Chapter 5

Catherine had nearly protested when Henry ordered his brother out of the room. The quarrel about to erupt would be over her, and however powerless she had been to prevent the first such disruption in the Tilney family, it was surely her responsibility as a wife to prevent a second. But her husband never gave her opportunity even to throw a beseeching look, and his firm closure of the door forbade any thought of following. Whatever would happen was in the hands of Providence.

Fortunately Mrs. Forest chose to peek in at this time, asking if they were quite done with dinner. Catherine wished she might occupy herself as well in the kitchen, but since the housekeeper did her work so efficiently there was little to offer but the most heartfelt gratitude.

"You're very kind, ma'am," was the reply made, before gently recommending her mistress enjoy the rest of her evening elsewhere in the house.

It now fell to Catherine the dreadful burden of waiting for others to finish a business she could not observe or join. Men who have waited for their wife's labours to cease may sympathize with her plight. She briefly returned to the drawing room but could not bear to remain long. It would take another day with Henry at her side to banish the memories made there; and besides, her usual distractions held little appeal. What were books or needlework compared to the drama unfolding? She might have retired to bed, as many another would have done at this juncture, but she felt an obligation to wait for Henry. So she restlessly drifted about, beseeching heaven no harm came, but distractedly not ever finishing her prayers.

It was after yet another tour of the rooms that Catherine realized the sound she heard was the rough battering of the shutters, and she observed how dark the sky had grown with trepidation. No matter how angry her husband might be, he would need to invite his brother to spend the night, and then there would be no peace at all until well past the next morning.

She turned at once toward the study. Whatever awful news was to be shared, she would rather hear it now than continue to wait in dread. Just as she reached the door she heard a loud noise, as if the thunder yet to sound outside had instead begun within those walls, inspiring fear for Henry's safety. It was even more alarming to face Captain Tilney again, angry and wild, flinging open the door and racing out of the house with Henry just behind. Catherine nearly ran after them both, but recollecting herself, decided the best thing would be to tidy whatever mess had been made rather than contribute to still more outside.

She had just finished refolding the papers after setting the furniture aright, when Henry came back into the room. She froze, listening for the heavy bootfalls of the captain, but none came.

"He is gone. And God knows in what a state: I am not sure he even realizes where he is at present."

Catherine wished she could feel sorry for him; it was a sore trial for her to experience relief at another's misfortunes. "Why was he so aggrieved?" she asked as Henry sat near her, curiosity all alive now that the immediate danger was over.

Her husband shook his head. "Disappointment in his present circumstances, and an argument with my father, which I at first misunderstood. It is something to do with his regiment, or the war, subjects which may turn the wisest heads. Certainly it cannot be easy for him to adjust to living back at home for so long. But since I could not get him to admit to anything more, there is no need to trouble over it further. I am long past worrying about the peace of the entire Tilney regime."

"I am sorry to have been the cause of any offence," Catherine began, conscience requiring she attempt some amends, but Henry forestalled her:

"Whatever comes of his foolishness will fall entirely on his head, it has nothing to do with you. And you have my heartfelt thanks for seeing to the horses: there was little for me to amend in checking the stable just now." He paused, considering, then reached out a hand. "I would, however, like to know what transpired in my absence, if you feel up to discussing it."

Whatever store of strength Catherine had gathered was dissolved at this invitation, and she gratefully took it while launching into a recitation of her afternoon's trials with all the fervour of a penitent. Henry soothed as he could, listening with great attention, but could not help rising with an astonished exclamation as Catherine described how their brother had placed himself so indecorously at her feet. She rose as well, earnest in her declaration:

"I asked him to sit in the chair, truly I did Henry. I had no notion of his occupying so near a space as that, I could not get him to listen for the world."

"My dearest Catherine, I well believe nothing that happened is of your doing: your only mistake was not throwing him from the house at his first transgression. Do you mean to say he actually pushed you down?"

"Oh yes! that is, perhaps not pushed, I cannot quite say. I did fall, and it did seem as though it was due to his being ever so close, and then that awful apple pressed so that I could not bear it. I felt I should choke! And his having bit into it himself, and saying such things. I wished so heartily you had been present."

This latter statement elicited a laugh. "I fancy there are not many ladies in such a position who would say so: it is not often a mere Henry is desired above the worthy captain."

Catherine started at these words. "But whatever can you mean?"

Henry at once bowed his head. "I am sorry: I have upset you farther, and that is not my desire. There, there, Catherine, all is well, I am not offended. I could never doubt your heart or goodness, and so there is no need to prevaricate. You were placed in a terrible position; I am not so vain as to lack sympathy. My brother is far handsomer than I, there is no denying it, and however badly his manners offended, I well know how charming he can appear when he desires to."

There was just that little something in his voice that made Catherine feel he was not altogether serious. Still, she could not let so false a statement be uttered even in jest. "I cannot imagine anyone finding so odious a man charming: there was nothing but selfish disdain in his manner from the very start. I only entertained him for politeness' sake. And I have never once thought he cut a good figure, not since I have first known him, and certainly I could not see him sitting across from me without wishing it had been you instead."

Her words prompted a smile from her husband, and his tone was far lighter than it had been. "Oh? What was it that marred the picture: his statuesque profile, or fashionable vestment?"

Perhaps he meant only to tease her further, but Catherine had been married long enough to hear when wistfulness mixed with Henry's bravado, and so she walked straight into his arms, looking into his eyes with all her sincerity. "He is far too polished and removed, with features neither attractive nor kind. I had rather see your pleasing self a thousand times over than ever be in a room with him again."

Is there any young husband who could resist this sweet devotion? Could any wife restrain from matching action to word in proving it? Certainly the Tilneys were not immune to these impulses, and it was necessary for both to restrain from breathing a moment, to share those feelings as words are insufficient to express.

"My dearest Catherine," Henry said afterward, arms wrapped round her confidently. "Is it merely an inborn trait for you to be so accommodating, or is there a tonic that might be applied more liberally to cure the world of its sorrows?"

Resting her head on his shoulder (for it must be admitted, Catherine was a bit above the proper height to nestle her ear against his heart), she murmured that anyone with so worthy a husband would say the same.

"Well, let us not disagree, and thank Providence instead. Frederick had best be glad I was not here to see him behave so abominably: I might have been tempted to give him more than a tongue lashing." So saying he manoeuvred to take up her arm. "I can think of nothing else to occupy us this evening downstairs; shall we retire?"

"Oh, yes!" Catherine cried eagerly, and they preceded to the bed chamber without any appearance of fatigue at all. Nor was it long before they had removed any impediment toward the continuance of their shared felicity.

Catherine did spare one further thought for the beleaguered Captain Tilney, when Henry surveyed the tumult ere dropping the window curtain. "Do you think it will continue so very fierce his whole way back?" she asked, not liking to think of any creature in danger, even one she had happily consigned to everlasting banishment.

"It is dreadful looking; however, Frederick is made of strong stuff, and has roughed it in far worse climes. Like as not he stopped at the Ram Inn; undesirable, perhaps, but safe enough. I do shudder to think what our father's reaction will be when he comes dragging in of the morrow."

Catherine noted Henry did not appear troubled at the idea of his brother receiving the full wrath of the general, by which she took her leave not to consider it at all. "I hope they were able to get the sheep found," was her next concern as he lay next to her, "and that all are safely inside now."

"Yes," Henry answered, pulling her closer, "and I hope Will enjoyed his evening's leisure, for we shall have a time of it clearing the yard tomorrow."

"I am glad we already took all the fruit in: at least it will only be leaves and sticks." She reached over to snuff out the candle.

"And I am glad," Henry spoke into the darkness, "that we have no one and nothing else to trouble us tonight."

Here he put action to his words, and there was truly nothing else to be said aloud.