(illustrator) Cassandra Chouinard - There Must Be Murder

“With all possible speed, my sweet.” He put his arm around her waist and swept her through the crowds and into Lord Whiting’s carriage, where his lordship and Eleanor waited to receive her and make her comfortable. Catherine leaned against Henry’s sleeve and sighed.

“Better now, Cat?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“What is it, Catherine dearest?” asked Eleanor gently.

“Sir Philip would talk to me, and though I put him off, Mrs. Findlay saw us, and I believe she has drawn the wrong conclusion.”

“Never mind,” said his lordship. “Everyone must know that Mrs. Findlay’s gossip is nonsense. First, accusations of murder, and now adultery! No one family has so much melodrama in these modern times. No one will pay her any mind.”

“I hope you are right,” said Catherine. “I overheard Miss Beauclerk and Mr. Shaw talking about services that he performed for her. It sounded most sinister; but I am sure he only meant making up her potion.” She shook her head. “Such nonsense! I liked the play very much. Did not you?”

His lordship looked chagrined, and Eleanor laughed at him. “You paid no attention to it, did you, my love?”

“Well, no; but that is not why one goes to the theatre.”

“Catherine likes a play very well,” said Henry.

His lordship bowed. “Another time I shall be quiet and let you enjoy it.”

“I could hear perfectly well, sir; I thank you for inviting me.”

“I am sorry your evening had a sad end,” said Lord Whiting.

“To make up for tonight,” said Henry, “Tomorrow we will have our walk. Eleanor, Whiting, will you join us? We thought to walk along the river and up to Beechen Cliff, retracing our steps from last year.”

They agreed to meet at the pump-room at noon, and Catherine’s evening had a happier ending than she would have thought when she first entered the carriage.

***

At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding all she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it was evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so long as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to the disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on one side of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was a pause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this silence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the hope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short and disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general observation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he was not discouraged.

“I have been impatient,” said he, addressing Emily, “to express my gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.”

Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and displeasure.

“Why,” continued he, “should you wish to diminish the delight of this moment by that air of cruel reserve? — Why seek to throw me again into the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your sentiments.”

“If I ever had disguised them, sir,” said Emily, with recollected spirit, “it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.”

Catherine sat up. “Henry, please read that again,” she said.

“Which part?”

“Emily’s last part.”

“Very well,” said Henry, and repeated the last paragraph.

“That is very good,” said Catherine. “It is just the thing for me to say to Sir Philip when you are not there, do not you think?”

Henry looked at her, his brow creased. “Did Beauclerk impose upon you?”

“Oh, no! But I think he has formed a — a wrong idea. I just need to explain it to him. Do not you think that is a good way to say it?”

“The meaning could not be clearer.”

“Let me see the book.” She took the volume and read it over several times, repeating it aloud. She handed the book back to Henry. “Will you hear me recite?”

“With pleasure.”

“Sir Philip,” said Catherine solemnly, “Hear me declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem which I was inclined to believe you merited.”

“Full marks. You make an excellent pupil, my sweet.”

Catherine laid her head upon his shoulder with a happy sigh. “Now I shall not be at a loss if he makes me uncomfortable again. I shall say to myself, ‘What would Emily do?’ and I shall have my guide.”

“You would be better guided by your own good sense, Cat. There is more worth here,” touching her head gently, “and here,” brushing his fingers over her heart, “than in all of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, charming as they are.” He lifted her chin gently with a finger and kissed her.

“Oh, Henry,” said Catherine with a sigh. “I do not want to think about Sir Philip any more.”

“I am very glad to hear it.” He reached out to extinguish the candle.

Catherine prepared for church the next morning with a lingering expectation that the expedition to Beechen Cliff would be put off by some emergency; the general requiring his son’s company, or a summons from the Beauclerks that could not be ignored. Indeed there was almost a delay, as Eleanor wished to call briefly in Laura-place to leave a receipt for rosewater cold cream in which Lady Beauclerk had expressed an interest.

“Matthew can take the note to her ladyship,” said Henry, and Eleanor, who did not relish that duty, was happy enough to surrender it. Catherine thought she saw a significant look pass between Henry and Matthew as the note was handed over, but it was soon forgotten in a flutter of anticipatory pleasure. The charm of a country walk with Henry had not abated upon her marriage, and Catherine was as happy as she had been during a similar walk a year earlier; it could be argued she was even happier, as she now had the right to take Henry’s arm and walk beside him, talk to him and be the first object of his interest; a state which Henry enjoyed no less than she.

Most of Bath was promenading upon the Royal Crescent, and they were nearly alone by the river, so Henry let MacGuffin off the leash. In his delight at being outside and unrestrained, the Newfoundland reverted to rather puppyish behavior, cavorting along the edge of the river and chasing some mallards who lounged on the bank.

The mallards, indignant at their Sunday repose being spoiled, squawked and flapped their wings at MacGuffin; undaunted, he barked and teased them, challenging them to a game they had no desire to play, ending it by the simple expedient of entering the river and swimming away. MacGuffin stood on the riverbank, barking after them; there was a splash, and MacGuffin was in the river, swimming after the ducks.

“I suspected he would end up in the water,” said Henry, not at all disturbed by his pet’s behavior.

“Oh! Henry! Get him out!” cried his sister. “Will he not drown?”

“Newfoundlands are famous swimmers, Eleanor. I have trained Mac to retrieve in the pond at home.”

MacGuffin was indeed a strong swimmer, but the ducks were in their natural element, and soon outstripped him. He made a wide turn in the water, became caught a little in the current — Eleanor gasped, and Catherine’s heart was in her mouth — but he soon was climbing up onto the riverbank and running back towards them, bounding with energy and canine happiness.