There Must Be Murder (8 page)

“Mrs. Tilney,” said a familiar voice, low and
familiar, in her ear. She jumped, startled, and whirled about to
see Sir Philip.

“Oh!” she cried. “You startled me!”

“Indeed? If so, I beg your pardon, madam. I
would not make you feel any discomfort for the world; unlike, I
think, some others.”

Catherine had no idea what he meant, and looked
her surprise.

“Do you not understand me? Ah, you are young;
but I saw your blush tonight when your husband prevented me from
meeting you. I suspect the apple does not fall far from the tree in
the Tilney family.”

She blushed again, remembering what she had
learnt of Sir Philip. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I must go; Henry
will be looking for me.”

“Oh, well, then. I should not like to be the
agent of unpleasantness for you. Until another time.” He bowed, and
Catherine turned away, confused by his words, only to be startled
by Mrs. Findlay’s manservant, clutching a lamp and leading his
mistress.

Mrs. Findlay looked from Catherine’s blushing
countenance to Sir Philip and back again, and smiled most
unpleasantly. “Oho!” she said. “Caught in the act!”

“You have caught nothing, ma’am. I wish you good
night.” Catherine hastily curtsied and proceeded outside the
theatre as quickly as she could through the thinning crowd.

She met Henry by the door. “What is it?” he said
upon seeing her expression.

“Sir Philip and Mrs. Findlay,” she said. “Please
take me home, Henry.”

“With all possible speed, my sweet.” He put his
arm around her waist and swept her through the crowds and into Lord
Whiting’s carriage, where his lordship and Eleanor waited to
receive her and make her comfortable. Catherine leaned against
Henry’s sleeve and sighed.

“Better now, Cat?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“What is it, Catherine dearest?” asked Eleanor
gently.

“Sir Philip would talk to me, and though I put
him off, Mrs. Findlay saw us, and I believe she has drawn the wrong
conclusion.”

“Never mind,” said his lordship. “Everyone must
know that Mrs. Findlay’s gossip is nonsense. First, accusations of
murder, and now adultery! No one family has so much melodrama in
these modern times. No one will pay her any mind.”

“I hope you are right,” said Catherine. “I
overheard Miss Beauclerk and Mr. Shaw talking about services that
he performed for her. It sounded most sinister; but I am sure he
only meant making up her potion.” She shook her head. “Such
nonsense! I liked the play very much. Did not you?”

His lordship looked chagrined, and Eleanor
laughed at him. “You paid no attention to it, did you, my
love?”

“Well, no; but that is not why one goes to the
theatre.”

“Catherine likes a play very well,” said
Henry.

His lordship bowed. “Another time I shall be
quiet and let you enjoy it.”

“I could hear perfectly well, sir; I thank you
for inviting me.”

“I am sorry your evening had a sad end,” said
Lord Whiting.

“To make up for tonight,” said Henry, “Tomorrow
we will have our walk. Eleanor, Whiting, will you join us? We
thought to walk along the river and up to Beechen Cliff, retracing
our steps from last year.”

They agreed to meet at the pump-room at noon,
and Catherine’s evening had a happier ending than she would have
thought when she first entered the carriage.

***

At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count
Morano rose to abhorrence. That he should, with undaunted
assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding all she had expressed
on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it was evident he
did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so long as his
pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to the
disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved
by observing that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated
himself on one side of her, while Morano placed himself on the
other. There was a pause for some moments as the gondolieri
prepared their oars, and Emily trembled from apprehension of the
discourse that might follow this silence. At length she collected
courage to break it herself, in the hope of preventing fine
speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial
remark which she made, the latter returned a short and disobliging
reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general observation,
which he contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though
Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he was not
discouraged.

“
I have been impatient,” said he, addressing
Emily, “to express my gratitude; to thank you for your goodness;
but I must also thank Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this
opportunity of doing so.”

Emily regarded the Count with a look of
mingled astonishment and displeasure.

“
Why,” continued he, “should you wish to
diminish the delight of this moment by that air of cruel
reserve?—Why seek to throw me again into the perplexities of doubt,
by teaching your eyes to contradict the kindness of your late
declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour of my
passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily! surely
unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your
sentiments.”

“
If I ever had disguised them, sir,” said
Emily, with recollected spirit, “it would certainly be unnecessary
any longer to do so. I had hoped, sir, that you would have spared
me any farther necessity of alluding to them; but, since you do not
grant this, hear me declare, and for the last time, that your
perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem, which I was
inclined to believe you merited.”

Catherine sat up. “Henry, please read that
again,” she said.

“Which part?”

“Emily’s last part.”

“Very well,” said Henry, and repeated the last
paragraph.

“That is very good,” said Catherine. “It is just
the thing for me to say to Sir Philip when you are not there, do
not you think?”

Henry looked at her, his brow creased. “Did
Beauclerk impose upon you?”

“Oh, no! But I think he has formed a—a wrong
idea. I just need to explain it to him. Do not you think that is a
good way to say it?”

“The meaning could not be clearer.”

“Let me see the book.” She took the volume and
read it over several times, repeating it aloud. She handed the book
back to Henry. “Will you hear me recite?”

“With pleasure.”

“Sir Philip,” said Catherine solemnly, “Hear me
declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived
you even of the esteem which I was inclined to believe you
merited.”

“Full marks. You make an excellent pupil, my
sweet.”

Catherine laid her head upon his shoulder with a
happy sigh. “Now I shall not be at a loss if he makes me
uncomfortable again. I shall say to myself, ‘What would Emily do?’
and I shall have my guide.”

“You would be better guided by your own good
sense, Cat. There is more worth here,” touching her head gently,
“and here,” brushing his fingers over her heart, “than in all of
Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, charming as they are.” He lifted her chin
gently with a finger and kissed her.

“Oh, Henry,” said Catherine with a sigh. “I do
not want to think about Sir Philip any more.”

“I am very glad to hear it.” He reached out to
extinguish the candle.

Catherine prepared for church the next morning
with a lingering expectation that the expedition to Beechen Cliff
would be put off by some emergency; the general requiring his son’s
company, or a summons from the Beauclerks that could not be
ignored. Indeed there was almost a delay, as Eleanor wished to call
briefly in Laura-place to leave a receipt for rosewater cold cream
in which Lady Beauclerk had expressed an interest.

“Matthew can take the note to her ladyship,”
said Henry, and Eleanor, who did not relish that duty, was happy
enough to surrender it. Catherine thought she saw a significant
look pass between Henry and Matthew as the note was handed over,
but it was soon forgotten in a flutter of anticipatory pleasure.
The charm of a country walk with Henry had not abated upon her
marriage, and Catherine was as happy as she had been during a
similar walk a year earlier; it could be argued she was even
happier, as she now had the right to take Henry’s arm and walk
beside him, talk to him and be the first object of his interest; a
state which Henry enjoyed no less than she.

Most of Bath was promenading upon the Royal
Crescent, and they were nearly alone by the river, so Henry let
MacGuffin off the leash. In his delight at being outside and
unrestrained, the Newfoundland reverted to rather puppyish
behavior, cavorting along the edge of the river and chasing some
mallards who lounged on the bank.

The mallards, indignant at their Sunday repose
being spoiled, squawked and flapped their wings at MacGuffin;
undaunted, he barked and teased them, challenging them to a game
they had no desire to play, ending it by the simple expedient of
entering the river and swimming away. MacGuffin stood on the
riverbank, barking after them; there was a splash, and MacGuffin
was in the river, swimming after the ducks.

“I suspected he would end up in the water,” said
Henry, not at all disturbed by his pet’s behavior.

“Oh! Henry! Get him out!” cried his sister.
“Will he not drown?”

“Newfoundlands are famous swimmers, Eleanor. I
have trained Mac to retrieve in the pond at home.”

MacGuffin was indeed a strong swimmer, but the
ducks were in their natural element, and soon outstripped him. He
made a wide turn in the water, became caught a little in the
current—Eleanor gasped, and Catherine’s heart was in her mouth—but
he soon was climbing up onto the riverbank and running back towards
them, bounding with energy and canine happiness.

“That will do very well, lad,” said Henry. “You
have had your swim, and now must stay with your master.”

MacGuffin shook himself violently, spraying
water all over them. He stood before them, his fur standing on end;
his tail wagged wildly, thick strings of saliva suspended from his
panting mouth, but his joy was obvious; to Catherine, he looked
almost as though he were laughing. He turned and bounded ahead of
them along the riverbank towards the steep climb up to Beechen
Cliff.

Catherine could not help laughing at the dog’s
comical appearance; her companions, busily employing their
handkerchiefs to dry themselves as best they could, looked at each
other and burst into laughter.

“Trained him to retrieve, did you, Tilney?” said
his lordship. “I think you need to train him a little more.”

“Mac is a good dog,” said Catherine, remembering
how he had tried to protect her from Sir Philip Beauclerk the
previous day. “He is still a puppy, really.”

“Indeed he is; and we must all be forgiven our
youthful trespasses,” said Henry with a smile. Catherine took his
arm once again, and the party proceeded to where MacGuffin stood
waiting for them at the base of Beechen Cliff.

* * *

Lady Beauclerk’s butler gave Matthew a careful
once-over. The young man was clean, plainly dressed, unremarkable
in every way, and his demeanor was respectful; there was no reason
to make him wait outside like a common tradesman. He stood back
from the open door and said, “You may wait here whilst I ascertain
if her ladyship wishes to respond.”

Matthew entered and stood in an out-of-the-way
corner in the entry. The butler nodded approvingly, placed the note
on a silver tray and carried it off.

A maidservant walked past, her arms full of
folded sheets. She paused when she saw Matthew, and her gaze
traveled over his person. “Beg pardon,” she said, curtseying.

Matthew noticed the shapely ankle she managed to
display as she did so, and her no less shapely figure. As she
looked up from the curtsey, she caught his eye boldly, and he
winked at her.