Chapter 7

As has been seen in the narrative thus far, Henry Tilney was not quite as scrupulously honest as his wife. The truth was that he had shielded her from the full extent of his concerns; if he still did not believe his brother in real distress, neither was he sanguine that other offences had not been attempted after their parting.

He knew the bold Captain Tilney could be foul-tempered and wanton when waking in a feather bed after a hard day of indulgence; a night spent on straw or leaves might provoke his brother past all temperance, causing him to vent his feelings on whatever member of the parish was unfortunate enough to discover him. Thus obligations both domestic and professional spurred him to act and, for the purpose of settling any misunderstandings that may have arisen, he drew from his cashbox before leaving.

There was also the possibility that Frederick was merely playing the prodigal again, and that Henry would find him comfortably settled somewhere with ale in hand and a girl upon his knee. If that were the case, Henry would gladly return home and better the parable's elder brother by surrendering the matter entirely to his father's hands.

There was still light enough for Henry to make out tracks, though he was unsure whether they were from Frederick's mount. So he stopped at some of the same houses as he had the day before, asking after a tall rider or a brown horse with silver equipage. Most of those he questioned had sensibly remained inside and could offer no answer. A few thought they had heard someone, but were unsure from what direction or indeed whether it might not have been some other creature; and did the parson know the sheep had got out yesterday? He thanked each for their pains, said he was glad the flock had been restored, and continued on his way.

Riding out to the fields brought few answers as there was almost no one to question, a majority of the labourers having been pulled off to remedy what the previous night had thrown in disarray. What few were left for the harvest had not seen or heard of anyone unknown to them. Doubling back to the church proved no one had disturbed those grounds; all was as it should be. He even checked back at the Ram Inn, on the off chance that Frederick had hidden himself earlier, but in vain: his inquiries only revealed that the post chaise had finally arrived.

Meanwhile the clouds loomed ever larger in the sky, and Henry nearly lost his hat in the strengthening wind. These facts, and the acute knowledge that he was missing yet more hours spent with his wife over Captain Tilney, gnawed at a resolve already weakened by his search's disappointment. "He is likely back at the abbey already, and laughing at me," was the thought that had occurred several times. He decided to visit the miller, in deference to his absence yesterday, but to go no farther. It stood on the very edge of Woodston, separated only by the river from the forest which compromised a good share of his father's property: surely if Frederick had meant to return home by this route, he must have passed it.

Upon his approach he found a flurry of activity surrounding the workhouse and storerooms on the rise just east of the mill, all under the watchful supervision of Mr. Wilcox who, on being greeted, respectfully asked his rector to step inside for their discussion.

"Why, Sam, I did not know you had taken to the stable." Henry smiled as he surrendered his horse to the miller's youngest son.

"Only recently, and that very ill, though I am sure he will be far more careful with the parson's animal than the others he has tended." Mr. Wilcox's tone and curt look sent the lad scurrying off, as much led as leading his much larger charge. "Do not worry Mr. Tilney, he knows he'll get another lick if anything should go amiss."

Despite this encouragement Henry watched till it was clear that horse and boy alike were safely occupied in a stall before following his host, who had launched into one of his habitual monologues regarding the state of things, a subject he never tired of bemoaning.

"Hayes is too lenient with his children by half, I have told him so several times since taking them in Friday last. Half wild they were, my poor wife has been sorely tried keeping the girls at spinning. And the boys: had they kept the wheel turned at an even pace instead of knocking at all hours asking after their sisters, I am sure twice as much cloth could have been ready for market. Or the littlest might have stayed with them and saved my groom the trouble of getting him in line: thank God he knows how to curb unruly spirits! But Tate like everyone else has been pulled off to store everything higher, fast as they can get it off the looms."

"We must not expect wisdom from babes," Henry temporized, concern for the miller's circumstances stilling his tongue from any of several choice retorts he could have made on the subject of curbing versus breaking spirits. "And have they been with you that long? It sounds a more serious case than I understood heretofore.”

"Serious! I do call it serious when a man malingers near a whole week in bed, and begs his neighbour keep his family over a trifling cold. But we as good Christians did our duty of course. Ah, there she is at last: mind that tray Prudence, do at least try to live up to your name."

The child, barely in her eighth year, looked liable to drop her carefully balanced load at being singled out thus. Henry said nothing at first, not wishing to excite further harshness by countermanding the reproof, but after receiving a cup paid her a compliment and two pennies as vails before asking, "How are your good father and mother, Miss Prudence? I was sorry not to see them on Sunday."

"Better, sir," was the shy reply he received.

"I am glad to hear it," Henry spoke quickly, before Wilcox could start in another round of complaints. "But we must continue lifting them in prayer: perhaps you would like to take this opportunity to offer up your own?"

"I hope she will do as you instruct though I must own their habits all quite slovenly, which comes of sparing the rod too often.” Wilcox barely let her reach the door before this comment, and Henry downed the tepid tea to swallow sentences which would only foment rather than moderate these coarse sentiments. A pointed inquiry into his host’s own business turned the conversation to general malaise, and how much profit was to be lost with his industry shut up, albeit couched in concern over the parish's coffers and tithes.

When he began grumbling over the late mail and miserable streets, Henry was able to get in a few words of his own. "Actually, I have been charged with accounting for any repairs or improvements be made on that score: but with other concerns, it has yet to be done. I would appreciate any insight you could provide." It was as sore a test of Henry's forbearance not to laugh at the abrupt transition to self-satisfied obsequiousness, as the man's earlier quarrelsome temper had encouraged his guest to frown. "Well, I shall not keep your any longer from your work, and I should return to mine," Henry said after listening patiently for several interminable minutes to Wilcox’s ideas. "Although I must ask, you did not see a rider pass by yesterday evening, perhaps very late?"

"No: and I have not heard of a highwayman in these parts; if there is one, it is to be hoped he has met the fate God intends for all his enemies, and saves honest people the trouble of hanging him later."

There was little Henry could say in answer that would not be a punishment to both honest souls present, and so he bid adieu with probably as much charity as the bearer received it.

At the stable he was pleased to find better company in the form of Mr. Hayes himself, just come up from the mill with his other sons, who he explained were putting away the last finished bolts. "The missus is well and helping Mrs. Wilcox, thank you for asking, I thought I'd just check here to see about Sam. I trust everything is right with you sir?"

"Excellent! I believe your boy has real talent, for my beast has never looked happier after a call at this residence," Henry said over loudly while offering a penny to the lad, who after a short nod from his father sprang with excited glee to take it. "And yourself? I do apologize for not coming sooner, I have only just learned of your condition’s severity."

"Aye, it was touch an' go for a bit, you heard right. We were a mite worried for the children, but none else caught anything, God be praised, and it blew through fast enough. Would the rain might do similar."

"Perhaps you may enjoy a brief respite with the mill closed."

"Perhaps sir." Mr. Hayes sounded as disbelieving as Henry felt. Fortunately the man betrayed no lingering weakness as he helped his son close up the stall.

"I trust you will all tend safe till we meet again."

"Thank you sir, and your family too."

"Actually, I have been searching for my brother. Did you happen to see a rider go by in the past day?"

Henry had not really expected an answer, and was already mounting when Mr. Hayes surprised him by saying there may have been someone on horseback. "'Twere so fleeting I had not mentioned it to anyone, and whether it was any kin of yours I could not say. I was out testing the water's depth at the time. It was so dark, I do not think I would have noticed except for hearing the hooves. I shouted a warning, but who knows if it was heard? He was going very fast." The miller would have said too fast, but just checked himself, remembering the gentleman's relationship.

Henry's heart sank at the news, for he had envisioned himself going home now. "Which direction did he take?" he asked with some trepidation, and felt even worse as the man pointed toward a thicket due north of the swelling river.

"I believe it was that way, though of course, it were very hard to see, I might have been mistaken. I wondered where he could be going," was his candid remark, though the only answer was a barely elucidating "Nowhere good."

Even as Henry advanced uphill toward the copse he wondered whether he ought to retreat. No farm extended this far out of Woodston, for the land was rocky and uneven. He caught sight of not only limbs but full trunks down in places, and a lone rider would face perils even without a tempest to hinder him. For the first time Henry truly considered that Frederick might be in some peril.

"If so, it would be foolish to continue by himself." He had promised caution, and a company of men might serve an injured party far better than one. The closest source of aid must be where he had just left, which would require giving further explanation for his search; even were he to obscure specifics, like as not those very details would be guessed at or worse imagined to explain whatever predicament Frederick might be found in. Henry could certainly imagine any number of strong pronouncements from Wilcox on the subject of drunkards and debauchery, or complaints should Frederick be in no danger at all. He decided he must at least give a cursory search before alerting anyone else, delaying a decision while continuing deeper through the woods. Duty and desire, consciousness and conscience all vied for influence as he wrestled over what to do.

Suddenly he spied another horse and, urging his own forward, closed the distance as carefully as possible. It was no wonder the poor beast had been unable to continue further: its reins were wrapped around a large branch, and the saddle had slid down to drag along one side. Henry leapt down and attempted to free the head, finally resorting to his knife when he could not loose the stiffened tact. He tried to recall if it was the same breed his brother had ridden.

He received answer when upon straightening the saddle in place he recognized the captain's prize riding crop tangled in its straps.

Henry at once looked around for a prone figure but to no avail: it was very dark, and he had not thought to bring a lantern. Best to fetch help; but that would take precious minutes, and his brother might be very bad off indeed, without time to spare. Glancing down he could just make out tracks leading off into even thicker brush.

Leading both horses on foot, he followed the piecemeal trail through the gloom, gingerly crossing the precarious ground till forced to stop when he could no longer see trace of a print in any direction, and he called out. There was no answer.

Before he left, Henry decided to mark the place that it might be easier to find again. He chose two sturdy twigs which he staked and joined with a handkerchief as signal. Just then a bolt of lightning filled the sky, causing Henry to blink against the sudden illumination. The immediate answering thunder spooked the horses so that the leathers were jerked out of his hands, causing him to stumble forward as a torrent poured from the heavens. He ran after but was forced to stop when they faded from view: he could see neither animal, nor even more than a foot before him.

He held his arm out, attempting to walk in the direction he judged most likely to be the correct one. Another lightning strike lit and he could have wept at the sight of fresh markers in the dirt. He turned at once, feeling his way forward, and lengthening his stride when he finally cleared the trees. Catching no sight of village or field did not at first alarm him; he had ridden far, and may have left the woods at a different place than he had entered. Even were he close, it might take twice as long to traverse the same span half blind and on foot.

When said foot failed to find purchase beneath it Henry nearly toppled over, and just managed to leap back in time. Peering forward he was able to make out the grooves of a large pit, and recognized it as one of the fallow canals. "I must have come clear north of the forest entirely," was his realization, much farther afield from where he had imagined himself to be. He looked about for further landmarks, but all was grey and murky. If he kept the gorge to one side he knew he would eventually reach the river; from there he could best determine how to return to Woodston, or even head on to the abbey in the worst extremity. These thoughts did not cheer him, for either destination would involve a long hard march.

Henry walked slowly, ever aware of the possibility for mudslides and unsure exactly where along this course the river was diverted. Poor Catherine must already be inside by now, safe and warm and hopefully not too worried about her hapless husband. Henry could imagine her sitting by the fire, perhaps sorting through her workbox or reading a novel, and allowed himself to torment her spectre with occasional glances toward the door in search of him.

These pleasing thoughts were not enough to chase away his fears. Frederick could be anywhere, and though hearty, getting wet through would do him no good, not to mention any injuries he may have sustained. While he had chided Mrs. Tilney for her abundant imagination before, Henry was no less susceptible, and could readily envision many reasons a man would be unable to return once unseated from his horse.

His own state was little better: cold and damp, without even the provisions his wife had so thoughtfully arranged and which he had so stupidly left on his saddle. Whoever found it would have both one meal and funds to purchase many more: a shocking loss to accept culpability for, not counting the beast itself. As if to reinforce his folly, memory assaulted him, and he clearly heard his mother's father recount a blood-curdling tale of some long dead ancestor drowning after a drunken escapade on his own land. "And let that be a lesson for you, young Master Henry, 'ere you suffer the same!"

Why, he wondered, had Frederick not been made sleepless for nights on end with similar morality stuffed in his ear at a tender age? Was not the elder son supposed to be the more noble specimen of the line? And why had Henry ever thought he should come to his rescue in the first place, and alone at that? Grandfather Drummond would have boxed his ears over this foolishness. Henry pulled his greatcoat tighter, and prayed earnestly that Catherine was not suffering any pangs; he had told her he would seek shelter. Perhaps he would omit exactly how far he had to walk to seek said shelter when sending word.

These thoughts were interrupted by his slipping on a sodden patch of grass, causing him to land unceremoniously on the ground with laboured breath and a headache forming. Beyond the trace of the canal and an overgrown hedge the world was a dark filmy void. At least the thunder had abated, though Henry would have been glad of some light.

When he began to push himself up, Henry felt a small something under his hand: too small and polished for a stone and more perfectly round than a seed. He brought it closer to his face and was startled to recognize a button, the same that had caught the fireplace's light yesterday as Frederick strutted about the study. Henry scrambled to his feet and called his brother's name again, looking all about.

Hearing nothing but the wind he nonetheless crept to look over the edge of the shaft, straining to see. He could just make out the other side, and after some difficulty followed it down to where it flattened into a narrow ditch. It was on his second examination that something caught his eye: Henry turned back immediately and peering closer, thought he glimpsed a person.

"Frederick!" he cried in recognition but saw no sign of movement. Henry traced along the perimeter to just above where his brother lay sprawled under a thin canopy, formed by a mess of dirt and foliage torn from the nearest bush. "Frederick!"

If there was answer Henry did not see or hear it, though he could not be sure the man was even sensible to his cries. He judged it was not a steep climb, and tore off a stick large enough to support his weight. "I am coming!" he announced, hoping to rouse some response as he began his descent.

Despite not training to the same degree as a cavalier, Henry was by no means in poor form, and furthermore had traversed these grounds since his boyhood. Still, he was distracted by labour, fatigue, and dread; his gloves were wet through and his sodden coat pulled and upset his balance, forcing him to work even harder to keep his footing.

He might have succeeded even with all these difficulties had it not been for stepping on a loose rock, which slid out from under his foot and pulled a good chunk of the earth with it, dragging him along so that he plunged to the bottom in a heap, only just managing to roll into his shoulder. He instinctively reached for his handkerchief and a jarring spasm coursed through him, compounded by his remembering the linen was not in his pocket at all.

Whatever his own pains, he was quick to see that his brother looked worse: the usually pristine clothing torn and dank, hair falling in wild strands, and skin unnaturally pale. Henry was relieved to discover a heartbeat, but had no way of knowing how bad off the man truly was. They would need to get out and find better shelter than that provided by the wreckage scattered about. Small miracle the stallion had only been caught in the above bramble and not lamed, or perhaps a testament to the military discipline which Henry absently observed it displayed more than its master. But these morose pondering would get them nowhere: they must escape if Frederick were to receive the attention he most desperately needed.

Henry positioned the larger man over his shoulder and took up his walking stick. The dead weight caused him a moment's unsteadiness; looking up, he could just discern the seemingly distant hedge, though he knew it was not so far to the top. With determination he set rod and boot into the slope, his other hand clutching his load.

If it had been difficult to get himself down, it was doubly so to pull them both up. The mud shifted beneath his boots, and he could feel his brother's frame slipping from his grasp even as he tightened his hold. They were both too wet, the ground too soft. The staff helped but could do nothing for the person pulling him backward. Henry attempted shifting his position but felt one of Frederick’s arms pry free, which was enough to overbalance and throw them down once again.

The result of this fall was that though Henry felt too dazed to offer any exclamation, his brother awoke and offered several choice oaths of his own. Henry barely paid them mind, instead sitting up to shout the other’s name.

"Henry?" The voice was hoarse but powerful.

"Glad to know you still have life," and smiling despite his bruises, he forced himself to stand. "Now, between the two of us, we are sure to get out." So saying he offered his hand.

"What the devil—" but whatever else Frederick would have asked was lost in an outraged howl as Henry tried to hoist him up. Instead, Frederick yanked back, nearly pulling his brother down on top of him.

"Come now, I have taken enough mud in the face for you today," was Henry's preamble as he bent to start the process over, cut short by his brother's curses. Upon closer examination he discovered an odd angle in one leg, a bulging egg of skin revealed midway down the calf. Even his untutored eye could understand what that meant.

"It's broken!" Frederick exclaimed. "You idiot simpleton: you broke my leg!"

9/27/2021: Edited to correct directions (as you can plainly see on my recently published map, Mr. Wilcox's house is east, and not west of the mill.)