“Delightful! How soon can we leave?”

“As soon as you can pack your trunks. Matthew is readying the curricle, but I shall procure a chaise to carry us and our luggage.”

Catherine bent to scoop the little terrier into her lap. “May I bring Ruby Begonia?”

“She will be happier here in the country, I think, where there are squirrels and rabbits to chase, but MacGuffin would enjoy a visit to Bath. The waters might do him good; he is looking a trifle gouty lately, do not you think?”

“By all means let us bring MacGuffin. Dove says that he pines when you go away without him. Have my trunks sent up to my dressing-room, and I shall begin packing directly.” With the assistance of Mrs. Dove, the housekeeper, Catherine’s new wedding-clothes were wrapped in tissue and folded into the trunks, and the chaise, loaded with their luggage and a sleepy Newfoundland dog, was ready to carry them to Bath the following morning. Matthew had left at dawn, driving Henry’s curricle, and would be in Bath to receive them.

A pair of pistols, primed and loaded, hung inside the chaise where Henry could easily reach them. The presence of these firearms did not unsettle Catherine in the least; indeed, she experienced a private shiver of delight over the idea of being waylaid by highwaymen. Fortunately for Henry, who had no share in that particular species of delight, the journey was uneventful, and they entered Bath early in the afternoon.

Catherine found the sights, sounds, and smells of the city as overwhelming and delightful as they had been the first time she had entered Bath, and she looked about her with an eager smile, trying to take it all in. Henry watched her with a smile of his own, finding new delights in Bath as seen through his beloved’s eyes. Even MacGuffin caught their excitement and heaved himself to his feet, from which height he could see through the side glasses of the chaise as easily as his master and mistress.

Matthew awaited them at a coaching-inn near the Abbey courtyard, and they were quickly established in a private room. After refreshing himself with hot tea and sandwiches, Henry set out to secure lodgings, and by nightfall the Tilneys were in possession of first-floor lodgings in one of the stately houses of Pulteney-street. The large sitting-room looked down over the street and the wide pavements; there was another room comfortably fitted out as a dining parlor, and a bedchamber with a view over Bathwick. There was a dressing room for each of them, and the maidservant was already unpacking Catherine’s trunk and looking askance at the Newfoundland, who took a quietly polite interest in the proceedings.

“Come away from there, Mac,” said Catherine. “Do not drool on my gowns. Come and lie here on your blanket, there’s a good lad.” She managed to coax him away from the trunks with the help of a good fire in the sitting-room, before which the Newfoundland settled himself peacefully.

“There is a ball at the Lower Rooms tomorrow,” said Henry, who was reading the paper. “I suppose you must visit all the shops before we make our appearance.”

“Oh, no, not all the shops; Papa was so generous with my wedding-clothes that I have plenty to wear.”

Despite such sartorial riches, Catherine did find herself in need of a few indispensible items the next day; and Henry, all good nature, escorted her to Bond-street and Milsom-street, where the best shops in Bath were located.

Catherine noticed Henry look up at the windows of the lodgings he had engaged for his family the previous winter. His expression was inscrutable; he was not a man to brood, but Catherine sensed that Henry’s relationship with General Tilney had none of the easy affection of hers with Mr. Morland.

“Would you have preferred to take lodgings here on Milsom-street?” she asked him.

“No, my sweet; my taste runs to the newer parts of Bath. I would have preferred to take lodgings on Pulteney-street last year, but General Tilney particularly wanted Milsom-street. Have you everything you need? The time for your public debut of the season approaches.”

They arrived at the Lower Rooms as the minuets were ending. The season was full, and the crowd ringing the dance floor numerous; the last couple retired, and the throng pushed onto the dance floor, forming sets for the country dances to follow. As Henry guided Catherine expertly through the mob, the ebb and flow of humanity brought them suddenly face-to-face with the master of the ceremonies.

“Mr. Tilney!” he cried. “I am delighted that you have returned to Bath, sir. And. . . Miss Morland, is it?”

“You see before you the success of your endeavors, Mr. King,” said Henry. “This is Mrs. Tilney, who was Miss Morland when you introduced me to her last year. I dare say you have made a few matches in your time, and here is one more to add to your list.”

“Indeed I have made a fair few matches,” said Mr. King, “though my exertions are not entirely directed toward such permanent arrangements. I felicitate you, Mr. Tilney; and give you joy, madam. Pray forgive me, but I must give directions to the musicians. The country dances will begin momentarily.”

Henry took Catherine’s hand and led her to one of the sets that were forming. Mr. King announced that the dance would be “Haste to the Wedding,” and the dancers swept into motion as the music began.

“A fitting choice,” said Henry. “This is our first dance as a married couple, Cat. We are proof of the parallel between marriage and a country dance. From the vantage point of being an old married man of nearly two months, I flatter myself that the metaphor holds up admirably. Here we are, at the Lower Rooms, surrounded by other ladies and gentlemen but with no other thought than to dance together — at least for the first two dances.”

“Just remember, if you dance with any other ladies here tonight, that you are married to me.”

“I am not likely to forget, my sweet, for a hundred reasons.”

Catherine made the agreeable discovery that dancing with Henry had not lost its charm, and that two dances with him as her partner passed as quickly as they had the previous winter — in other words, all too quickly.

As the musicians finished with a flourish, Mr. King appeared at Catherine’s elbow in the mysterious way that belonged to truly accomplished masters of the ceremonies, and to her surprise asked her to lead the next two dances. “It is a bride’s right,” he told her, “and I hope not a disagreeable duty, as I have taken pains to procure for you a partner whom you already know.”

The only young man amongst Catherine’s acquaintance who might be in Bath was John Thorpe; and it was with a sinking feeling that she agreed to lead the dance, thinking it a very onerous duty indeed; but then she realized that Mr. King was looking expectantly at the young man standing beside him, who was smiling at her in a very familiar manner, though she did not know him at all.

Henry’s voice came from behind her. “Mr. King, your scruples are very kind indeed; but I am afraid that Mrs. Tilney is not yet acquainted with my brother-in-law. Do not trouble yourself, sir, for it is the work of a moment. Catherine, may I present Eleanor’s husband, Lord Whiting?”

Mr. King was all apologies; but Catherine’s real delight at meeting Eleanor’s husband, and the Viscount’s own good breeding and charming manners soon did away with all the discomfort of the moment, and Mr. King soon bustled off to inform the musicians of Mrs. Tilney’s choices.

“Eleanor’s over that way,” said his lordship to Henry, nodding towards the chairs. “Sitting out this dance, and I have been strictly charged to send you to her.”

“Yes, of course,” said Henry, his eyes already eagerly scanning the chairs. “You are in good hands, my sweet; enjoy your moment in the sun. I will watch with Eleanor.”

“Give her my love,” said Catherine, “and tell her that I shall come to see her directly the set is finished.”

Henry immediately disappeared into the crowd, and his lordship gave Catherine his hand to the top of the set, where Mr. King stood waiting. “Mrs. Tilney has chosen ‘Mrs. Darcy’s Favorite,’” he informed the other dancers, and Catherine blushed at the attention, kind though it was, turned upon her.

Lord Whiting turned out to be an excellent dancer, perhaps even better than Henry, though Catherine would scarcely have credited such a notion. The demands of leading the dance precluded conversation until they reached the bottom and had a turn out. His lordship said, “You will forgive me if I am too familiar, Mrs. Tilney; I have heard so much about you from Eleanor and from Henry’s letters, that I feel as though we are already very well-acquainted.”

“And I have heard much about you, sir; Eleanor’s happiness is clear in her letters. I am surprised to learn that you have come to Bath, though.”

“It was an unexpected trip and arranged with great haste, as was your own, I apprehend. We arrived only today.”

“You are not unwell, sir? But I suppose you would scarcely be dancing if you were gouty.”

“No, I am very well, I thank you; and you are correct, madam. Considering that most visitors to Bath claim to be here for their health, it really is astonishing how many of them turn up at the rooms when there is a ball.”

Catherine assented, thinking his lordship quite a clever young man; and as another couple had reached the bottom of the set, they rejoined the dance and had no more opportunity to speak except for the usual commonplaces of a ballroom until their two dances were over.

The viscount led Catherine to the chairs; Henry, taller than those around him, saw her before she reached the chairs and moved as if to intercept her, but when Catherine saw Eleanor seated nearby, she ran past Henry to bestow a warm embrace upon her.