Dressed in Black

Chapter 7

Catherine," the General said as she walked down the broad staircase of shining oak.

"Good-morning, sir," she nodded, checking her steps before him. He looked unusually agitated, as if something unpleasant had occurred to ruffle his feathers. He met her greeting with a grim countenance, yet somehow it seemed as if he were endeavouring to mask it – one of his less commendable impulses, no doubt.

"Catherine, you've received a letter just now," he resumed, stretching out his hand. She recognised the seal upon first glance. "No doubt, by that expression, you can identify the author of it. I'll leave you to it."

"Begging your pardon, sir," she said in a whisper, as he made a movement to leave. "Might I inquire into Henrietta's health? She looked rather afflicted when last I saw her."

"There is nothing the matter with my daughter," he returned sharply; discontent roughening his otherwise clear voice. She was a little taken aback by his impetuous irritation, but a forced smile on his part smoothed her unsettled nerves back into place.

"You may use the drawing-room to read your letter, Catherine," he bowed with his hand wrapped around the gold knob of the parlour door. "It is vacant."

"Thank you," she made a quick curtsy, retiring briskly into the said drawing-room. Upon reaching it, she glided to the window and sat on the marble parapet, breaking the indigo seal with what could be described as nervous enthusiasm. It went as follows:

Dear Miss Crane

I must begin by owning that it is rather inconvenient for me not to have you calling on Philip and I every other day, because we have so long been accustomed to your presence – but for the most part because my boy is not as untroubled and affectionate as he was when you were present. Our county aches for your gracious presence, for it was indisputably the most elegant and pleasing. I find your cousin Wentworth, the Rose Grove's new proprietor, most fatiguing, as he invites me to dinner as good as every evening. I cannot imagine a man possessing more social impulses. I dislike such people because their behaviour seems to be utterly studied and staged, as if they were putting on a play for all the world to see. You know how quietly interested I am in any form of art, but when human beings decide to embody it, it becomes instantly mutilated. Now then, what was I saying? I did not mean to go into a tirade of sorts, so you must forgive me. You will also find a note here enclosed from Philip, whose writing skills are improving daily. I am sure that being his aunt; this is very pleasant news to you. I shall have to entreat you to write me, for I ache to know everything from the General's genuine treatment of your person to your own health. With these particulars, I should be much satisfied, and ask no more favours of you for the time being. I am,

Your obliging brother,

Albert Musgrave of Trillynch Hall.

And the short letter from her nephew followed like so:

Aunt Cathy. Jolly good to write you. Papa is ever so dull, and me I feel... I don't know what I feel, dearest. You would sooner know my humour, Aunt Cathy. Charming weather we have been having – how is the great big man in the red uniform? I daresay he's an odious fellow, borrowing you from us – that is what papa calls it – for so horribly long a time. Papa seems resentful – that is a new word Master Loughton has taught me – when he speaks of you and the red man. Please, aunty, are you in grave danger? It would be insupportable if you were – I daresay I'd save you. Now then. Master Loughton calls me. He will read over my note and make some very minor corrections as he wishes me to learn on my own. Good morrow, good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight.