Chapter 2

"Oh!" Catherine was startled, perplexed, and not a little anxious by the sudden appearance of this prodigal in her home.

Choosing to ignore her discomfiture, the gentleman took her hand. "I have been remiss in not paying my addresses sooner. You must excuse my not having attended you properly." Here he bent as if to bestow his favour on her clasped fingers.

This action awakened every instinct Catherine possessed, so that she drew away before quite realizing what she was about, and only just managed to tug her skirts in a curtsey so as not to appear rude. "Thank you," she said, unsure what else might suffice, and then turned to her housekeeper. "Please send word to Mr. Tilney that his brother is here."

The poor woman was saved discovering how she was to do so by the captain's reply. "If Henry is out, as I see by his empty stable he must be, there is no need to interrupt his business. After all, we are family, are we not?"

"Yes, of course," Catherine answered by rote, and despite her earlier success with vermin, felt singularly unprepared for how to handle the current dilemma.

The housekeeper wisely offered to serve tea, which Catherine assented to at once with gratitude. Only when they were left alone did she consider how ill both her situation and person must appear to a guest of real consequence: she had not changed from her everyday dress since the morning's toil, and though beloved the parlour had only just begun to be fitted to her designs. There was not yet fresh wallpaper as had been discussed, nor matching curtains or new bookshelves. It was at least furnished with two comfortable chairs, a small table, and two full windows that let in the afternoon sun admirably.

Before she could resume her seat by one of these casements, Captain Tilney alighted on it with his feet up on the stool meant for Catherine's—and ordered especially by her husband for that purpose. Protest formed on her lips but caution stilled them as she took the other chair. She tried and failed to think of a topic for conversation, when he began one directly addressing the very circumstances she had feared worthy of inspection.

"Cosy house for a parsonage," was his languid remark. "I grant Henry has a certain amount of taste."

"Thank you," she said again, and grieved her stupidity. “It is certainly very comfortable. We have only begun, since spring, to make any amendments."

"Yes, spring in you did, very neatly." His words had an echo of his brother's with their wit, but were also cold and unfeeling, without any of the other's warmth or pleasantness. Instead there was steel in his tone and flint in his eyes, so that she was not sure whether to laugh or no.

"It is kind of you to pay a call. I am sorry Mr. Tilney could not receive you. He is visiting his parishioners.” It occurred to Catherine that repeatedly mentioning Henry's absence might be a way to encourage the captain's. He must of course mean to see his brother; she could not imagine what business he might have with her.

"How dutiful. A good thing that you are here, else I should have had no one to receive me."

The captain smiled, and while a hard expression it was also a handsome one, nature having endowed his appearance with all the advantages a young man of good birth and breeding should possess. Even so, Catherine was unmoved. She observed his features and his figure, but could not help comparing him at every turn to Henry, who though less imposing or comely was far better spoken and brighter looking withal. These thoughts prompted her to look out the glass behind her guest, though she knew it only offered a view of the orchard and meadow, and that no curricle would be seen even if it were to return far sooner than expected.

The tea things came in, giving her something to do, and she was able to hand over the captain's cup with some composure. "You must be staying at Northanger Abbey," she said, taking up her own saucer and spoon.

"For the time being. In truth I may not be there above the rest of the week."

"I trust you had a pleasant ride."

"Tolerable. It is a very dull country on the whole."

"But there are many splendid paths," Catherine defended her home, on firmer footing when it came to terrain she had wandered so often in recent months. "And I am sure you will find it so, as you continue your travels."

Not taking her hint, the captain settled more firmly in his chair. "As to that, I may not venture any farther. Tell me, does Henry leave you alone often?"

This question stopped Catherine's next thought, so that she nearly spilled the milk she had been about to pour. She uttered a quick denial and then, as she was a truthful person, admitted, "That is, not often, but sometimes. He must see to the parish." Rallying her wits, she added, "He will likely be out most of the day. I will be glad to tell him you have called and convey any message you care to give."

"I do not believe there is anything you need tell him. But to be left alone must be tiresome, given the lack of any decent entertainment or company."

"No indeed, there is so much to do every day, far more than at my parents' home, and it was not always quiet there either. And I am not alone, of course."

"Not now. How fortunate that I came by, when anyone might have stumbled upon your door otherwise. It is not wise to forsake a fair lady."

The compliment quite passed Catherine's notice, though a vainer woman might have revelled that a man who once thought her plain should now condescend to praise her. Instead, every moment he continued in the room increased her agitation, and she wished she could think of an excuse to send him away. But she had enough good breeding to shrink from such incivility to a member of the family, and recollecting how she herself had been so unceremoniously dismissed once, forbore to indulge her feelings. She persevered in her duties as hostess by asking:

"Will you be on leave long?"

It was an innocuous question, one she was proud to have worked out as it was not a common inquiry for her to make and which would hopefully show interest in her brother's affairs. But rather than animate any expressions of gratitude or pleasure, his features tightened into a cruel sneer. "Perhaps," he said slowly, with a bitterness that made her involuntarily shrink back. "But I do not wish to discuss it."

Nothing in the world would make Catherine broach the subject again, and without anything else to discuss she made some comment about the weather.

The captain suddenly stood and looked out the window. "It does begin to look fierce," he observed, and for the first time Catherine realized how much darker it had grown since they began speaking.

"You will want to return then," she said, rising herself. "I will call for your horse." It was the sort of thing she supposed ought to be said, though without the boy it would be up to her or the housekeeper to go to the stable with little knowledge between them of what should be done.

"Not at all, Mrs. Tilney, we have hardly begun our visit." He turned, all beneficence, without a hint of his earlier displeasure; and coming across the room, handed his cup over. "Something else to drink now, and more to eat: I rode a great deal today."

"That would be difficult, for my cook is away, and there is nothing ready made." Had Catherine been a very clever woman she might have used these facts to her advantage. But the admission shamed her, and not wishing any to think ill of Henry's household, she cast about to remedy the situation while straightening the tea things. "But there are fresh apples, and I believe we still have some Madeira given by the viscount."

"Excellent." He took her hands, preventing her from taking the tray up. "Call your woman and let us get to know each other better. I have heard such intriguing stories about you."

Catherine wished her housekeeper was gone too that she might refuse him, or that Henry was returned to say something droll and dispel the mood descending like the blackening clouds. She felt quite apprehensive of Captain Tilney’s intentions, though if asked she could not charge him with any wrong conduct as yet; and as she could discover no just cause to resist, Catherine did as she was bade, heartily wishing the fruit had all been bad and the bottle already drunk instead of served so promptly.

She barely noticed when the captain set a glass in her hand and led her back to her seat. Rather than take his own, though, he brought the stool forward and perched in such a way that his boots splayed uncomfortably near.

"Please, will you not take the chair sir?" she asked, starting to rise, but found she could not escape with his legs so close, causing her to slip back down with a gasp.

The man expressed no concern at her discomposure; rather, he appeared calmer and more assured than ever, sipping his wine with appreciation. "I am quite at my ease here. We soldiers are not made for always lounging about like other men. It is all well and good for them; a parson, I suppose, has need of such support. But I have ridden thirty miles without rest to battle, and fought the whole day besides: give me a mount, and a pleasant view, and I am content." It did not seem possible for him to draw closer, and yet she sensed with alarm a pressure against one shoe.

"But surely—” Words failed her as she sought for something to say, and she gestured instead, hoping to make herself understood by plain emotion if nothing else.

"Surely." Captain Tilney poured himself another draught yet somehow never strayed far from her. "This is an excellent vintage. And these apples." He picked one up to hold out to her. "Do they not look absolutely tempting?"

In truth it was one of the few full red ones, and Catherine was growing hungry. "Yes, thank you," she started to say and made to take it, when he lifted the fruit right to her lips, so that she nearly choked.

"Have a drink, it will settle you," he commanded, and she obliged if only to stop her coughing. "I am sorry you found this one so little to your liking. I wonder, is it rotten?" He examined the bruised skin, then bit into it, all the while staring up into her wondering face. "It tastes sweet. Would you not agree?"

He made to offer it up again, but better prepared she pulled back her head. "You may have it, I have had my fill."

"Have you?" The captain's smile was anything but kind: more a leer, the stench of drink on his hot breath increasing as he drew even closer. "Yes, you do not look well; I would hate for you to grow faint."

Though courted and wedded, Catherine was nevertheless so inexperienced in the ways of men—and even more desperate to avoid further attentions—that she immediately agreed to feeling very poorly. "I do not believe I should be good company any more," she said through pressed teeth.

"Then you must lie down." The captain took her own glass and downed it in one go. Catherine marvelled at his stamina: few of her acquaintance went past two at a revelry, and surely that was the fifth he had consumed. Abruptly he rose and brought her to stand as well, the sudden movement making her so unsteady she fell into his arms. When next he spoke it sounded as if his lips were upon her ear, "What a lucky man holds your heart."

Before she could react, she felt rather than saw him raise his head. "Would you not agree Henry?"

With a start Catherine parted from their embrace in time to see her bewildered husband walk into the room.