Chapter 1

Mrs. Catherine Tilney née Morland began her marriage to the Reverend Henry Tilney with all the expectation of happiness a newly wedded heroine may hope for, after enduring both a lengthy engagement and objections from the gentleman's father. She gained a loving sister in Henry’s own Eleanor, whose marriage to the recently titled Viscount Vermond provided a good connection as well. Likewise, the Tilneys were the receivers of warm affection from the entire Morland clan: from Catherine's clergyman father and excellent mother down to young Master George and Miss Harriet, and the seven other children besides. To all this must be added the benefit of an independent living at Woodston Parsonage and the provision of some fortune through the groom's late mother, putting the happy couple in as much ease as two eager souls, united more by tenderness than complete practicality, could want.

But it would not be much to recount this next chapter in their lives if all were perfection, and there were a few blemishes which even their present bliss could not erase. One was the continued obstinacy displayed by the master of Northanger Abbey: General Tilney, though at last granting his consent to the match, had never been persuaded to rejoice in it. Rather, the disappointment of a violently disabused belief—as his presumption of Catherine's expectations had been—proved as mortifying as his children's perceived desertion, notwithstanding the triumph of his daughter's elevation. These resentments were nursed to such a degree that attendance at Fullerton Church was impossible, and indeed the majority of his words at the time were addressed to Mr. Allen, the principal landowner of that parish. This gentleman held far different opinions on matters both personal and pecuniary. Certainly he was present at his neighbour's day of felicity, with the warmest congratulations tendered to the family. Having done so, and paid for the breakfast besides, Mr. Allen discharged his last obligation by penning a civil reply to the absent Gloucestershireman. The brevity of this letter, and lack of further correspondence in the months to come, spoiled any lingering hope of an inheritance from that quarter. Consequently, as the general could no longer prevent his son's marriage, he chose instead to ignore it.

This arrangement was not altogether unwelcome. Having gained his matrimonial aim, and with his sister bestowed elsewhere, Henry felt few pangs at avoiding the notice of his father. Any travel he and his desired could now be affected through their brother the viscount, and all domestic comforts were easily attained in the village of Woodston. On the lady's side, though saddened to be the cause of any quarrel, Catherine could not quite pity one who had treated her so cruelly. She therefore united all her efforts in the pleasant task of becoming a good wife to a man ripe for pleasing, rather than the more trying occupation of discerning what sort of daughter would suit another.

However, one member of the family would prove to be a plague upon them both. The eldest son and heir, Captain Frederick Tilney, had not upon the rebellion of his younger brother sobered into a more obedient one. Never a prudent man in the best of circumstances, his forbearance was sorely tested when a series of errors at the War Office, and the resulting confusion in transfers and assignments, resulted in his leave being unintentionally extended till his regiment could return from their recent posting abroad. Still happily unmarried, he was unhappily forced by familial as well as financial duties to once again quarter for a time at Northanger Abbey. These circumstances, and the unwanted attention placed upon him by the absence of the other Tilney offspring, provoked a covetousness of his brother's independence rather than his state of joy. So came about the events which this prologue, at last ending, serves to introduce.

It was a Tuesday; the day of the week being important to understand in the chronicle which is to follow, let the reader take note. It was also the second week of September, a full ten days into a month already proving as tempestuous as the proceeding season had been mild and accommodating. Just the day before Henry and Catherine had run with their housekeeper, cook, and stable boy into the orchard to rescue the remaining apples from a sudden gale knocking the trees about, resulting in a numerous if premature harvest for the coming winter.

After so much careful nurturing, to see the first fruits of their union so indecorously delivered smote Catherine's heart. They were nothing like the firm, meaty variety that had graced the parsonage table back when she was a mere visitor. Having changed into something less dishevelled after their labours, Henry found her forlornly polishing and brooding over a diminutive sample.

"Do not fret," he said, taking one from her hand, "for these are perfect roasting apples: they are compact, and shall not come apart so easily. Their size is in exact proportion to their purpose."

"But they are not nearly as ripe as they could have been: see how green they look!"

"That is so." He shook his head, tutting. "How we are reduced: as our forebears were brought low by an apple, so we are made to see how little this fickle fruit may be depended on."

Here she could not help smiling, as she always did when her husband turned philosophical, and remembered that they might be good for jams and preserves. "I shall write my mother, who has many recipes, so we may still enjoy them."

"There! a solution is at hand, and how cleverly you have devised it." He smiled as well, always loving when he could tease his wife into a good humour (not so arduous a task that it must be repeated throughout the day), and led her away for a more pleasant evening of shared company.

The next day dawned fairer, prompting Henry to make his rounds about the parish before the barometer fell again.

"I have some things I should like delivered to the families, only they are not finished yet." Catherine's good intentions as a parson's wife were often impaired by distraction, but being kind-hearted she resolutely continued her pilgrim's progress of improvements. "And the garden should be looked at, or I would offer to accompany you. But please tell Mrs. Stanton I will attend her come Friday to help distribute the widows' relief."

"I bow to your domestic industry, and shall certainly offer your exemplary excuses." Henry then courted a kiss, no difficult feat, and so rewarded leapt with alacrity to the seat in his curricle. "As you are safely employed, I may travel so far as the mill, since Hayes was not at church on Sunday and I have heard unwell. If so I will likely be held up by a visit to Mr. Wilcox as well." Here his tone betrayed his anticipation at meeting with one of his chief, and most grumbling, laymen.

Catherine, with more charity toward the man's family than himself, desired to be remembered to them, wished her husband a good day, and promised a happy welcome upon his return. Such a valediction was in every way an encouragement to them both: for the lady to stiffen her resolve, and for the gentleman to subdue his raillery.

Unfortunately, despite a promising beginning, Catherine's plans soon went awry. First was the discovery that some of the greens had drowned. Then the stable boy begged leave to go with a cousin just run up from the village, the family's sheep having fled pens damaged by the same cause. He, and his aunt the cook if possible, were needed to gather them back.

As a clergyman’s wife Catherine always desired to accommodate the parish when possible, and needing little inducement to give up so discouraging a project as she had begun, generously released both servants. "And if I may be of assistance as well," she began to offer, but Mrs. Poole would not hear of it.

"For Mrs. Tilney to be seen shooing sheep! No, ma'am, we couldn’t ask it of you."

"But just yesterday we were all after the apples," Catherine reasoned, and in truth, heartily wished she could quit her chores for so noble a cause, having more of a talent for rambles than housekeeping. "Surely it must be to anyone's credit to offer aid at such a time."

But the good woman could not agree, and promised to see to the garden upon returning. So Catherine contented herself with praying for their success while waving to them.

After a tedious morning of indoor tasks, she and the housekeeper were interrupted in reviewing the accounts by a fine pair of rats. It took both their efforts and one of the dogs to flush their quarry. Unfortunately the Newfoundland, just grown out of his infancy, took it as a reward to gambol about the rooms, including the study; where not finding his master, he leapt into the man's chair with devilish innocence.

"Brutus: no!" Catherine hated chiding, for she was very fond of the dog, and had in fact pleaded for him to remain inside more than Henry was wont to allow. And how did the animal repay her kindness? By ignoring her and settling more firmly into the chair, leaves and twigs affixing to the upholstery in an unholy mess. "Out!" she cried, and taking up the broom, chased him to the door as thoroughly as the earlier pests.

By this time she was altogether discouraged, and not a little bedraggled by her misadventures. She could not bear to pour over ledgers and figures at the moment; looking at accounts would need to be postponed. "We shall pick back up later in the day," she announced to her housekeeper. "I have some work to do, and Mr. Tilney will not be back until later, so there is no need to start anything before cook returns." After they had removed the dirty chair for cleaning, Catherine retreated to the drawing room and took up her box, while also attempting to read from a book propped before her. It was, perhaps, not the most productive means of conducting her affairs. Nevertheless the activity and location—for it was her favourite in the whole house—were most soothing to her nerves. Soon she was pleasantly engaged in considering the plight of some other young heroine who had far worse villains than sheep, rodents, or dogs to contend with. So it was that Catherine did not hear the knock at the front door when it sounded, leading her to drop needle and thread alike when a visitor was suddenly announced.

"But who is here?" she asked, standing and reaching for her discarded cap in confusion, as they hardly ever received visitors at the start of the week.

Before the housekeeper could answer, a tallish figure stepped forward, his polished boots and stylish coat announcing him before he opened his mouth. "Why, Mrs. Tilney, 'tis your brother come calling." And Captain Tilney cut a jaunty bow in her direction, just as if they had been back in the Lower Rooms at Bath.