Dressed in Black

Chapter 8

The Abbey no longer stood for Catherine's ideal of the Gothic romantic. The furniture was too modern, the walls were papered, the windows were not long and Gothic, and there were no secret passages in her room to speak of – let alone a haunted region in the house. The place had no mysteries whatever, and she had no evidence proving the General's short temper and the resulting ill treatment of his wife and daughter. Walking along the same glove of old oaks each morning, she grew tired of the woods and the shrubbery. Nothing distracted her, and the Abbey was now like any other house that she had been in, both too real and too confining.

That morning her walk was interrupted, and made altogether unbearable by the abrupt appearance of Henry Slater, who was plodding along the slushy footpath from Kinney Hall to the Abbey. He caught sight of her the instant she did, which afforded her no opportunity of ducking behind a tree in the object of avoiding him. It is to be understood that she had a prudent girl's dread of awkward situations where gentlemen were concerned.

"Miss Crane," he said grimly as he came within hearing reach of her. "Lovely morning?"

"Yes, sir," she bowed, deciding to look upon this encounter as a test of her self-restraint. If she could but keep her countenance in his presence, her forbearance was not for naught.

"Do you make it a habit of promenading every morning after breakfast?" he enquired in a languid tone with his fists in his pockets.

"Yes, sir," she murmured, shooting him a furtive glance, not wanting to offend him by observing him with undisguised contempt.

"And do you make it a habit of murmuring to strangers?" he asked, his expression at once condescending and listlessly amused.

"No, sir," she replied, frowning.

"Miss Crane, won't you say more than 'yes' or 'no', like a damned domestic?" he asked with the placidity of a born and bred gentleman, yet the crass tongue of a rustic.

"No, sir," she sighed in discomfort, quickening her pace. "Not to you."

"Harryo," he breathed, likewise quickening his pace. "Harryo swore to me that you were not a difficult young woman. I will have to scold her for lying to me. Miss Crane, do slow down. Don't you want to take in the crisp mid October air?"

"No, sir," she replied with a frustrated scoff, panting as she clutched her skirts and trudged on with a look of intense displeasure.

"Here we are within reach of the Abbey. Why don't you take another turn with me, Miss Crane?" he asked in an imposing tone. There was something so horribly nonfictional about him that she in no way knew how to react to him. Certainly, she had never encountered such a character in any of her novels, and that is all the life experience she could boast of having had.

"No, sir," she turned abruptly to face him, glaring at him with a girlish pout that made one believe her dislike of him did not extend to detestation. "Not for the world. Good morning, sir."

"You are fatigued, Miss Crane," he exclaimed, coming after her. "Be so obliging as to take my arm. I daresay you are in need of it." Catherine was fatigued, but she did not like having to appear fragile before such a man who, knowing her fragility, would doubtless take advantage of it as he did now. Be that as it may, her side ached, and she accepted his arm with reluctant gratefulness. He seemed pleased in his own way, but the expression about his eyes and mouth made her feel uncomfortable.

"There, Miss Crane," he checked his step at the front door, freeing her with a triumphant smile. "I daresay you look devilish stiff, as if I had rattled you, but I am not one to dwell on women's sufferings, for they are all of them a result of mere folly. Is your mind full of nonsense, Miss Crane?"