Margaret Sullivan: There Must Be Murder

Henry paused and glanced down at his wife’s rapt face. “I am glad that you are not of a swooning disposition, Cat. It must be terribly uncomfortable to have a girl forever falling insensible at inconvenient times, when she is most in need of all her faculties. It is well that you did not swoon when I offered you marriage. It might have put me off my mission.”

Catherine sighed in delight. “I assure you, I felt no inclination to swoon. That was the happiest moment of my life. I should not have liked to miss it because I was insensible.”

Henry smiled and gently touched her chin. “Then I am glad that you did not miss it.”

“It all seems so long ago, and yet we met for the first time just one year ago tonight! Henry, we should go back to Bath someday, present ourselves to Mr. King, and tell him what a successful introduction he made that night.”

“You would like to return to Bath?”

“Oh, yes! I think it would be very pleasant to return to Bath as a married woman. I should not have to worry about sitting out at the balls for lack of a partner.”

“Very well. I will write to my curate and enquire whether his schedule will allow me a fortnight in Bath, which we naturally shall extend to six weeks.”

Catherine’s delight with the scheme could not be expressed in words; fortunately, she needed no words to express that delight as admirably as her husband could desire.

The morning post contained a letter of great import; Henry paused only to issue a particular order to Matthew, and then went to share the news with Catherine.

He found her in the parsonage drawing-room, a very different apartment from that which she had seen on her first visit to Woodston. Fitted up with wallpaper and draperies in various shades of green and elegant new furniture, the room now indeed deserved the encomium of “the prettiest room in the world,” bestowed upon it by its then-future mistress.

Catherine did not immediately notice Henry’s entrance. She lay upon the sofa in an attitude that even the most generous observer might consider unladylike: her chin rested upon her hands, which were crossed over the arm of the sofa, and a slippered foot extended carelessly from a froth of petticoats as she gazed out of one of the big windows towards the little cottage beyond the orchard. She had been reading, but the forgotten book had dropped to the floor, where Ruby Begonia, the terrier most attached to Catherine, slept in a patch of sunlight. Henry wondered what made her smile so; his vanity did not extend to imagining that she was thinking of him.

He said her name; she started, and then laughed. “You have caught me daydreaming!” Ruby Begonia yawned, stretched, and jumped up to run to her master to have her ears scratched.

Catherine made as if to sit up, but he said, “Nay, my sweet, stay as you are. I should hate to lose sight of such a pretty ankle.”

“Henry!” she exclaimed in austere tones as she sat up and arranged her skirts demurely. She was accustomed to his teasing, but not yet to the liberties that a husband might take.

“Well, it is a very pretty ankle; but I suppose your scruples are as they should be. But that is not why I looked for you. The post has just arrived, including a letter from Naughton.” Mr. Naughton was Henry’s curate. They had been fellows together at Oxford until Henry took over the Woodston living. Mr. Naughton was content with the academic life, and had no thought of marriage; however, he had a widowed mother and unmarried sister to help support, and was happy to receive a yearly stipend in return for riding to Woodston on Sundays when the rector could not be present. “He is happy to take Sunday services for as long as necessary, so we are free to pursue our scheme for Bath.”

“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.