Betty yawned and leaned back into his arm, letting her hands – animated but a few minutes before – drop into his. “And that’s why Lord Brannink’s also Lord Branninberk, and William’s nowt,” she said. “An how I come to be here.”
Colin grinned and bussed her. “Then a toast t’Fortuna, Lord luv her, for getting tha here,” with another kiss and a long happy sigh. “Ah, Betty, m’girl, hast tha more drink far a man?”
We have now been privy to three forms of interrogation: the passive, the active, and the successful. Each, naturally, having its merit and place in such a quiz as we have before us.
The passive, it must be admitted, could only fall to Catherine’s lot for, although no one upon seeing her as a child could have ever conceived that she was born to be a heroine, yet she had proven those doubters utterly wrong by her own impeccable behaviour. And that behaviour demanded a certain amount of passivity, of receptivity, of allowing herself to be acted
upon
, rather than acting herself – both for the great benefit of being eventually rescued and also in consideration of literary norms. Yes, Catherine well knew her place in this scheme – or would when it was over – and acted, or rather, did
not
act, accordingly.
However, before those ladies of an energetic disposition take it upon themselves to exclude our hapless heroine from their elite circle of daring worthies, let it be said that Catherine did not – for all her passivity – lack true courage. Has she not consistently sought out the most perilous of corridors and porticoes in which to be inopportuned?
More, has she not allowed herself to be inopportuned, at the very great risk of her sanity – not to mention her dignity? Indeed, had Catherine been of a more active disposition, she should certainly never have learnt all that she did by placing herself calmly in harm’s way! No, let us not criticise passivity – in its place.
But let us not, either, be therefore inclined to malign the active temperament, which naturally falls to Henry’s domain. Indeed praise for activity is almost never difficult to come by – excepting, of course, those times wherein the hero’s enthusiasm for the quest at hand causes him to nearly kill himself on cliffsides – but even this particularly nerve–wracking adventure we may applaud for its finesse, if not its success in answering questions rather than arousing them.
The reader, particularly, looks with great fondness on the active mode of inquiry – and is forever clamouring for a careening gig, which may topple at any moment rather than a sensible curricle. For the joy of the active disposition is that the spectator sits passively in the curricle, whilst the hero rushes on to certain doom. Thus, within the
reader
are the passive and the active united, and all eventually come to rights.
This, then, must constitute the successful: for one must be passive in order to receive an answer and active in order to seek it. This natural flow and exchange did Colin and Betty engage in before the fire in the evening kitchen. And, to tell the truth, the success of such inquiry were so famous that, had either Catherine or Henry thought to consult their man, they might have packed up that very evening with many hearty well–wishes and fond – if still hasty – adieus. But, alas, our gig has not yet spilled, although it has certainly wobbled a good deal, and we must yet wait for Mr and Mrs Tilney to achieve that balance which will lead us safely home.
And alas – if the authoress may be permitted more than one “alas” per chapter – that the next dawn brought our befuddled heroes no closer to understanding the mystery in question, than they had been the night before.
They woke – if indeed, they had ever really slept that strange, ghost–ridden night – and began their morning in as near an ordinary manner as could be achieved when one is jumping at shadows while pretending that jumping at shadows is precisely what one isn’t doing, and managed the whole mangled affair by commenting, in that peculiarly English fashion, on the weather.
It had ceased raining, Henry noted without looking out the window, having no desire to examine any more cliffs. Catherine murmured that it had, and that it was rather foggy as a result, sitting by the fire although it was not especially cold in the room. Henry remarked after a minute that Colin would no doubt complain of his trick knee soon. Catherine nodded and reached for a blanket. They neither of them mentioned that the blanket had not been there the night before. With a great sigh, Catherine asked whether Henry intended to visit the library again? He did not know. Should she prefer otherwise? Catherine did not answer, but touched the locket and turned towards the fire.
The flickering light glinted off her dark tresses, shivered shadows over the rumpled folds of the blanket, shimmered off the double rings and locket, at once hid and illuminated her pretty features, that sitting there she seemed more ghost than bride. The flames leapt, sparked, caressed her ceaseless fingers with their light as though staring into a mirror. The locket twisted and turned, until it seemed like some awful sun within her palm, some potent star locked in its nebula. Her eyes grew distant, seemed to see ancient days of knights and battle, and sorrow, and sorrow, and sorrow. Almost, her throat quivered with the weird song she had heard in that forbidden corridor, but Henry touched her shoulder, turned her from the fire as ancient as the stones, and turned her to himself. He gripped her arms and kissed her – he did not know what else to do. And when he broke, his heart ached, for his Catherine’s eyes were still bemused and her smile too.
“We shall go to the garden,” he said, helping her to her feet. She did not protest, although her hand strayed again to the bit of metal about her throat.
The remainder of the day passed in a pleasing semblance of normality. The garden animated Catherine’s spirit – especially since Henry kept her hands occupied with his own, and not with that d—nable piece of jewellery.
“How did you come by it, love?” he asked lightly as they strolled between the late roses and chrysanthemums, dodging stray droplets from the overhanging ivy.
Catherine shook her head and blushed.
With a start, she turned the conversation to the will that she had found buried in her novel.
But when Henry pressed her for its whereabouts, she admitted that she’d lost it.
Lost it where?
How?
Henry asked eagerly.
Catherine only twisted the locket.
“Through foolishness,” she answered, and would say no more of her evening.
But how did Henry fare in the graveyard, she asked, plucking a daisy and tearing at its petals.
Now it was Henry’s turn to grow awkwardly silent and consider how best to describe an apparition.
Instead he spoke of the poem he had found and which, if his poor schoolboy’s memory served aright, may have been authored by Dante himself.
“It is nothing to a second will, even one that’s been misplaced,” he said, “but it is a pretty piece of poetry.
Shall I read what I have to you?”
Catherine agreed and Henry aided her to a seat, very grateful to that Florentine for his intercession.
Before he could begin, however, Catherine burst forth with, “I did not
mean
to lose the will, Henry!
Truly, I did not!
You must not think that I
desired
to – to….”
“To what, my dear?” Henry asked.
“I swear, I went looking immediately for you, Henry.
You must believe me.”
“Of course I believe you.”
“And I
did
look for it – after….”
“After?” he prompted.
“Oh, nothing.
Do read to me the sonnet, Henry.
I am all devotion.”
“As I am all devotion, likewise,” our hero said, himself now colouring and turning away with an almost Latin fire.
“Believe me, Catherine, I could never mistake you for anyone else.”
“I know
you
would not do so, Henry, but….”
“Nor did I – nor
have
I….”
“I am very glad to hear it!” Catherine cried, standing from the fountain in a shower of daisy petals.
With quick steps, she paced the length of that little garden, wringing her hands and wishing that she were back home in sensible England, where the worst sort of Thorpe only abducted one on pleasant outings and not into hidden chambers!
Of course, she reflected, John Thorpe was never as handsome as Young Will – and this may have some affect upon the success of his abductions.
Henry, meanwhile, had been ruminating over the details that Edric had given them their first night in Nachtstürm, and springing from his seat he arrested Catherine in her walk and asked her to open the locket.
When she asked him, rather possessively, why, he said, “Because although we may have lost the will, I think we may have found another clue.
Did Edric not say that Cecelia bore just such a locket about her neck?
Did Edric not say that when they found her body, the locket had been taken?
Did Edric not say that he doubted Will’s identity because he bore no locket in his hand?
A slim thing, indeed, but Edric seems to have set his trust upon it.
Come, let me see it.
“Or tell me,” he continued when she demurred, “how you came by it.
It seems entirely too much to hope that William gave it to you himself – perhaps supposing, as I would never do, that you were his beloved.
Perhaps giving it to you for safekeeping – as someone must have done originally with the will, placing it like that within your book.
A poor hiding place, indeed.
And I would give much to know who put it there and when!
For I do not think you came to Nachtstürm with the will!”
No, Catherine replied, she did not.
“Nor do I think a ghost would be so careless…” Henry began before rallying himself from such morbid thoughts that in the damp light of day seemed most absurd.
“But how
did
you come by the locket, Catherine?”
Fortunately, Catherine was saved by a summoning to supper, for which respite she vowed to be a better and more cheerful wife.
As the soup was laid, therefore, she said with forced jocularity, “I hope I didn’t startle you when you came in last night, Henry.”
He replied that a poker was always an acceptable choice of weaponry.
“Although it mightn’t be,” Catherine said, “were you a ghost, indeed!
Then it should go right through you.
I wonder, Henry, how one might kill a ghost.
Poor souls, they’re already dead.
Although, one wonders, doesn’t one, about those such as,” in a whisper, “Old Edric.
The way he speaks about the barons!
It’s as though he was always here; as though he were the ghost of all these ancestors.
Except that he can be touched.
As, indeed, every person here is quite tangible….
But if so, it may be that a poker can kill a ghost or run him off a cliff!
What do you think, Reverend?
It is very nearly Sunday and I’ve yet to hear your sermon!”
Henry answered that there were more things between Heaven and earth, Horatio…and hadn’t anyone ever heard of
salt
this side of the Alps?
So they might have continued slinging innocent barbs at one another, when their peace was interrupted by the sounds of a rather violent argument (involving, so it seemed, pots and pans, as well as what one might only suppose to be Bavarian curses) issuing from the serving room. At once Henry jumped into the fray, tearing the tablecloth from his neck and leaping towards the door. Catherine rose with him, although she did little more than turn in the direction of the outburst, one hand upon the back of her chair, the other creeping to the gold glinting on her throat. Startled servants hastily shoved their way out of Henry’s path – although none were quick–witted enough to think to open the door for him. That he had to wrestle open himself, the cords of his neck and arms shifting as he struggled with the handle, pushing against the frame with one broad shoulder. The din from the adjoining room grew every instant, as shattering glass was added to the mêlée. With a final CRACK! The door opened and Henry burst through, ducking in time to miss a flying candlestick. A moment passed before he could discern the two figures involved in this rather singular spectacle: young William Wiltford and Old Edric.