MacGuffin, up to his haunches in the water, seized the floating end of Mr. Shaw’s tailcoat firmly in his mouth and braced himself on the river bottom. Mr. Shaw tried to move away from him, but MacGuffin held firm.

“He has been trained in water retrieval,” Henry called to Mr. Shaw. “Trained very well, I may add. You might as well give it up now.”

Mr. Shaw attempted to unbutton his coat and slip out of it, but MacGuffin growled, the coat-tail still in his mouth, and shook his head violently from side to side, as though playing a game of keep-away. Mr. Shaw stopped struggling and began to weep with loud braying sobs; he then buried his face in his hands.

Henry watched him for a long moment. “Do you think you are the only man whose peace has been destroyed by Judith Beauclerk?” he asked, his voice full of compassion. Mr. Shaw’s turned to look at him; Henry gazed back at him steadily, and they seemed to communicate something, a shared knowledge that made Catherine suddenly uneasy.

MacGuffin tugged again, and at last Mr. Shaw came with him, stumbling out of the river, the dog herding him like a lost sheep and never letting go of the coat-tail until his captive was safely on land and wrapped in a blanket produced by the family party, which had watched the proceedings with fascinated horror. A few more spectators had collected, including several small boys who heard that someone had drowned himself and demanded, in high-pitched, strident voices, to see the corpse. Lord Whiting sent them away and consulted with the father of the family-party, and they went to fetch his carriage, which was waiting in Argyle-street.

Henry put an arm around Mr. Shaw’s shoulders, still bowed in sorrow. He looked up at Catherine consciously, and she turned and said to the fascinated onlookers, “Step away, please; leave him be.” They turned, one by one, and drifted away, as Henry spoke to Mr. Shaw in unintelligible tones.

The mother of the family-party would not be moved so easily. “What is he saying?” she asked Catherine, peering over her shoulder at Henry and Mr. Shaw huddled on the riverbank. “What is he doing?”

“My husband is a priest,” said Catherine firmly. “He will say all that is necessary.”

The woman’s face cleared. “Oh, a priest,” she said. “Aye, he’ll take care of the poor devil.” She turned to shoo her children away.

Lord Whiting and the father returned, and the three men helped Mr. Shaw to get up and moving towards the bridge. “Cat, take MacGuffin, and go to our lodgings with Eleanor,” Henry called to her. “We will meet you there.”

***

Henry and John returned to Pulteney-street a few hours later, and assured the worried ladies that they had returned Mr. Shaw to his rooms in Westgate Buildings, saw him into dry clothes and left him in front of a blazing fire.

“How could you leave him?” cried Catherine. “How do you know he will not try again to destroy himself?”

“He did not really want to destroy himself,” said his lordship, flinging himself into a chair. “He only wanted someone to share his misery. Did you not see that he feared the water? Only a man still in love with life would have such fear.”

“And pray note that he chose to make his attempt nearly on the Beauclerks’ doorstep,” said Henry. “He raved a bit in the carriage about Judith finding him floating in the river and being sorry she had cast him off, but it soon came out that he really did not wish to drown himself; he had a wild scheme of someone running for Judith so she could stop him from drowning himself and reconcile with him.”

“He also waited until he was sure he had an audience,” said Lord Whiting. “He could have jumped in before we or that nice fellow from Hampshire got there, but he waited for us to be close enough to see his act. I give him credit; ’twas as good as anything one sees on Drury Lane. Though the poor fellow has had a bad time of it.”

Henry looked at Catherine, who sat with her head down, and her hands fastened in her lap; an attitude he knew to mean that she was in some distress that she did not care to vocalize. “Do not worry, my sweet. Mr. Shaw and I had a good talk, and I made him see the foolishness of martyring himself to Miss Beauclerk. I think he might even be on the way to mending his broken heart.”

Catherine lifted her head and looked into Henry’s eyes. “You once said to me that Miss Beauclerk had not injured you; but the way you spoke to him today — the way you said he was not the first man to have his peace destroyed by her — ”

Henry and Eleanor exchanged glances, and Eleanor said, “Catherine and John are part of our family now, Henry; I believe you should tell them.”

He nodded, and said to Catherine, “I told you the truth. Judith Beauclerk did not break my heart or injure me by her flirtations. I regret I cannot say the same for my brother.”

“Captain Tilney?”

“Yes. He came home several years ago, a newly commissioned lieutenant in the Twelfth Light Dragoons, and fell for Judith with all the ardent affection of a young man fresh from a battlefield, and offered her his hand and his heart. She said that she could not marry a mere Lieutenant Tilney, and he had to put himself in the way of a battlefield commission or, better yet, a knighthood so she could be Lady Tilney. Frederick told no one of this, not even my father; and he went off to Toulon and put himself in grave danger during the siege there, in a hopeless cause, trying to cover himself with glory for her sake.”

“He won his commission?”

“Yes; he was Captain Tilney, but it was not enough for Judith; he was not Sir Frederick. He presented himself to Judith, and she laughed at him, and said she had never intended to marry him or any officer, and how could he take her so seriously? My brother changed that day, Cat; he changed from a brave, headstrong, sometimes vain and thoughtless young man into someone capable of amusing himself at the expense of another’s comfort. He learned to give what he received from Miss Beauclerk; and since then has found no woman worthy of his affection.”

Catherine considered this gravely. “That is why he acted the way he did with Isabella Thorpe, I dare say; he knew her for a vain coquette, and took his revenge on her.”

“Not so much revenge, I think, as recognizing that Miss Thorpe’s was not a heart worth winning, or worth more than a common flirtation, and perhaps taking advantage of it.”

“And now I understand why you did not wish Miss Beauclerk to live at Northanger; if Captain Tilney came to visit, I dare say it would be most uncomfortable for him.”

“Yes,” said Eleanor. “And my father promoted the match between Frederick and Judith, which really was most eligible, so Henry and I were astonished that he seemed to have forgotten the outcome of it.”

“I do not understand why Miss Beauclerk would refuse Captain Tilney and accept Sir Philip,” said Catherine. “Captain Tilney will have a much larger estate and fortune.”

“I believe she always meant to get Beauclerk, if she could,” said Henry. “She could not capture him with her own charms, but her father made it possible with the terms of his will.”

“So ambition makes fools of us all,” said his lordship. “Eleanor, love, is that tea hot? I could use a cup.”

***

The fire in their bedroom was past its first and highest blaze, and Henry and Catherine burrowed into their thick quilts, embraced by the circle of light thrown off by Henry’s candle as he read aloud the last chapter of The Mysteries of Udolpho.

O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourt and Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of the vicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length, restored to each other — to the beloved landscapes of their native country, — to the securest felicity of this life, that of aspiring to moral and labouring for intellectual improvement — to the pleasures of enlightened society, and to the exercise of the benevolence, which had always animated their hearts; while the bowers of La Vallee became, once more, the retreat of goodness, wisdom and domestic blessedness!

O! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious can sometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transient and their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressed by injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph over misfortune!

Catherine made an impatient noise and thrashed a bit under her quilt.

Henry looked down at her in surprise. “You disagree with Mrs. Radcliffe, my sweet?”

“I once believed that innocence could triumph over misfortune, but now I am not so sure.”

Henry closed the book and set it aside. “Somehow, I do not think you are speaking of Udolpho.”

“No.” He waited, and she said, “Well, look at Miss Beauclerk! She has injured your brother, and poor Mr. Shaw, and now she gets what she always wanted: to be Lady Beauclerk, when she should be forced to — ”

“ — take the veil, like Laurentini?”

“Well, yes! Or something like that! It does not seem fair!”

“Consider, my sweet: to achieve her ambition, Miss Beauclerk accepted a husband who is unlikely to make her very happy. Some would say that her success will be her own punishment.”

Catherine subsided and rested her head upon his shoulder, suddenly wearied by it all. “I suppose.”

He kissed her forehead. “I fear the friends you have made in Bath have given your faith in your fellow man a severe trial. Shall we give up the lodgings, and go back to Woodston early?”

She considered his suggestion for a moment. “No, I would like to stay another week or two, if we can; the Beauclerks will be gone, and perhaps we will make new acquaintances. Although I cannot think of any friends I should like better than you, and Eleanor and John.”