, or got into debt? If that is the case, you must allow me to assist however is in my power — ”

The General waved his hand dismissively. “No, no; the estates are producing very well, as you know, and your brother has not overspent his allowance quite yet this quarter. Not that I could not use a little extra; who cannot? But Lady Beauclerk is a very pleasant woman, and very good company; very good company, indeed. I would be proud to have her bear the Tilney name.” He sipped his wine thoughtfully.

Henry Tilney was rarely at a loss for words; but finding his father in the midst of a romance served to rob him of speech completely.

The ladies’ departure from Laura-place was delayed first by Miss Beauclerk’s “running up for a moment” to fetch her bonnet, pelisse, and parasol, a moment that turned into a quarter-hour, during which time the general and Henry left for Milsom-street.

They were further delayed by Lady Beauclerk’s insistence that her daughter’s maid accompany them, and her daughter’s insistence that they did not need such escort. “Mrs. Tilney and I will be one another’s chaperone, and MacGuffin here will provide us with more protection than Marie-Louise can.” The struggle of wills went on for several minutes whilst Catherine stood by, awkward at being forced to bear witness to it, but at last they made their escape.

By the time they reached Argyle-street, Catherine regretted her impulsive offer to accompany Miss Beauclerk. Miss Beauclerk floated along the pavement, everything about her as light as air, from the filmy lace that trimmed her pelisse to her delicate satin slippers. Catherine stumbled along, her thick leather shoes chosen with a mind to a country walk rather than to a city promenade, tethered to a living ten-stone weight that propelled her forward relentlessly and lurched off to either side whenever it smelled anything interesting.

As they crossed the bridge, Miss Beauclerk said, “Thank you for agreeing to be my companion, Mrs. Tilney. My maid reports all my movements to my mother. Not that there is anything to report, but it is a relief to feel oneself not constantly under the scrutiny of a servant with suspect loyalties. Now, what commissions have you? The linen-drapers, I dare say?”

“Truthfully, I have no commissions,” said Catherine. “I only said I did because Lady Beauclerk — ” she stopped, confused.

Miss Beauclerk laid a gloved hand on Catherine’s arm. “How very kind you are! I can see why Mr. Tilney is so wild about you; but you must not mind Mamma. She would very much like to talk to her friends about her daughter, Mrs. This or Lady That, but I have thwarted her. I am a regular old maid now, at seven and twenty, and she sometimes lets her disappointment get the better of her.”

“I do not see why you feel it so hopeless a case,” said Catherine. “Many girls marry who have not your advantages; you have a fortune, and you are very pretty.”

Miss Beauclerk looked at Catherine, startled, and then laughed. “Why, you dear creature! How funny you are. I dare say I could find a husband if I settled for the first fortune-hunter to make an offer; but I am, perhaps, too nice. We not all of us have a Henry Tilney in our sights.”

“Now that you are in Bath, I am sure you will meet someone. There are many young men here, and you had several partners at the assembly. But I dare say you have had seasons in Bath before, and even London.”

“There were no seasons in London for me, Mrs. Tilney! My father did not like cities, and disliked even more what he would have considered unnecessary expenditure. During his lifetime there were no trips to Bath, and certainly no houses taken in Laura-place. My mother is making up for a lifetime of deprivation.”

Such talk, so disrespectful of a father so lately dead, did not please Catherine, and she was silent. Miss Beauclerk did not seem to notice her disapproval, or at least was determined to ignore it. “Well, if you have no commissions, will you accompany me to the apothecary? I must have some of my special beauty tonic made up. The shop is a little out of the way, I am afraid.”

The apothecary’s shop was indeed out of the way, and Catherine was grateful for her canine escort as they entered a part of Bath she had never before seen. Close to the river, the buildings slouched and leaned upon one another, as did the individuals lounging in doorways and sauntering down the pavement. Some appeared as though they might approach the two ladies, and not with kind intentions, but a look from the shaggy Newfoundland kept them at a careful distance.

Catherine glanced at Miss Beauclerk, who appeared to take no notice of their singular surroundings. “There is a very good apothecary in Milsom-street,” she said. “Perhaps we could turn back, and you can obtain your potion there.”

“No,” said Miss Beauclerk, rather sharply. “It is a very particular kind of potion, and only can be trusted to someone who — oh, here it is.”

The apothecary’s premises turned out to be a dark little building at the end of a row of similarly mean-looking shops. Catherine did not feel right leaving MacGuffin on the pavement, at the mercy of passersby, so he accompanied them inside the shop and, at her command, sat by the door. Miss Beauclerk went to the counter whilst Catherine stopped to stroke the dog’s head and whisper, “I am sorry I brought you here, darling. We shall not be long.” He looked up at her trustingly, his feathery tail gently thumping the grimy floor.

As she turned away from MacGuffin, Catherine heard a man’s voice say, “Judith! What are you — ”

“Good day, Mr. Shaw,” said Miss Beauclerk, glancing consciously over her shoulder at Catherine.

The man to whom she spoke was extremely handsome — everything a hero should be: tall, dark, and mysterious; Valancourt verily come to life, though the practical part of Catherine’s mind could not help thinking that Emily would never have seen Valancourt in shirtsleeves and a green baize apron. But even Valancourt could not have gazed at his heroine with more obvious adoration than Mr. Shaw; his expression was one of mingled surprise, admiration, and something else — something hungry, thought Catherine, and then laughed at herself for being fanciful.