When Henry Tilney awoke in a strange bed, with little awareness of how he had come to be there nor knowledge of where he was, his only comfort was to find his wife close at hand. Why she should appear sitting nearby rather than reclining with him was a pretty puzzle, as was the reason for their arriving at this unknown location. But Henry found it curiously difficult to express these concerns, and was forced by both the dryness of his tongue and disordered nature of his thoughts to compress all inquires into the one simple utterance of her name.

The joy with which he was answered, the raptures spoken in his own namesake, were almost shocking to him, and he nearly laughed at how eagerly she took his hand. He meant to observe that any man must be glad at such a welcome, with perhaps a sly allusion, but again his wits failed him, while his throat betrayed his intentions by turning his mirth into a heaving cough.

"You must not speak, you are not well. But I have some things that you must eat. Will you have it now?"

Recovering himself enough to turn back to her warm gaze, Henry was able to take in more of his surroundings, including a tray and the cookery contained on it. He knew that design, and upon further observation, realized he knew the fireplace and curtains beyond them. They all belonged to Northanger Abbey.

With that revelation the veil slid from his memory, and he nearly groaned in recalling how and why they came to be there. "It must be very late," he said, trying to trace back exactly what had last occurred. "Have you been here all this time?"

"Yes, but I have been very well treated by the servants; now, please, will you have some breakfast?"

Henry attempted to rise but felt strangely weak, only managing to prop himself against the pillows so carefully arranged for him. An unfamiliar lassitude hung on his limbs, accompanied by a dull ache that strengthened its hold with his movements. At a third entreaty he realized Catherine was still asking him about the food.

"Of course," he replied unthinking, and reached for the bowl she held.

Or at least he meant to. He was alarmed to feel so little vigour in his limbs, and when he at last managed to stretch out his hand found he could not grip either spoon or bowl without a palsy, so that she gently took them back before he could spill anything. Dropping his arms in frustration, he panted, tired beyond what he could understand.

"Do not fret Henry, I will feed you again."

"Again?" was what he wanted to ask, but he could only manage a croaked assent as his wife tenderly brought the spoon up, helping him gulp down a strangely sweet concoction that soothed his throat, even as it did nothing for his palette.

He insisted on trying to drink without assistance, and held the glass by sheer force of will only to surrender it back after a few sips when his strength could not bear out. Why he should shiver when the room was so warm was beyond his ken, and dark suspicions haunted him as Catherine put the tray down and brought a handkerchief out to wipe his face. Men who were young and hale did not lose all their strength after one day's hard labour, nor from any slight malady. Fear smote him but he shoved it down in annoyance. He must be rational. Reaching for any sense of normalcy, he realized he had no concept of what time it was.

"Thank you," he managed to speak at last, as she finished her ministrations, "but my dear, surely you should return home now? Will is full able to take the main road."

"I sent him back already. Are you too warm? Or do you wish to be covered?"

"But—" Henry had many protests wound in that one word, and found he had accepted a blanket and cool cloth before he could order his thoughts properly again. "You cannot wish to stay here."

"I wish to be with you. Now, as you are awake, I will be glad to read aloud if you like. It is not our usual material but I have found some things I think you will enjoy."

Henry shook his head, desperate to make sense of the situation. "But the hour grows late: and I did say we would leave today. And were you not planning to help Mrs. Stanton?"

He was proud to have remembered as much, so unreliable had his mind felt during this interview, and could not understand the concern coming from her gaze. "But Henry, that is not possible any more."

"Certainly: it looks as if there is plenty of daylight left."

"I mean that she will have already made other arrangements, or perhaps has circulated the alms already, considering the needs brought on by this latest storm; with her son's shop closed early tomorrow there will be no shortage of assistance if she still requires it. And besides, I am not leaving you, so there is no need to discuss it further. Please, you must rest your voice."

While not clever, Henry's wife was not in general deficient of understanding, and he begged to know why she thought the family would change their routine this week.

"But Henry, you know they spend Saturday afternoon getting all their own concerns of the week finished, for they always attend both church services," she reminded him anxiously, her tone suggesting he ought to know these things.

Irritably, he demanded to know why she sought to push the week forward by a day, which caused her eyes to widen in concern. "But Henry, it is Friday evening now."

Anyone else he would suspect of deception or cunning. It was certainly the sort of trick his brother or schoolfellows might have practised. But his wife was fidelity itself, honest above all else: if she told him the sun was to rise at night and the moon watch over the day, he would be forced to consider the probability of a new cosmic order. As it was, the news that he had lost over twenty four hours in his recollections was no less shattering to his composure. He begged her tell him more, and though she looked uncertain explained how he had fallen into a fever, with orders not to stir or exert himself until after the doctor had examined him again. "You have been very, very ill," was her solemn conclusion.

This information was not as complete as Henry could wish. "But what had occurred in the household? Had the doctor spoken of Frederick? And what had his father said at their remaining longer?" This last question was chief in his thoughts. He could not imagine the man was pleased to continue sheltering them unprepared, and he feared Catherine may have been forced to endure cold empty speeches or veiled threats during the hours passed.

"I do not know, no one has informed me. I have barely spoken to any besides the housekeeper, and did not think to ask about your brother. But I will find out, if that will ease your mind: you must be very worried about him."

Fraternal affection was not chief in Henry's concerns; indeed, provided the other man was in no real danger, he could happily wish him as much misery as Henry himself felt at present. "But did the general not say anything about it?" Knowing how Frederick's accounting of his own conduct could differ mightily from any observer's, he was sure some comment had been made to Catherine, whose distress must be acute and for whom alone his anxiety was felt.

"Only that he blamed you for his situation, but I did not allow such a falsehood to stand."

"I cannot imagine my father was happy with this refutation."

"No."

Henry waited for any further discussion of rage or bitterness endured, but Catherine only reached down and picked up a volume. "Now, what would you like to hear? I have been going through some very lovely sonnets, and marked those I thought to share. I have never before appreciated how pretty they really are, though I know you have told me so in the past. I believe I am coming to appreciate poetry as much as flowers."

She had already opened the pages before he could stop her. "I would rather hear exactly what was said to you."

"It very little signifies. I must confess I expressed myself very warmly, I am a little ashamed of it."

Coming from his most forgiving wife, this admission sounded to Henry as if there had been a great deal that signified. She frowned, obviously troubled by her conduct, and he reached out a hand to soothe her, frowning himself when he could barely manage to do more than let it hang limply onto the book she had opened.

Rather than laughing at his inability, Catherine took the hand in her own, as if he had actually achieved the feat himself. "Do not think I am upset. If we had not discussed things at the start I might have felt obligated to join him for dinner or at different times of the day; as it was, by his own order I have been able to remain by your side undisturbed. It is just like your sermon on Providence mending our mistakes for our benefit."

He wished he could remember exactly which sermon she was referring to, for he was hard pressed to determine how anything that involved his father once again causing his wife discomfort could be considered a providential act. His cheeks grew hot with a heat that had nothing to do with fever. "But do you mean you have been in this room, with me, the whole time? Without anyone to serve you at all?"

"Please do not grow upset Henry, you will make yourself worse. Here, will you not have some more water?"

A shake of the head was all he could manage, and even that action doubled the pain in his neck and shoulders. Catherine sat watching him with anxious eyes, and he saw her hair hanging loose and untended on her shoulders, in the same garments she had worn yesterday—or rather, as Catherine claimed, the day before,—and surrounded by a small nest built from the detritus of her activity while he lay in idle slumber. It was a picture from a story book, and would have made him laugh in other circumstances, did he not feel so very furious at the author of it.

"I am sorry to have made you angry."

"You have done nothing wrong." He managed to vent his feelings at last, gasping to express himself while still possessing the wit to do so. "It is entirely the fault of others. And I will not sit by and see it done." So saying, he reached down to push himself up, envisioning a return to that awful study to proclaim exactly what he should have the other night.

But he was stopped from testing the limits of his strength by Catherine's own strong arms, and was amazed when she stood above him, no longer nervous, but outrage escaping her visage. "Henry Tilney! You will not stir one step from that bed!"

"Catherine—"

"Do not say you are well, or unharmed, or any of the other lies you have uttered."

He could not recall her ever accusing him of an untruth before, even when he had been guilty of misleading her. Nor had she ever turned such ire on him.

"I am sorry to call it so, sorrier too when you are so weak and cannot defend yourself, but you did lie. You claimed not to be ill, and to need no aid, when all the time you were sinking deeper into a fever. And after you agreed to rest when we arrived, you did not! Whatever your father has said or done is nothing to that: you do not know the terror I have known; by not admitting your pains, I have entertained the worst premonitions of your health. Henry, I thought you might be dying!"

Such a tirade had never fallen from her lips to his ears, not aimed at him, and he felt the righteousness of his wrath dissolve at the accusation. His own fears returned, and he wished he could rise and assure both of them they were unfounded. Henry would not have blamed her for leaving at that moment, such was her obvious distress, and yet she instead closed the gap, sitting beside him on the bed and taking his hands in hers. "You must promise me now, truly, that you will do everything the doctor advises to get better. I know you only want to give me comfort, and that is what will bring me the greatest joy, if I know you are improving. Please Henry, will you give me your word?"

It never failed to impress him how sincerely she could believe in his virtue, even with the full acknowledgement of his own foolish behaviour. "Yes," he agreed. "And I am so very sorry to have made you suffer."

She kissed his hands, and smiled so lovingly it bid fair to outshine the sun's own glory. "I can endure anything so long as we are together. And you are so much better already: I know you will be much improved by the time the doctor sees you again. Thank you."

As a gentleman Henry felt he ought not to let her express gratitude for improvement he might not be able to achieve; as a clergyman he wondered whether it was altogether right to allow such unbridled optimism. But as a man, and one desiring more than ever to give his wife whatever relief was possible, Henry would not gainsay her for the world. Let us not judge too harshly, for how many could offer any rebuke to the kindness expressed? And were he in his better senses, might not a Henry Tilney appreciate the duties owed charity freely given?

For the present, he resigned himself to receive the grace of a Catherine Tilney without question, as ever fully dependent on her goodness when his own well ran dry. He accepted her offer of reading, and thereafter was rewarded for his submission with tender words of regard as penned by our greatest poets, spoken by one of the few who might truly mean the words therein.