There Must Be Murder

Chapter Three Spoilt by Great Acquaintance

“How do you do, General Tilney?” said Catherine in a voice that was more composed than she felt.

The general’s answer held the barest hint of civility. “Very well, I thank you.”

“I am glad to hear it. I am glad that you are not in Bath for your health, sir.”

Lord Whiting made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh smothered with a cough.

“Ma’am,” the general said to a woman dressed in half-mourning who was seated next to him, “May I present Mrs. Tilney?”

“So this is the paragon that has captured dear Henry!” the woman cried. “Why, she is adorable! So very young!”

“Lady Beauclerk,” the general informed Catherine, “is a neighbor and a very old friend of the Tilney family.”

“We so longed to see you when you were staying at Northanger Abbey last year,” said Lady Beauclerk, fixing Catherine with her bright eye. “But we were in mourning then for dear Sir Arthur and not paying calls. But oh, did I wonder about this Miss Morland who had at last conquered Henry Tilney! The neighborhood had quite despaired of either of the Tilney boys finding women good enough to suit their fine taste. I confess I nurtured a hope that dear Henry might take pity on my Judith and offer for her. My love,” she called to a young woman who had just stepped off the dance floor, “come here and be presented to Mrs. Tilney. I must present you to her, though she is so much younger than you, for she is a married lady, and you are not.”

Miss Beauclerk was fair and delicate, ethereally pale; one of those graceful, fluttering creatures who make an ordinary mortal, even one in a new gown of the most delicate muslin, feel like a plodding beast. Catherine, confused by Lady Beauclerk’s speech and disconcerted at meeting this lovely woman who apparently had once been a rival for her husband’s hand, could do nothing but curtsy. As she rose, she felt a hand under her elbow, and knew with a triumphant certainty that Henry stood beside her.

“We were unprepared to meet so many old friends, sir,” Henry said to his father, “but I am happy to perform the introductions for my wife.”

“As you choose,” said the general with every appearance of fashionable boredom.

“I hope you will not forget to introduce me, Tilney,” said a young exquisite standing behind Lady Beauclerk’s chair.

Henry’s hand tightened on Catherine’s elbow momentarily. “With the greatest pleasure. My sweet, may I present Sir Philip Beauclerk?”

“Your servant, Mrs. Tilney,” said Sir Philip. He held out his hand, and Catherine, unsure what else to do, gave him hers; in a single, graceful movement, Sir Philip bowed and raised her hand to his lips.

“Henry dear, you are remiss in explaining family history to dear Mrs. Tilney,” said Lady Beauclerk. “Philip is my late husband’s nephew and heir, and has put us out of our home.”

“You will give Mrs. Tilney the idea that I am the world’s greatest scoundrel, ma’am,” said Sir Philip. “I was happy to have you and Judith stay on at Beaumont, and am still, but you would remove to the Dower House.”

“I dare say Mrs. Tilney understands that if I had only myself to consider, I should have been very happy to stay and act as your hostess, but it would have been most improper for Judith to live with her unmarried cousin.”

“As you say, ma’am,” said Sir Philip with another graceful bow.

“If only you had taken Judith off my hands years ago, Henry! The least you can do is dance with her.”

Well and truly caught, there was nothing else for Henry to do but request Miss Beauclerk’s hand in the set that was forming, and nothing for Miss Beauclerk to do but accept, which she did as gracefully as she did everything. With another squeeze of the elbow and a significant, apologetic look, Henry was gone — gone to the dance floor, with another woman on his arm — and such a lovely woman!

Lord Whiting also gave Catherine an apologetic look, but she understood it would not have done to stand up again with him so soon; instead he took Eleanor to the other set forming. Catherine was left alone, with such feelings of discomfort as can be imagined: the general set to ignore her, Lady Beauclerk set to tease her, and Henry gone; but a rescuer was at hand.

Sir Philip stepped close to her, his voice a murmur for her ear only. “As my aunt has left you bereft of your partner,” he said, “perhaps you will accept me as a substitute, however inferior.”

Catherine accepted, all gratitude for such kindness. She hoped to follow her brother-in-law’s example and join the other set, but as they passed behind Miss Beauclerk, she reached out to touch Catherine’s arm. “Mrs. Tilney, will you stand next to me? Pray pay no attention to my mother’s rattle. Henry — Mr. Tilney and I have been friends for a long time, and I am very happy for you both.”

Catherine looked at Henry, who nodded and smiled; thus assured, she took the place to which she had been invited.

Sir Philip turned out to be the sort of partner in whom Catherine normally delighted: a graceful dancer who did nothing to draw undue attention to himself, scrupulously polite, certainly handsome; but instead of giving her attention to her partner, she found herself watching Henry dance with Miss Beauclerk, watching him lean close to say something that made her laugh. Common sense told her that in such a crowded room, Henry had to lean close to be heard, but she could not be comfortable.

Sir Philip did not seek to engage her in conversation beyond the commonplace civilities of a ballroom, for which Catherine was grateful, though she felt she should be making more of an effort. She felt it even more acutely after their two dances were over, and Mr. King presented gentleman after gentleman who wished introductions to the pretty young bride who had been singled out by a man of fashion such as Beauclerk. Catherine danced with them all, and conversed politely with them all, and was obliged to speak very severely to one of them, who appeared to be in liquor and seized her waist with more familiarity than allowed by a country-dance. Mr. King hustled the offender away directly with profuse apologies; Catherine heard the man say to the master of the ceremonies, “But she was dancin’ with Beauclerk!” She could not begin to understand him.

She had made up her mind to not dance any more that evening, when Henry appeared before her like a miracle. “I hope you saved two dances for me,” he said.

“Any two you wish.”

“The next two, then.”

Her flagging spirits revived, they had their two dances, and then everyone was going in to tea. Though the room was crowded, Henry managed to find a table, and sent a waiter to fetch their tea.

“How delightful that we were dancing together just now,” said Catherine. “I would not have liked to be obliged to drink tea with someone else just because he happened to be my partner for the last dance.”

“Nor I, my sweet; and that is why I gave Mr. King a half-crown to tell me which would be the last dance before tea.”

Catherine gasped, and then laughed, and poured her beloved a cup of tea as they were joined by Lord and Lady Whiting.

“Oh, how very comfortable,” said Eleanor. “Here we all are together, when we despaired of finding a place!”

“The General will not join us?” asked Henry.

“The General,” said Whiting, “waits upon Lady Beauclerk’s party, of course.”

Catherine let out a sigh of relief and smiled at Henry.

“Now that we can speak more freely, I may ask: what brings you all to Bath?” Henry asked, passing a cup of tea to his sister.

“I wrote to you that we were visiting at the Abbey over Christmas,” said Eleanor. “My father pressed me to stay on after the holiday to act as his hostess.”

“What my lovely wife has left out of the story,” said his lordship, “is that General Tilney needed a hostess at the Abbey so that he could continue to receive Lady Beauclerk and her daughter, who have been frequent callers at the Abbey, at least on the days that the general was not haunting Beaumont.”

“Indeed?” asked Henry, exchanging a speaking glance with his sister, who bowed her head and sipped her tea. “But you have not yet answered my question: what brings you all to Bath?”

His lordship smirked. “Her ladyship thought the waters might do her good, and the general decided soon after that the waters would do him good.”

“John,” said Eleanor in a warning tone.

“Do not look so despondent, my love,” said his lordship. “If the general marries Lady Beauclerk, he will no longer be able to exploit your very proper daughterly scruples to keep you at the Abbey for months on end. He will have a hostess permanently installed.”

Eleanor shook her head. “I cannot like it. It is not seemly, so soon after Sir Arthur’s death.”

“You refine too much upon trifles, my love. You may be sure that the neighborhood had them married off before Sir Arthur was cold in his grave. ‘So suitable!’ the old biddies cry. ‘Such old friends! Such fine fortunes!’”

“I know you cannot like it, Henry,” said Eleanor.

“It is none of my affair, I am sure,” said Henry. “My mother has been dead these ten years. It is not wonderful that the general should seek a wife.”

“I would have had him look elsewhere.”

“Do we have the right to dictate to him, Eleanor, when we did not allow him to dictate to us?” said Henry, with a smile at Catherine.

“But John and Catherine are not — ” Eleanor bit off the words.

“Hateful shrews?” supplied her husband.

Even Eleanor laughed at his sally.

“I would not worry overmuch,” said his lordship, finishing his tea. “I am not so sure that her ladyship will accept an offer from General Tilney. She is enjoying single blessedness too much to give it up very soon. Do you know what they call her? The Merry Widow.”

“Do they indeed?” murmured Henry.

Catherine did not expect much enjoyment from the remainder of the evening, but more dances with the viscount, and Sir Philip, and especially with Henry, brought back all the happiness with which she had anticipated this visit to Bath, alloyed only by Miss Beauclerk taking Catherine’s hand at the close of the ball and begging her to call at their house in Laura-place on the morrow. Her manner was so perfectly frank and friendly that Catherine could not refuse, though she shrank from a more intimate acquaintance.

Matthew and MacGuffin waited for them outside the rooms; Matthew had already procured a chair for Catherine, but Henry walked ahead of the chair, deep in conversation with Matthew, who held a lantern to light the way. The chair-men kept a careful distance, unsure what to make of the very large Newfoundland dog, so their progress was slower than usual.

Catherine watched Henry’s evening cloak swinging gently in the shadows. Perhaps she dozed a little; though her dreams were not of brigands and abductors, but of their comfortable lodgings, a warm fire, a glass of wine mixed with water, and Henry reading Udolpho. . . they were almost to the black veil. . . which held no fears for Catherine while Henry was there.