Amanda Grange: Henry Tilney's Diary

She was as good as her word. I never thought Papa would agree to the idea, but Mrs Hughes represented the virtues of the idea to him and at last he gave way.

I went out riding and when I returned I discovered that Mrs Hughes and Eleanor were in Mama’s favourite walk. Eleanor never used to like it, but ever since Mama died she has been drawn to it. I thought it an unhealthy place, with its narrow path winding through a thick grove of old Scotch firs and its gloomy aspect, but when I spoke to Mrs Hughes about it later, saying that I thought it was certain to bring on a fit of melancholy, Mrs Hughes said that some period of melancholy was necessary.

‘And what about you, Henry?’ she asked.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you have lost your mother, too.’

I told her that I was happy, but it was not until she had listened to me for an hour that I realized how devastated I had been. She has done us all good, even Papa, who busies himself more than ever, but who I am sure misses Mama, as do we all. I cannot believe it. I keep expecting her to walk in the room with her customary smile and attend to her needlework, but I know I will never see her again.

Thursday 12 August

Papa called Eleanor into his study this morning and told her that Mama’s jewellery would, when she was old enough, be hers. It was a melancholy experience for her to touch the much-loved necklaces and bracelets, but it served to turn her thoughts forward as well as back.

‘Papa has promised me the pearls for my come-out,’ said Eleanor to me this afternoon. ‘They were a gift to Mama from her papa when she married. I have always liked them and I am looking forward to wearing them when I am old enough; they will remind me of her.’

‘You will look very well in them, I am sure, and Mama would be pleased. Do you like having Mrs Hughes here?’

‘Very much. I am only sorry that she will soon have to leave us, though I understand that her own family need her. But she has promised to visit us again, if Papa is willing, and she says that we must write to each other very often.’

I offered her my arm as we walked through the gardens.

‘She has told Papa that he should send you to school, otherwise you will be very much on your own here,’ I said.

She clutched my arm more tightly.

‘I could not bear to leave Northanger,’ she said in a worried voice.

‘Not at the moment, perhaps, but in time. You will have company at school, and an opportunity to make friends. Mama met Mrs Hughes when they were both at school, remember. I think it would be good for you, by which I mean, I think it would promote your happiness. I will soon be going back to school myself, and Frederick will be returning to his regiment, which means that, otherwise, you will be left here with Papa.’

She shuddered, knowing Papa’s temper to be uncertain at the best of times.

‘Perhaps it would be a good idea,’ she said. ‘And then I could invite friends to stay with me in the holidays as well.’

‘An excellent idea. I am glad you have decided to like school. I know Mrs Hughes will be suggesting the idea to you within a very few days, and at least you will now be prepared.’

‘Life is not what I thought it was going to be,’ said Eleanor with a sigh.

‘No, my dear,’ I said, putting my hand over hers. ‘It never is.’

Friday 26 October

Though I sometimes wish my father were not so restless and not forever altering things, I must confess that the new parsonage is a vast improvement on the old one, and that Woodston is now ideally suited to my needs. The house is large and airy with plenty of light: a gentleman’s residence with an imposing drive and entranceway. There is also a small room next to the drawing room where I can keep all my mess and clutter, and where I can have my dogs about me. I told him so this morning when I expressed my intention of moving into it next week.

‘That will never do,’ he said. ‘It is not yet fitted up. There is no furniture in the dining parlour and the drawing room has not even been decorated.’

‘I am not thinking of entertaining just yet. The small room next to the dining parlour is fitted out and it is enough for my needs. I can eat there and sit there as well as anywhere else, at least until the rest of the house is ready for use.’

‘You would do better to stay here until everything is done, it is far more comfortable and an easy journey.’

‘I need to be in my own parish. When I am more established there it will be different, but for the moment I want to set my mark on the place,’ I said.

‘If it were just a matter of furniture, then perhaps I would agree with you, but there are other improvements to be made and they would be easier to carry out if you were here.’

‘As to any further improvements to the parsonage, it has just been built. I cannot think there is any more to be done,’ I said.

‘Oh, the house, but the gardens are not finished, and there is work to be done on the view. The Carsons’ cottage can be seen from the drawing room window, it would be much better to knock it down and build it elsewhere. I have already talked to Robinson about it.’

‘Then I must ask you to untalk to him. It is time for me to start managing the place myself, and besides, I cannot ask the Carsons to move their cottage for so small a reason as to improve the view.’

‘So small a reason, you call it? When the cottage can plainly be seen amongst the apple trees? I think it a very good reason.’

I knew he would go on arguing, for if I waited for him to be ready for me to move I would wait for ever, and so I cut short his protestations by saying, ‘I have already appointed a housekeeper.’

‘Have you indeed? And did you not think to consult me about it? But then, you have always been headstrong, and I suppose you must move into the parsonage at some time. But not next week, you had better go next month. We have house guests arriving on Monday, do not forget, and they will be here for the better part of a month. Some of them, my oldest friends, are already here. Your brother will no doubt take over the billiard room as usual with his set of friends. The army has done something to improve him but not as much as I hoped. He is still prone to mix with the wrong company, he needs a wife. I have invited a number of eligible young women and you, too, Henry, should be giving some serious thought to the matter of matrimony. Many of your friends are already married. Charles Plainter is not only married but he has three children.’

‘Charles is older than I am.’

‘True, but you are four-and-twenty, old enough to be finding someone with a good dowry of twenty or thirty thousand pounds. There is a particular young lady I think you will like, a Miss Barton.’

I will be very surprised if I like Miss Barton, my father’s and my tastes on young ladies being exactly opposite, but it will not stop my father from bringing her to my notice at every opportunity.

Eleanor was sympathetic. I found her in the arbour, sheltered from the wind, well wrapped up in her coat and cloak, writing in her journal.

‘Do not let me interrupt you,’ I said. ‘I would not want to get in the way. I hope you are writing of me. Let me tell you what you ought to say: Henry home, booted and greatcoated – complimented me on my gown – said that blue becomes me – admired the curl of my hair – disturbed me with his nonsense when I would much sooner be writing in my journal. ’

She laughed and put her journal aside.

‘I did not expect you back so soon. Have you come to say goodbye?’

‘Never goodbye, my dear Eleanor, though you are right, I told our father I would be leaving for Woodston next week. In his usual way he overrode me and the result is that I am to stay for the house party and leave next month. He wishes me to marry Miss Barton.’