General Tilney stood waiting, his posture ramrod straight, his expression dignified and proud, as though he were an ensign in formation. Catherine had to bite her tongue quite hard to keep from laughing, feeling herself at the same time to be an undutiful daughter. She glanced at Henry; besides a slight crease in his brow, he did not seem to think his father’s behavior odd. Growing up in a military family had taught him to control his expression.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “I see you have called upon Lady Beauclerk. May I inquire after her health?”

“She was very well when I left her,” said the general stiffly.

“I am glad to hear it. Pray convey my compliments, and Catherine’s, too,” he added, looking down at her.

Catherine said, “Oh, yes, sir, if you please.”

“Very well.”

Lady Josephine finished her toilette, stood, stretched, and finally took notice of her attendant. She wound herself around his legs, rubbing against them and purring loudly. The briefest expression of something like revulsion crossed the general’s face. “I believe Lord and Lady Whiting are waiting for you in Milsom-street,” he said.

“Yes, we are to meet by appointment. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Henry, Mrs. Tilney.” He bowed, but as Lady Josephine was still rubbing against his legs, he made an awkward job of it.

They continued on their way down Argyle-street. Catherine glanced up at Henry, wondering what she might say; she judged it best to let him start any conversation, but he seemed lost in thought.

The General’s servant showed them into the sitting-room; his lordship received them there and sent the servant to fetch her ladyship, preparing them with a murmured, “We have had some bad news.”

Eleanor rushed into the room and went to Henry directly. “My father told me this morning that he intends to make Lady Beauclerk an offer. You must speak to the him, Henry,” she said. “You must tell him what Matthew learned from the maidservant. It is the only chance we have to stop this.”

“I fear it is too late for that. Depend upon it, Eleanor, when a man humiliates himself in public for the sake of a woman, he is too much in love to stop for worldly reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

Henry told the Whitings what he and Catherine had seen in Argyle-street. His lordship seemed to find it a very good joke, but a look at his wife’s face stopped his laughter. He did, however, exchange a covert, sympathetic smile with Catherine.

Eleanor sat as if stunned. “You are right, Henry; it is too late. We must consider this settled. They must be. . . engaged. How strange to talk of one’s father as engaged! And what a mother-in-law we shall have! But at least we have the comfort of knowing that there is affection in the match. There must be.”

“Indeed. We must take our comfort where we can find it.”

“I cannot help thinking of my poor mother,” said Eleanor quietly. After a moment, she roused herself and smiled at them. “Well, as there is nothing else to be done, we must make the best of it. Shall we go to the pump-room, then, and let all of Bath gossip about our family behind our backs?”

The Whitings led the way down Milsom-street toward the pump-room, and Henry and Catherine walked a little behind. The day was fine, and being young and in Bath and the happiness of walking on Henry’s arm put Catherine in high spirits that could not be dampened even by General Tilney’s intended nuptials. She asked Henry, “Did you ever humiliate yourself for me?”

“No, I do not think so; other than a fist-fight with John Thorpe outside the Upper Rooms when he said something about you that I did not quite like.”

“Henry! You did not!” A closer look at his expression let her know he had not, and she laughed in her relief; though a little something else would persist; a feeling that she might like Henry to have engaged in fisticuffs with John Thorpe for her honor.

Henry, with that disconcerting habit he had of guessing her thoughts, said, “Would you like that, my sweet?”

She blushed, but said, “No, I should not like it. Neither John Thorpe nor his opinion mean anything to me.”

“Very sensibly said.”

“ — but not very romantic.”

“Everyday life provides little in the way of romance, Cat; we must make our own.” He gave her a significant look and a smile that made her shiver pleasantly.


The pump-room was pleasantly crowded with all those in Bath who had come to see and be seen. They drank their water, and Henry and Lord Whiting joined a group of men discussing politics and the news of the day, while Eleanor and Catherine circled the room arm in arm. They drew not a few appreciative glances, being young and pretty and fashionably dressed; Eleanor’s rank did not discourage this appreciation, Bath being a place where rank is given consideration — perhaps more than its due.