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.
Yours affectionately.
Mr. Musgrave's letter struck Catherine as odd, giving her a rare peak into his secretly eccentric mind; a mind she wished was more open to her. With a light shake of the head, she dismissed the letter from her head with fluctuating feelings she could not account for.
Jamming the two sheets of paper into the crisp white envelope she wondered at the unusual stillness of the house. Were not Henrietta and Mrs. Slater up? Mulling over this strangeness, the door suddenly swung open, and the General entered with a man at his side. He had a grim expression and held a clergyman's hat in his left hand. It was odd he should be there, for Catherine had not heard the sound of an approaching carriage on the pavement outside.
"Catherine, I am obliged to present you my son, Henry Slater," he said with his usual theatrical enthusiasm. She started and blushed, giving a low curtsey. The arrival of the young man was truly unplanned, just as the General had forewarned, but for all that, Catherine had doubts regarding his disposition. None of his personal qualities were bad, yet there was something missing in his eyes. He was tall, stern and sallow, and though his features were regular he had neither his father's invigorating charm nor his sister's animated beauty. His eyes were fine and grey, yet had neither lustre nor expression – they were unaccountably detached and extinguished.
"Miss Crane," he bowed stiffly, remaining at his father's side. However naive Catherine could be, she was observant, and perceived with alarm the striking contrast between father and son – one was accommodating and friendly and the other perverse and unapproachable. In those days, one was a gentleman merely by manner of education – so regardless of the inner workings of their mind they could be labelled good or bad. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He uttered these words with so sour a look that it seemed his lips ached from being civil.
"Catherine, let us hope that you will not spend too much of your time with Harry, for he is as unsociable a young bachelor as ever was," the General said with a simpering yet affected air she had not noticed before. "Harry will stay with us roughly for a fortnight and I don't expect you two to get along, keeping his disagreeable disposition in mind. Now then," turning to his son, "Harry, some business calls me to town, and I will be gone near to two days. You are the man of the house until I return." Catherine was anguished by the thought of passing her days with this surly man, yet felt it her duty to grin and bear it.
Yet she could not help sulking at the disappointment of finding her ideal so dreadfully distorted and the romance of his vagueness chilled into the reality of his perverseness. She had dreamt of this moment since first the sound of his name and all its charm had sounded in her ear. Nothing could be worse than this. Her composure was dejected, but at least dignified, and she thus proceeded until the son excused himself with what she perceived to be scornful dissatisfaction. Had she not lived up to his expectations?
"My dear," the General said, looking gravely humiliated and anxious to make excuses for his son. "I don't approve of his conduct, but he is a good man. All who know him will vouch for that."
*
Henrietta, meanwhile, was calling on Lord Kinney, who had not yet made up his mind about leaving his house – not even for a walk. The weather was improving, yet he had such a horror of the chills that he could think of nothing more unpleasant than promenading in such weather, and instead he preferred being hunched up in front of a blazing fireplace with a thick shawl draped across his shoulders.
"She says so many civil things," he resumed their paused conversation after rustling the embers distractedly. "Her manner is so horribly contrived that I fear I might involuntarily toss something at her head so as to catch a glimpse of genuine expression in her eyes."
"Hush, James!" Henrietta hissed, having real affections for Catherine. "You've such violent impulses. The poor girl has just but lost her father. You must be kind to her, for none of us behave as we naturally do when grieving. In her case grief has taken the form of a fortress that surrounds her heart." This suggestion struck the young man as particularly humoristic, for he burst into a wild fit of laughter after processing it in his indolent mind. Henrietta watched him with wide eyes, turning red at his lunacy. After the turmoil had fairly passed she broke in, exasperated, "I cannot but love you, James, despite your countless inadequacies of character, but this behaviour must surely be repressed. You must keep your impulses in check. Have you no compassion? Have you not thought of –"
"My dearest Harryo," he cut in, the corners of his lips pulling up into a sly smile, "if I be not mistaken, you are unusually fond of this little ingénue. You know your father would never approve of your affections."
"You don't know that," she threw her head back, a wrinkle creasing the right corner of her curved lips, as if she were trying not to grimace. "He is rather partial to her, and I'm sure he'll not attempt any evil act upon her elegant little frame for all he is a hot-tempered man."
"I see," he nodded, rising and leaning with his elbow against the mantelpiece. "She has charmed you both with her devious arts."
"Devious? Charmed?" she frowned. "Really, James! Such suppositions! I would not for the world consider her clever enough to be devious, or bewitching enough to charm us."
"That's my Harryo," he laughed sonorously, turning his handsome face to the fire.
"At all events," she sighed, gathering up her netting things and rising to her feet. "I must be going."
"Hold," he said somewhat harshly, conquering the distance between them with one stride. He looked at her long and hard. "Harryo, what did your father do to you yester evening?"
"What?" she breathed, colouring profusely.
"Yes," he rejoined, his voice full of concern. "I know him to be a very disciplinary fellow. Did he lose his temper with you?"
"Begging your pardon, James?" she broke out in a nervous laugh. "Why of course not! He is a gentleman with noble blood, not a peasant who gained his fortune at sea. Crime is reserved for those of the lower classes, for it is a low and ignoble art. My father is no criminal, James, and I am in anguish because you think of him in so dishonourable a light! Shame on you, James, shame on you." Her eyes filling with tears, she turned away from him, briskly bending her steps in the direction of the door.
"Harryo," he called after her, seizing her wrist. He pulled her to him and fettered his lips to hers. She blinked at him, bewildered, but a wan smile slowly lighted her features. "Harryo, dear, why don't you simply marry me?"
"Certainly, James," she replied in a quavering tone, running her long white finger up and down his jaw-line. "I've always known I would."
*
Henrietta did not at all look like what Catherine should have expected her to look when she barged into the drawing-room. She had anticipated an expression of harassed fatigue, but saw her friend inexplicably drunk on happiness.
"Henrietta, how are you?" she breathed, surveying her with astonishment.
"My dearest, loveliest Catherine!" she broke out laughing, eagerly clasping her hands. "I implore you to ask me why I am so happy. I implore you!"
"Why..." she faltered, "why are you so happy, Henrietta?"
"Take a wild guess, dearest," she threw her head back, her cheeks dimpling charmingly.
"I cannot," she said in a breathless whisper. "It is beyond me..."
"Well, never mind!" she cried. "I will tell you – I am engaged to be married!"
"Indeed!" she gasped, her hand flying to her breast and laying there for some time, to appease her gentle heart. "Am I the first to know of this?"
"You are, you are," she sang, dancing around the room elatedly.
"Surely your father must be told," she said gravely. "You must have his blessing to marry."
"His blessing?" she laughed, sprawling herself on the sheepskin rug and gazing wistfully up at the cedar ceiling. "He has given me his blessing since the day darling James was born! He is absolutely mercenary, you know!" With a look as if she had said something she should not have, she sat up, her face blanched with apprehension.
"Are you not well, Henrietta?"
"Oh – I'm fine," she returned, shaking her head as if to be rid of some unpleasant thought. "I – I suppose I must tell him of it. He'll be pleased. He'll invite James to dinner to-night. All will be as it ought," she whispered in one breath, flinging the doors to and leaving Catherine as brusquely as she had joined her.
Catherine had by then come to realise that something was the matter with the Abbey's inmates. The General was beginning to seem artificial in everything he did or said, Henrietta's true colours were surfacing, Mrs. Slater was unaccountably subdued, like a prisoner who knows too much and has been bullied into silence, and Henry Slater looked so devoid of feeling that she feared being alone with him.
At length, to shake off her suspicions, she thought it best to reply to Albert Musgrave's letter with a vague – yet reassuring – account of her new home. She crumpled and threw away many papers before she had her thoughts in order, and once these thoughts were clear, she could not write fast enough so as not to forget them. Hither are the contents of her letter:
My good sir, - I am most delighted with your neighbourly letter. I had not expected one, but was delighted nevertheless. You must give Philip my love and kiss him on my part. Thank you for the brief update of the happenings at Trillynch Hall, and of your earnest thoughts and feelings: I assure you they were nothing short of refreshing. However, I should have hoped for more particulars regarding my cousin Wentworth. I have not met him since Brighton, which was a good ten years ago, and am very curious with regards to his person.
I am glad, sir, that you are not here with me, for then you would judge all of the Abbey's inmates with your decided prejudice and distaste towards all that does not suit you. I shall begin by describing Mrs. Slater, for your opinion of the General is doubtless fixed, and I'll not venture to persuade you to think differently. At all events, Miranda Slater is a fascinating creature, with her dulcet tone and everlasting beauty. She is rather subdued, but charmingly kind. She is usually quiet and occupied with some harmless female pastime. Her daughter, Henrietta Slater, is the fussiest, most stylish creature on the English continent – perhaps she belongs in Paris – and I am convinced that you would disapprove of her, therefore let us not dwell on her much longer.
I have been introduced to Henry Slater this morning, and he is perfectly detestable. His colours are so drab and washed out, as if he had been born an old man – his soul is dead: it has shrivelled up, and the expression about his eyes and lips is what I would call spiteful. In short, he is not at all what I had expected – granted, his father has high hopes for him, and seems resolved on coercing me to like him, though I haven't the smallest idea why he should be so inexorable on the matter. Aside from that, Mr. Musgrave, the General is as warm and agreeable as ever he was, and I firmly believe that I could not have asked for a more attentive guardian. Upon the whole, the Abbey is a fine place – no massy-walled castle with tapestry-laid chambers reminiscent of the dark ages – and as comfortable as the most tasteful of modern English homes. I hope that you are satisfied now, and I will from hereon be sending you monthly updates of my doings at the Abbey. I am,
Modestly yours, Catherine Crane, &c &c.
Just as she was sealing the letter she heard two pairs of feet outside the drawing-room doors. The first she was sure belonged to the General, and the second to Henrietta. Ere long the said doors were thrown open by the General, who held his head up high.
"Catherine!" he said with impeccable self-satisfaction in his tone. "No doubt my daughter has come to confide in you in this most fortunate affair. Well! I am resolved, my dear, to host a ball in the Abbey in homage to the young couple." Here he whipped his glittering black eyes on her, startling her with their cold penetration. She felt brutally seduced. Brushing off these thoughts, which had accosted her unceremoniously, she replied, smoothing her agitation; "I cannot think of disapproving such an agreeable plan, sir. May I be so bold as to enquire which room is to be used for the occasion?"
"Have you any recommendations, my dear?" he beamed triumphantly, fascinating our young Catherine with his graces and smiles – he had a very winning manner, much like his daughter. He did not look a day over forty, and she was perplexed – thoroughly perplexed – in her understanding of him, for she could no longer set store by her first impressions.
"I wouldn't know, sir, for I am not out," she replied impassively. Coming out had never been an event that she had looked forward to, as she ought to have done according to all that was proper; she rather perceived it as an inevitable step up from her current situation, as a destitute lady with no significant talents.
"Not out?" he challenged her with a broad smile. "That is of no consequence, my dear! You will come out at this ball. If it weren't for the fact that you were in deep mourning, and that this is expressly Harryo and Lord Kinney's ball, you would be introducing it, but under the circumstances I must fervently object to it. Have you a letter in your hand? Do, do post it, Catherine, but be quick about it for Harryo demands your confidence. She thoroughly despises opening her heart to her old father, so I am sure you see the necessity as clearly as I do."
Upon hearing this she could not help breaking out, wide-eyed, "Old, sir? Far from it!" Whereupon Henrietta and the General exchanged smiles of delighted incredulity.
"Thank you for saying that, Catherine," the General bowed, "for now I see you are comfortable enough in our home to be more candid with us. That is extremely gratifying, I say. I feel I have succeeded as your guardian."
Catherine could bite her tongue out for such an outburst.
"Come, Cathy," Henrietta said, giggling as her father shut the doors behind him, a triumphant smile lighting his fine features. However, there was something disturbing about his triumph: his look was inexplicably snide, as if everything had gone according to his clandestine plans.