Margaret Sullivan: There Must Be Murder

“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.

Eleanor returned the embrace, but she looked past Catherine with an expression of apprehension, an expression that Henry, who now stood beside Eleanor’s chair, shared; an expression that Catherine had seen before on both brother and sister.

She took a deep breath, tried to ignore the sudden nervous patter of her heart, and turned to make her curtsy to General Tilney.

“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.”