Henry Tilney's Diary

1790

Wednesday 14 April

No lessons, no tutors, no Latin, no Greek! How glad I am to be home again, with time to spend with my horses and dogs, my brother and sister, my mother and father. No more school for a month! Instead time to wander the abbey and roam the grounds.

The kitchen gardens have changed since last I was here. My father took me on a tour of them as soon as I stepped out of the carriage. He would not be content until I had seen every new plant and marvelled over every new bit of walling. It gives him something to do, now that he has left the army, I suppose, and I believe he will change every part of the Abbey before he is done.

Mama looked pale but only laughed when I said so, remarking that everyone looks pale in April. But I think she is not well. Eleanor has grown another inch and has developed a taste for Gothic novels. Frederick was out all day and looks set to be out all night, too. Papa paced up and down, his watch in his hand, whilst waiting for my brother this evening, then at last gave instructions for dinner to be served without him. I do not envy Frederick when he returns, for if there is one thing my father hates, it is to be kept waiting for anything.

Thursday 15 April

All was peaceful this morning as Mama, Papa and I were at breakfast. Eleanor had just departed to work with her governess when suddenly the door of the breakfast parlour opened and Frederick walked in. It was obvious that he had just returned from a night’s carousing. He was looking very dishevelled. His eyes were red, his speech slurred and his linen was none too fresh. He lurched towards us and demanded a thousand pounds from my father to cover his losses at the gaming tables, saying he must pay his debts of honour. My father, who had watched him like a simmering volcano since he set foot in the room, went purple with rage and rose to his feet. He shook with anger and then erupted, roaring a refusal and saying that Frederick had disgraced the name of Tilney.

‘By God, boy! What do you mean by it, coming in here at this hour and standing before your mother in this state, unwashed and reeking of brandy? I have warned you about your behaviour before, sir, but I will not warn you again. I have had my fill! I will not stand by whilst you waste every penny of your allowance—’

‘Aye, and pennies is all it is,’ said Frederick with a sneer. ‘A gentleman cannot be expected to manage on what you give. It is a trifling sum, when you inherited a fortune—’

‘Which you are dissipating. I should never have listened to your mother’s soft entreaties on your behalf. I should have sent you into the army years ago, it would have made a man of you,’ said my father.

‘What? A soldier?’ asked Frederick as he half-lurched, half-fell into a chair with a derisory laugh. ‘I am the heir of Northanger Abbey. Careers are not for the likes of me.’

‘Careers are for every man who would be a man, instead of a disgrace to himself, his family and his name. The devil finds work for idle hands; well, no more! If you were older I would demand your help in running the estate—’

Frederick snorted.

‘You would never let me meddle with your precious gardens and kitchens, you want them all to yourself. You do not even let Mama have a say! You like your own way too well.’

Papa threw down his napkin and his anger turned into icy contempt.

‘If you had shown any interest in your duty, then in the coming years I would have let you join with me in improving the abbey, but as it is you need discipline. Let us see what a few years in the army will do for you, and see if you, too, can rise to the rank of general.’

Mama, who had been sitting quietly up until that point, was upset by the turn events had taken. She implored my father to change his mind, saying that Frederick was too young to join the army. To which my father replied, ‘Eighteen? Too young? If anything it is too old. Some discipline would have done the boy good years ago, but better late than never.’ Then turning to Frederick he demanded, ‘Well, sir, what do you have to say for yourself ?’

Frederick looked mutinous, but Papa in one of his moods is not a man to cross, and so instead of challenging our father outright Frederick said provokingly, ‘That I think it a very good thing.’

‘Do you begad?’ said my father in surprise. He nodded his approval. ‘Then perhaps there is hope for you yet.’

But Frederick had not finished.

‘There is nothing more calculated to attract the opposite sex than a red coat,’ he said impudently. ‘The women fall all over me at the moment, they will fall even more quickly once I am in uniform!’

My father was incensed.

‘Puppy!’ he roared.

‘Please, dear, do reconsider,’ Mama implored. ‘Frederick is the heir. He cannot go into the army. What will happen if he is killed?’

‘He will be killed if he stays at home. He is forever putting his horse at breakneck jumps, and drunk or sober he has been in more duels than any man I know. It is a wonder he has lived this long.’

‘But think of the estate,’ said Mama.

It was an entreaty which fooled no one, for she cares very little for the estate and a great deal for her firstborn son.

‘If Frederick is fool enough to get in the way of a sword then Henry will look after it,’ said my father.

Mama pleaded with him again, but to no avail. Papa’s mind was made up.

At last Mama left the room in some distress, closely followed by my father, who was still shouting his dissatisfaction. I, meanwhile, was no less dismayed than Mama. Having no desire to inherit the estate, I was not pleased with the turn events had taken.

‘Have a thought for me,’ I said to Frederick, as he staggered drunkenly to his feet. ‘I do not want to inherit Northanger Abbey, I would much rather inherit the family living. So take care of yourself. I do not want to see you take a bullet.’

He smiled broadly.

‘Henry, dear boy, so there you are. It’s good to see you,’ he said, breathing brandy fumes into my face. He looked at me narrowly as he swayed on his feet, and added, ‘all of you.’ Poking me affectionately in the chest, he went on, in a slurred voice, ‘You’re a good man, Henry, a very good man. You’re not just my brother, you’re my best friend and I love you, I do. So I will tell you something, Henry. Now listen carefully. Come closer. Closer. Never give your heart to a woman. Never, never, never. Promise me. Promise me!’

‘I promise.’

‘Good. Good. Because they are devilish creatures, all of them. They lead a man on, they say they will love him for ever, and then do you know what they do? Do you, Henry? They leave him for his best friend. And do you know why they do that? Because his best friend has more money. They are not worth a candle. They are heartless and loveless and good for nothing. I will never love any woman ever again. I am glad to be going into the army. No women in the army. It’s the army for me, Henry my boy.’

He tried to stand up but lurched drunkenly and saved himself by putting his arm around my shoulder.

‘We men must stick together,’ he said.

Then his arm began to slide from my shoulder, he slipped down beside me and passed out on the floor.

When he is sober, my brother looks wicked and dangerous, when he is drunk he has the look of a cherub. His face relaxes and a happy smile curves his lips.

I was loath to break up such a pretty picture, but knowing what was likely to come next I rang the bell for his valet. Together we managed to lift Frederick to his feet and then we half-carried, and half-walked, him to his room where we put him to bed.

Friday 16 April

My sister Eleanor who, at the age of thirteen, is promising to become a beauty, was amused when I told her about the morning’s events, particularly by the possibility of my becoming the heir.

‘On, no, Henry! You cannot inherit the estate!’ she said, laughing, as she gambolled through the gardens in front of me, taking joy in the early-spring sunshine. ‘You will never make a good heir. You are not nearly reckless or rakish enough.’

‘I had the same thought myself. It is essential, I suppose, for heirs to be reckless and rakish?’ I asked her.

‘You know it is! You have read as many novels as I have – well, almost! It is unthinkable to have a son and heir who is a sober and reliable person. He has to spend his life seducing virtuous young women, or drinking himself into a stupor, or placing bets on whether he can drive from London to Brighton in seventeen minutes and forty-two seconds—’

‘Which of course he manages to do, though the distance is at least fifty miles and the feat is impossible.’

‘And he has to turn good, honest families out of their homes when he has nothing better to do, and then give their houses to his mistresses ...’

‘... even though the good, honest families are so virtuous that they have attended church every Sunday for their whole lives ...’ I said.

‘... and so poor that they have nowhere else to go, and will therefore die in the snow,’ finished Eleanor. ‘Now Frederick is a very good first-born son. He is wild and handsome and he comes home drunk every night, and he is always losing money over some ridiculous bet. But you would make a very bad squire, for you have never done any of these things.’

We turned along the chestnut walk.

‘Not yet, I grant you,’ I said. ‘But in the unlikely event of my ever inheriting, I shall try to give satisfaction. I don’t suppose that I can become a rake all at once, but I will take it in stages. I will begin by making a mildly scandalous remark to the Lowrys’ governess, perhaps commenting on her shapely ankles. I will make a similar small beginning on gambling, betting five shillings on whether or not it will rain on Saturday, and proceed from there.’

Eleanor laughed and ran through into the walled garden, where we were sheltered from the wind.

‘You will never make a good villain,’ she said. ‘You will have to resign yourself to being a hero.’

‘I have been thinking just the same thing, for I have the necessary dark eyes and rather dark hair. Alas, honesty compels me to mention that I do not have a hero’s height, nor his noble mien nor his wounded heart.’

‘You are still growing, I suppose, so you will be taller by and by. Your mien is noble enough, in a dim light. As for your lack of a wounded heart, that is because you have not yet met your heroine,’ she told me.

‘Heroines are hard to find. I have looked everywhere but I have never yet met one.’

‘Miss Grey was looking at you in church the other day.’

‘But Miss Grey is a bold young woman with brown hair. And heroines, as you know, have golden hair and blue eyes and they are demure in their manners. Their personalities, too, are of a very particular type. They spend their infant years nursing a dormouse—’

‘Or feeding a poor, starving canary—’

‘Or watering a rose bush, which repays their kindness by transforming itself from a straggling stick into a bush covered in rampant flowers. Yet I have never met such a one. Young ladies nowadays seem to spend their time playing cricket with their brothers or climbing trees, instead of lisping nursery songs to their prettily wounded animals.’

‘What a sorry place the world is! If you have not met such a paragon of virtue by the advanced age of sixteen, then I am forced to admit that you possibly never will,’ she said with a sigh.

‘I have resigned myself to a lifetime of celibacy for that very reason. Without a heroine who has been a part of my life since our cradles, until she is mysteriously sent away to unknown relatives following the death of her parents, there is no hope of happiness for me.’

‘There is, perhaps, one possibility which you have overlooked,’ she said, pulling a book out of her pocket. ‘I believe that, occasionally, heroines are to be met with on holidays abroad.’

She danced into the arbour, where she sat down on a bench and turned her book over in her hands.

‘How foolish of me,’ I said, sitting down beside her. ‘Now why did I not think of that? I will take a walking holiday in Italy as soon as I am old enough to arrange my own adventure.’

She opened her book.

‘What is it this time?’ I asked her. ‘Milton, Pope, Prior? A paper from the Spectator, perhaps, or a chapter from Sterne? Or is it a copy of Fordyce’s Sermons?’

‘No,’ she said, laughing. ‘It is something much better. It is A Sicilian Romance.’

‘What? A novel?’ I asked, affecting horror.

‘A novel,’ she assented.

‘And is it very horrid?’ I asked.

‘I certainly hope so.’ She thrust it into my hands. ‘You may read to me as I sew. I have to finish hemming this handkerchief. Mama says she will deprive me of novels altogether if I do not pay more attention to my needlework.’

And out of her pocket she drew needle, thread, and the handkerchief.

‘It is a good thing you are still in your schoolgirl’s dresses, for such large pockets will be a thing of the past when you start wearing more fashionable clothes – which will not be too long now, I think. You are very nearly a young lady.’

‘Pooh!’ she said. ‘Now read to me, if you please!’

‘Very well. But I see you have already begun.’

‘Not really. I have only read the first few pages, where the narrator says that he came across the ruins of the castle Mazzini whilst travelling in Sicily, and that a passing monk happened to lend him an ancient manuscript which related the castle’s history.’

‘A noble beginning. And who lives in this castle? The heroine, I presume?’

‘Yes. Her name is Julia.’

‘And does she have any brothers and sisters?’

‘A brother, Ferdinand, and a sister, Emilia.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Brothers are always useful. Their mother is dead, I suppose, driven to an early grave by their cruel and imperious father? And he has married again, a woman who is jealous of her beautiful stepdaughters, but likes her stepson because he brings his handsome friends home?’

‘Have you been peeking?’ she asked me suspiciously.

‘My dear sister, I do not need to peek to know that. A novel would not be worth reading without those essential facts.’

‘Well, you are right. And now the stepmother has persuaded the father to go on holiday with her, taking only Ferdinand and leaving Julia and Emilia at the castle in the care of their poor, dear departed Mama’s friend – Madame de Menon.’

‘Very well. So now I will begin:

‘A melancholy stillness reigned through the halls, and the silence of the courts, which were shaded by high turrets, was for many hours together undisturbed by the sound of any foot-step. Julia, who discovered an early taste for books, loved to retire in an evening to a small closet in which she had collected her favourite authors. This room formed the western angle of the castle: one of its windows looked upon the sea, beyond which was faintly seen, skirting the horizon, the dark rocky coast of Calabria; the other opened towards a part of the castle, and afforded a prospect of the neighbouring woods.’

‘I am glad she likes to read,’ said Eleanor, ‘but I wish something horrible would happen.’

‘Your wish is about to be granted,’ I said.

‘On the evening of a very sultry day, Julia, Emilia and Madame de Menon, having supped in their favourite outdoor spot, the coolness of the hour, and the beauty of the night, tempted this happy party to remain there later than usual. Returning home, they were surprised by the appearance of a light through the broken window-shutters of an apartment, belonging to a division of the castle which had for many years been shut up. They stopped to observe it, when it suddenly disappeared, and was seen no more.

‘Madame de Menon, disturbed at this phenomenon, hastened into the castle, with a view of enquiring into the cause of it, when she was met in the north hall by the servant Vincent. She related to him what she had seen, and ordered an immediate search to be made for the keys of those apartments. She apprehended that some person had penetrated that part of the edifice with an intention of plunder; and, disdaining a paltry fear where her duty was concerned, she summoned the servants of the castle, with an intention of accompanying them thither.

‘Vincent smiled at her apprehensions, and imputed what she had seen to an illusion, which the solemnity of the hour had impressed upon her fancy.

‘Madame, however, persevered in her purpose; and, after a long and repeated search, a massey key, covered with rust, was produced. She then proceeded to the southern side of the edifice, accompanied by Vincent, and followed by the servants, who were agitated with impatient wonder.

‘The key was applied to an iron gate, which opened into a court that separated this division from the other parts of the castle. They entered this court, which was overgrown with grass and weeds, and ascended some steps that led to a large door, which they vainly endeavoured to open.

‘All the different keys of the castle were applied to the lock, without effect, and they were at length compelled to quit the place, without having either satisfied their curiosity, or quieted their fears.

‘After several months passed, without further disturbance or discovery, another occurrence renewed the alarm. Julia had one night remained in her closet later than usual. A favourite book had engaged her attention beyond the hour of customary repose, and every inhabitant of the castle, except herself, had long been lost in sleep. She was roused from her forgetfulness, by the sound of the castle clock—’

We jumped, as the stable clock struck the hour, and then we laughed. But we had been recalled to the present. Eleanor knew her governess would be waiting for her. Reluctantly I closed the book, promising to read to her again later.

I went to the stables and was soon on horseback, enjoying my freedom. I miss it when I am at school, and like nothing better than roaming over the estate on a spring day.

Frederick was looking sober as we sat down to dine, but otherwise morose and pale. Despite his bravado I think he is not happy about going into the army, and there is some deeper wound. If Miss Orpington has disappointed him – and I can think of no other meaning to his words – then I am sorry for him. It is clear to see that he feels it most keenly, for although on the surface he is a rake, I am convinced that he is at heart a romantic.

Mama ate very little and Papa was concerned, asking her if she felt quite well. She said that it was nothing, just her bilious complaint, and that he must not be concerned.

I believe that he is concerned, though, inasmuch as he has it in him to be concerned for anyone.

Saturday 17 April

It is as I feared. Mama was ill again this morning and did not leave her room. Papa blamed it on Frederick. Frederick bore our father’s rants with a curled lip, but as soon as Papa went off to examine the kitchens, Frederick’s bravado disappeared and he hastened to Mama’s room, where he endeavoured to cheer her, and sounds of laughter could soon be heard.

This afternoon he rode over to the Dawsons, saying he was going to borrow something from Peter. He returned with a red coat, Peter being in the army, and went upstairs to show it to Mama. But she was by then feeling unwell, and he was unable to see her. Papa said he would send for the physician tomorrow if she is no better.

Eleanor spent the afternoon sewing diligently, so that she will have something to show Mama when Mama is feeling well again. Being disposed to help Eleanor in her noble endeavour, I took up A Sicilian Romance.

‘Oh, yes, Henry, please do read to me,’ she said. ‘I do not know how it is, but a novel is always more enjoyable when it is shared.’

‘By which you mean you are afraid to turn the pages by yourself, lest Julia should discover a skeleton in the southern reaches of the castle.’

‘I am frightened of no such thing.’

‘Of course not. Very well, then, where did we leave it? Ah, yes, Julia was reading late one night and was moving to her chamber, when the beauty of the night attracted her to the window.

‘She opened it; and observing a fine effect of moonlight upon the dark woods, leaned forwards. In that situation she had not long remained, when she perceived a light faintly flash through a casement in the uninhabited part of the castle. A sudden tremor seized her, and she with difficulty supported herself.

‘In a few moments it disappeared, and soon after a figure, bearing a lamp, proceeded from an obscure door belonging to the south tower; and stealing along the outside of the castle walls, turned round the southern angle, by which it was afterwards hid from the view. Astonished and terrified at what she had seen, she hurried to the apartment of Madame de Menon, and related the circumstance.

‘The servants were immediately roused, and the alarm became general. Madame arose and descended into the north hall, where the domestics were already assembled. No one could be found of courage sufficient to enter into the courts; and the orders of Madame were disregarded, when opposed to the effects of superstitious terror. She perceived that the servant Vincent was absent, but as she was ordering him to be called, he entered the hall.

‘Surprised to find the family thus assembled, he was told the occasion. He immediately ordered a party of the servants to attend him round the castle walls; and with some reluctance, and more fear, they obeyed him. They all returned to the hall, without having witnessed any extraordinary appearance; but though their fears were not confirmed, they were by no means dissipated.

‘The appearance of a light in apart of the castle which had for several years been shut up, and to which time and circumstance had given an air of singular desolation, might reasonably be supposed to excite a strong degree of surprise and terror.

‘In the minds of the vulgar, any species of the wonderful is received with avidity; and the servants did not hesitate in believing the southern division of the castle to be inhabited by a supernatural power.

‘Too much agitated to sleep, they agreed to watch for the remainder of the night. For this purpose they arranged themselves in the east gallery, where they had a view of the south tower from which the light had issued. The night, however, passed without any further disturbance; and the morning dawn, which they beheld with inexpressible pleasure, dissipated for a while the glooms of apprehension.

‘But the return of evening renewed the general fear, and for several successive nights the domestics watched the southern tower. Although nothing remarkable was seen, a report was soon raised, and believed, that the southern side of the castle was haunted. Madame de Menon, whose mind was superior to the effects of superstition, was yet disturbed and perplexed, and she determined, if the light reappeared, to inform the marquis of the circumstance, and request the keys of those apartments.’

‘Do you think it is really haunted?’ asked Eleanor.

‘Who can say? It seems only too likely,’ I said. ‘I can think of no other reason for a mysterious light. There can surely not be a rational explanation of so strange a thing?’

‘And do you think Madame will really ask the marquis for the keys?’

‘I think she may very well ask him, but whether he will give them to her is quite another matter.’

‘Poor Julia,’ said Eleanor, with a pleasurable shiver, ‘to live in a haunted castle. I am glad the abbey is not haunted.’

‘Are you sure? I believe I saw a mysterious light in the kitchen last night,’ I remarked.

‘Oh, that was just Mama’s maid making her a little something,’ said Eleanor.

At talk of Mama she fell silent. Reading her thoughts, and knowing she was worried about Mama, I invited her to go riding with me, but she would not be distracted from her needlework.

Frederick was still wearing his red coat when I went upstairs to dress for dinner. He was just emerging from Mama’s room, where he had met with a smiling reception, for Mama was feeling somewhat better. He looked remarkably handsome and he was pleased that Mama had said so.

Papa was less pleased to find that Frederick had been to her room, saying, ‘Your mother is too ill to be disturbed.’

‘On the contrary, she was feeling much recovered and needed someone to take her out of her thoughts,’ Frederick remarked. ‘She said that red is a very good colour and suits me.’

‘It is a very good colour for disguising blood, anyway,’ said Papa, ‘and there will be plenty of that when you see some action.’

Frederick scowled and said that, as he had worn the coat into town this afternoon it had already seen some action, a remark which incensed Papa. But Frederick laughed at his anger. I did not like to hear it. There was something bitter about the laughter, something cynical. I hope it will not last. Frederick is not made for bitterness and cynicism. I hope his disappointment has not soured him. I am sure it has not. He is too young to abandon all hope of meeting a heroine of his own.

Sunday 18 April

Mama was well enough to join us at church and, apart from being a little pale, was so well that Papa felt able to go ahead with his plan of driving me over to Woodston this afternoon.

‘I am glad to see that you are not following in your brother’s footsteps,’ said my father as we set out. ‘A clergyman needs to be sober and respectable and I think I can rely upon you to be both. You have a propensity to humour and you have a love of the absurd, both of which you should attempt to curb, but I am pleased with you nonetheless, Henry. I will be glad to give you the living of Woodston when you are old enough for it. You will not become ordained for many years, but Woodston will be waiting for you.’

He wanted no reply, and so whilst he talked I was free to observe the countryside, with its hints of the coming spring. The drive was agreeable and the twenty miles went by quickly.

‘Woodston is larger than it was the last time I was here,’ I said. ‘There are more chandler’s shops, and some new houses, too.’

‘It is becoming more prosperous,’ my father agreed. ‘Its situation is good and its people are hardworking. You will have sensible parishioners and you will be able to make your mark here. I foresee great things for you, Henry, my boy.’

We reached the further end of the village and my father pulled up in front of the parsonage.

‘There it is. What do you think of it, Henry?’

I was surprised at his question. We have been to Woodston many times before, but it was the first time he had sought my opinion.

‘A little run down, perhaps, and small, but well enough,’ I said.

‘You think so? I cannot agree with you. In fact, I am very disappointed in the place. I have been growing more and more dissatisfied with it for some time. It is small and dark, and has a mean look about it. I think I am going to have it pulled down and have a new parsonage built in its place.’

I was astonished, but a moment’s reflection showed me that I should not be surprised. There is very little left to do on the abbey and my father must always be altering something. Goodness knows what he will do with himself when everything is done.

‘The drive needs altering. What do you say? A semicircular sweep would look well, I think. Do not you?’ He did not wait for me to answer but continued: ‘Good, good, I knew you would approve. It needs a pair of imposing gates to make the entrance worth looking at. Then, with an impressive sweep and a stone-built parsonage beyond, it will be passable. Inside, it will need spacious rooms, well shaped, with windows reaching to the ground. What do you think? The view of the meadows beyond is pretty enough. Perhaps that tree could be moved.’

He set the carriage moving again and drove on to the church, which we reached in time for the evening service.

‘The roof has just been replaced,’ he said as we climbed out of the carriage, ‘and that window will be refitted. I have always thought it a pity it has no coloured glass. There is room for improvement there. We will replace it with a scene from the New Testament. Or perhaps the Old. What do you think? Yes, yes, you are right, David and Goliath, or perhaps the Battle of Jericho.’

The Reverend Mr Wilkes caught sight of us at that moment and set his servant to take care of the horses as he made us welcome. We were the object of some attention as we took our place in the family pew. I liked the atmosphere of the church, it was calm and peaceful. I looked about me at the venerable stonework and the carved oak, which had been made mellow by the countless generations worshipping there. My father’s eyes roved around with quite a different view, seeking out things to be altered, and lingering now and then on an ugly bonnet or a battered cane, which I knew he was tempted to remove and replace.

As we waited for the sermon to begin, I wondered whether my heroine might be found at Woodston, and thinking she might be hiding her light under a poke bonnet I endeavoured to read every face. But I saw no one over the age of seven or under the age of forty.

The service at last began. It was tolerable, but I found myself to be my father’s son, for I saw room for improvement, and I wrote my own service in my imagination as I listened. Alas, my sermon contained much that was humorous, and I think my father would have been horrified if he could have read my thoughts. But I see no reason why sermons should not be entertaining as well as instructive, and I feel it will be my duty to make sure that my parishioners remain awake whilst I am speaking, instead of falling asleep.

After the service was over we were invited to stay at the rectory by the Reverend Mr Wilkes. My father, having expected the invitation, had made sure we had travelled prepared. We were soon at the parsonage, and then we were left alone whilst Mr Wilkes went to instruct his housekeeper on preparing our rooms.

‘You see now why a clergyman needs a wife,’ said my father. ‘Mr Wilkes is a bachelor and he has to see to all the arrangements himself. When the time comes I will find you an heiress, someone whose wealth will enhance your own and give you an opportunity to make as many improvements as you desire.’

It did not seem sufficient reason to take a wife to me, but I did not want to anger my father and so I did not say so.

Whilst we waited for Mr Wilkes to return, Papa looked around the parsonage with a critical eye.

‘Yes, yes, knock it down and start again, there is nothing else to be done. The rooms are too small, and although that wall could be knocked out, there is nothing I hate so much as a patched-on bow. The windows, too ...’ He shook his head in disapproval at the small-paned windows, which let in little light. ‘But with the new parsonage, you will have nothing to be ashamed of, it will be a gentleman’s residence, I can promise you that. Everything in the newest style, well fitted out, the sort of home you can be proud of.

‘You will not be dependent on the living, of course, you have your own fortune, but it is important that you have occupation. It is essential for a young man. You are intelligent enough to know what I am talking about. I am not worried for you, Henry. It is your brother who fills me with unease. He never seems to belong to anyone. You are close to your sister, but Frederick has no such close friendship in the family. He loves his mother, as who would not? But that is not the same as having someone in whom he can confide. Confound it, there is something eating the boy, but the devil of it is, I do not know what it is.’

I ventured that it might be a woman.

‘What, not Miss Orpington? I thought I had cured him of that. She was not good enough for the heir of Northanger Abbey, and when I sent him into the library I felt sure he would see it for himself.’

‘The library?’

‘Yes, the library. She was busy flirting with one of Frederick’s less savoury friends in there. I am surprised that Frederick expected anything better from either of them, I never expected him to take it so much to heart, but I could not let him continue in ignorance. He had better get over his ill humour before Saturday. We are having some of our friends and neighbours to supper and I will not tolerate his being rude to them. Miss Plainter will be there, along with her brother Charles, and Miss Maple. We will have some improvised dancing after supper, nothing formal. I will make sure there are musicians there, and then it can all be done on the spur of the moment.’

The Reverend Mr Wilkes returning at that moment, the talk moved on to parish business until we retired for the night.

As I went upstairs I could not help wondering which friend had played my brother false. I do not know them all, but I know of three who are richer than he is, and none of them as worthy of love as Frederick. Miss Orpington must be intolerably stupid, and I cannot help thinking that he has had a lucky escape.

Monday 9 April

We returned to the abbey this afternoon and Papa set about organizing the musicians for the supper party. Frederick was out riding. Mama was feeling much better and was sitting in the parlour with her needlework. Eleanor was sitting beside her with a piece of sewing in her lap, fidgeting.

‘There you are, Henry,’ said Mama, giving me her cheek to kiss. ‘Did you enjoy yourself at Woodston?’

She listened attentively whilst I told her all about it and then said with a smile, ‘You will oblige me greatly if you will take your sister out of doors. She is fidgeting terribly.’

The day was indeed lovely and I could tell that Eleanor longed to be outside.

Eleanor jumped up, but then said nobly, ‘I will stay here with you, Mama, if you prefer. I can help you with your needlework.’

‘Heaven forfend!’ said Mama. ‘I want to have it finished by dinner time and if you remain by my side it will never be done! Off you go, child.’

Eleanor needed no more urging and we were soon outside. The weather being fine, we went down to the arbour and I was not surprised when she drew out her book. Feeling lazy, I said, ‘I think, today, you should read to me.’

‘Very well.’

She had scarcely settled herself on the bench when she took up the book and began to read. Her face glowed and her eyes widened as she discovered the horrors within:

‘It was about this period that the servant Vincent was seized with a disorder which increased so rapidly, as in a short time to assume the most alarming appearance. Despairing of life, he desired that a messenger might be dispatched to inform the marquis of his situation, and to signify his earnest wish to see him before he died.

‘The progress of his disorder defied every art of medicine, and his visible distress of mind seemed to accelerate his fate. Perceiving his last hour approaching, he requested to have a confessor. The confessor was shut up with him a considerable time, and he had already received extreme unction, when Madame de Menon was summoned to his bedside. The hand of death was now upon him, cold damps hung upon his brows, and he, with difficulty, raised his heavy eyes to Madame as she entered the apartment. He beckoned her towards him, and desiring that no person might be permitted to enter the room, was for a few moments silent. His mind appeared to labour under oppressive remembrances; he made several attempts to speak, but either resolution or strength failed him.

‘At length, giving Madame a look of unutterable anguish, “Alas, madam,” said he, “Heaven grants not the prayer of such a wretch as I am. I must expire long before the marquis can arrive. Since I shall see him no more, I would impart to you a secret which lies heavy at my heart, and which makes my last moments dreadful, as they are without hope.”

‘I knew it,’ said Eleanor. ‘I always suspected Vincent. I am sure it was he who carried the lantern. He must be the source of the mysterious lights.’

‘I seem to remember your being convinced the castle was haunted.’

‘I never said any such thing,’ she said comfortably, before returning to the book.

‘“Be comforted,” said Madame, who was affected by the energy of his manner, “we are taught to believe that forgiveness is never denied to sincere repentance.”

‘“You, madam, are ignorant of the enormity of my crime, and of the secret – the horrid secret which labours at my breast. My guilt is beyond remedy in this world, and I fear will be without pardon in the next; I therefore hope little from confession even to a priest. Yet some good it is still in my power to do; let me disclose to you that secret which is so mysteriously connected with the southern apartments of this castle.”

‘ “What of them!” exclaimed Madame, with impatience.

‘Vincent returned no answer; exhausted by the effort of speaking, he had fainted. Madame rang for assistance, and by proper applications, his senses were recalled. He was, however, entirely speechless, and in this state he remained till he expired.’

‘Oh, no!’ I cried, clutching my chest and rolling my eyes, much to Eleanor’s amusement. ‘What horrible secret does he take to his grave?’

She returned to the book impatiently, but she had no chance to read further, for it was time to dress for dinner, and the wicked marquis himself could not be more fearsome than my father when one of us is late.

Tuesday 20 April

Papa watched Mama at breakfast time and he was pleased to see that she ate well, her bilious attack being over, and that she took pleasure in her letter from her old schoolfriend Mrs Hughes, which she read aloud to us with her customary animation. He told her of his plans for dancing on Saturday and she approved of them. Frederick scowled, knowing it was for his benefit and not being in the mood for dancing. However, he said nothing. For the time being, at least, he does not risk open rebellion because my father has agreed to pay his debts of honour, and so Frederick must behave.

‘I think, you know, it is time for Eleanor to start joining us for evening gatherings, at least those that take place at the abbey,’ said Mama.

Eleanor sat up, alert.

‘She is far too young,’ said Papa.

‘Not so. She is not a child any more, she is turning into a young lady. I do not say she should join us for the dancing, but I think she should join us for supper. It will do her good to see how adults conduct themselves in company and it will give her a chance to practise her manners.’

‘She is forever jumping up, she will never manage to sit still,’ said my father.

Eleanor became as still as a statue and folded her hands in her lap in the most ladylike fashion imaginable.

‘I think we can trust her to manage for a short while,’ said Mama.

Papa grumbled some more but at last he let Mama have her own way. Eleanor and Mama exchanged smiles.

‘But you will need something new to wear,’ said Mama to Eleanor. ‘You cannot appear at supper in any of the dresses you already have. We will go shopping this afternoon and look for muslins. We will need some good washing muslin – you are growing so much that you will soon need some new day dresses, and we might as well buy the fabric when we are there – and also something finer for the evening. I think we have time to make something simple for Saturday.’

It was all arranged. Eleanor sketched and practised the pianoforte in the morning, with not one grumble, and I went out riding with Charles Plainter.

Afterwards, we had a light luncheon and by two o’clock the carriage was at the door.

By that time Mama was looking pale again and Papa said she should not go. Mama was adamant, however, but she did not look very strong and so I offered my services as escort.

‘Thank you, Henry, a man’s arm is just what I need,’ said Mama.

She leant on me heavily as we went out to the carriage and said very little as it pulled away from the abbey. The journey was not too long and we went straight to the linen draper’s. Mama took a seat whilst we waited for the two people before us to be served.

There were some pretty fabrics on the counter and I looked them over.

‘I think that would suit you very well,’ I said to Eleanor, nodding towards a green fabric.

Mama smiled indulgently.

‘That is satin, Henry, quite unsuitable for a young girl.’

‘Then what of the one next to it?’ I asked.

‘No, that is silk. We want muslin. See, there is a bale of it at the end of the counter.’

The assistant was by that time ready for us. Mama held a knowledgeable conversation with him. I attempted to learn, but I succeeded only in throwing Mama and Eleanor into gales of mirth when I tried to help them choose.

‘This is a muslin, I know it is,’ I said, indicating one of the fabrics. ‘Pray tell me then, why it will not do.’

‘Because it will not wash well,’ said Mama. ‘It will fray. Now this, on the other hand, will wash very well. Do you see the difference?’

I could see it when she told me what to look for and I earned a look of approval when I spotted another good washing muslin.

‘Now, as to the pattern, a sprig is suitable for a young girl.’

‘A sprig?’

‘Like this one. Do you see the pattern, there are small sprigs of flowers scattered across the fabric.’ She told the assistant we would take it. ‘Now we need something plain white for evening.’

‘This one,’ I said, picking up a robust muslin.

‘That is not fine enough for evening wear,’ she said. She examined the other fabrics the draper had brought out for her to admire. ‘This one, I think,’ she said at last, holding it against Eleanor. ‘We will have four yards. No, we had better have more rather than less, we will have five. We can always turn the left-over pieces to some account or other; it will do for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted.’

I thought we were done, but Mama and Eleanor spent another hour in the shop and then went in search of shoe roses and a new fan before we were finished.

We returned home and Mama rang for tea.

‘Now, tell me what you have been doing whilst I have been in bed,’ Mama said, as tea was brought in.

Eleanor spoke at length, telling Mama all about the handkerchiefs she had sewn, the hours she had spent practising the pianoforte and the numerous sketches she had made.

‘And numerous novels read, I suppose?’ asked Mama, seeing A Sicilian Romance lying on the window seat.

‘Only one novel. Henry has been reading to me,’ said Eleanor.

‘Has he indeed. It is not unsuitable, I hope?’ Mama asked, going over to the window seat and retrieving the book.

‘Not at all,’ I said.

‘Well, well, I think I will be the judge of that. You may continue to read.’

She put the book in my hands, and I noticed that the bookmark had moved.

‘Have you been reading ahead without me?’ I asked.

Eleanor looked at me innocently.

‘No, of course not,’ she said.

‘Then how is it that you are more advanced than when I left?’

‘Well, perhaps I have read a few pages,’ she admitted.

I held them between my finger and thumb and showed her the thickness of ‘a few pages’.

‘Well, nothing has happened,’ she said, excusing herself, ‘except that the marquis has returned and has dismissed Vincent’s ramblings as nonsense. And when Madame said that she had seen strange lights in the uninhabited part of the castle, he said it was nothing but the delusions of a weak and timid mind.’

‘Did he indeed?’ asked Mama. ‘Madame sounds like a sensible woman to me, but I do not think I like this marquis.’

‘His wife is even worse,’ said Eleanor eagerly.

‘And what of our heroine, Julia, and her brother?’ I asked. ‘Particularly her brother. Brothers are very important people, and I must know what he has been doing.’

‘He has just returned to the castle, too, to celebrate his majority. You will like to hear what the author says of him,’ she said, hanging over me and pointing out the passage. ‘Look.

His figure was tall and majestic; he had a very noble and spirited carriage; and his countenance expressed at once sweetness and dignity.’

I assumed the air of Ferdinand, standing up and drawing myself up to my full height, whilst doing my best to adopt a countenance of sweetness and dignity, and Mama laughed.

‘Bravo,’ she said.

I sat down again, took out the bookmark and began to read:

‘In the evening there was a grand ball; the marchioness, who was still distinguished for her beauty, and for the winning elegance of her manners, appeared in the most splendid attire. Her hair was ornamented with a profusion of jewels, but they were so disposed as to give an air rather of voluptuousness than of grace to her figure. Although conscious of her charms, she beheld the beauty of Emilia and Julia with a jealous eye, and was compelled secretly to acknowledge, that the simple elegance with which they were adorned, was more enchanting than all the studied artifice of splendid decoration.’

Eleanor gave a happy sigh, no doubt imagining herself as Julia.

‘Well, this is certainly good,’ said Mama. ‘Simple elegance is always preferable to studied artifice.’

‘At twelve the gates of the castle were thrown open, and the company quitted it for the woods, which were splendidly illuminated. The scene appeared enchanting. Nothing met the eye but beauty and romantic splendour; the ear received no sounds but those of mirth and melody. The younger part of the company formed themselves into groups, which at intervals glanced through the woods, and were again unseen. Julia seemed the magic queen of the place.

‘The Count Muriani was of the party. He complimented the marchioness on the beauty of her daughters; and after lamenting with gaiety the captives which their charms would enthral, he mentioned the Count de Vereza.’

‘The Count de Vereza – Hippolitus – has been admiring Julia, and the marchioness’s heart has been corroded with jealous fury,’ Eleanor helpfully explained.

‘Dear me,’ said Mama.

I continued:

‘ “He is certainly of all others the man most deserving the lady Julia,” said Count Muriani. “As they danced, I thought they exhibited a perfect model of the beauty of either sex; and if I mistake not, they are inspired with a mutual admiration.”

‘The marchioness, endeavouring to conceal her uneasiness, said, “Yes, my lord, I allow the count all the merit you adjudge him, but from the little I have seen of his disposition, he is too volatile for a serious attachment.” ’

‘She is making that up,’ said Eleanor crossly.

‘I thought she might be,’ said Mama, with a smile at me.

‘At that instant the count entered the pavilion,’ I went on.

‘ “Ah,” said Muriani, laughingly, “you were the subject of our conversation, and seem to be come in good time to receive the honours allotted you. I was interceding with the marchioness for her interest in your favour, with the Lady Julia; but she absolutely refuses it; and though she allows you merit, alleges, that you are by nature fickle and inconstant. What say you – would not the beauty of Lady Julia bind your unsteady heart?”

‘ “I know not how I have deserved that character of the marchioness,” said the count with a smile, “but that heart must be either fickle or insensible in an uncommon degree, which can boast of freedom in the presence of Lady Julia.”’

Eleanor gave a dreamy smile.

‘Well, it is all innocent enough,’ said Mama approvingly. ‘You may read it with my blessing. But now I think I will have a rest before dinner. I am a little fatigued after our exertions.’

‘I wonder if there will be any counts at the supper party on Saturday,’ said Eleanor.

‘About a dozen, I should think,’ I said, ‘and they will all be ensnared by your charms. Indeed I think it certain that they will all be fighting over you, for the heart must be either fickle or insensible in an uncommon degree, which can boast of freedom in the presence of Eleanor.’

‘Now you are laughing at me,’ she said, but she was beaming with happiness.

I left her to her daydreams and, making the most of the fine weather by calling my dogs, I went down to the river to do some fishing. The sport was good and I caught three fine specimens which were served up at dinner.

Wednesday 21 April

Eleanor and Mama spent the day sewing, aided by Mama’s maid. Frederick was still lying low, and I rode over to the Maples. Stewart was at home and Charles Plainter was there. All three of us rode down to Copse End.

‘My sister is looking forward to the supper party,’ said Stewart. ‘Mama wants her to marry Frederick.’

‘She is too late. Frederick is going into the army.’

‘Yes, I had heard something about it. Been behaving too wild, has he? I thought as much. But nothing so trifling as that will stop Mama,’ he said. ‘She and Pen are determined to have him.’

‘No amount of determination will make Frederick do something he does not want to do,’ I said. ‘Frederick goes his own way. He ...’ I was going to say that he had had his heart broken, and then decided against it. ‘... does as he pleases.’

‘Will you be there?’ asked Stewart.

Charles said that he would be there with his family, whilst I said that I would be there for supper, but not afterwards.

‘I have escaped, too,’ Stewart said. ‘I have to attend the parties at our own house but Mama says that I am still too young to go to our neighbours for evening parties, for which I thank God. I wish I could stay sixteen for ever. Supper parties are bad enough, but dancing is worse. Give me my horses and dogs, my old clothes, let me do as I please and I am happy, but stuff me up in all that rig and make me play the courtier and I am miserable.’

I was not entirely of his way of thinking.

‘I like company, if it is good, but too often it is tedious. Everyone says the same things over and over. However, my sister Eleanor will be having supper with us, it is her first grown-up party, and her delight will carry me through.’

Thursday 22 April

Papa has spent the day harrying the servants, making sure that everything will be ready for Saturday. One of his old friends, the Marquis of Longtown, is coming and my father wants to make sure everything is perfect. Mama and Eleanor have again been sewing, and Frederick at last seems to be coming out of himself. He suggested that we should go riding this afternoon, and although I had already been out this morning I obliged him. He talked to me a great deal, about his fears for the future, his disappointment in love and his feeling of purposelessness.

‘What use is an heir before he inherits?’ he asked. ‘There is nothing for him to do.’

‘Except go into the army,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you will like it.’

‘It will at least get me away from here. The general will never hand over the reins whilst he has breath. If I had enough money I would buy a place of my own.’

‘Then marry an heiress,’ I said lightly. ‘Stewart says his sister has set her cap at you.’

‘What, Pen Maple?’ he asked incredulously, reining in his horse, and then he began to laugh.

I had not heard him laugh since his disappointment and I was very pleased to hear it. His horse danced beneath him, snorting, as if to join in the amusement.

‘Yes, both she and her mama are determined to have you,’ I said, stopping beside him.

‘Penelope Maple is the last woman on earth I would marry,’ he retorted.

‘You have still not forgiven her for beating you at sledging down the back hill when you were eleven then?’ I asked.

‘Did she? I had forgotten that.’

‘Surely not. You must remember the terrible trouble she was in when her mother discovered she had taken a tray from the kitchen and used it as a toboggan.’

He roared with laughter.

‘So she did,’ he said.

‘Does that make you look more kindly on her?’ I asked.

‘Of course. I will marry her tomorrow,’ he said.

‘You could do worse,’ I remarked.

The laughter left his eyes and his mood became dark.

‘I could do better,’ he said.

He set off again, trotting at a sombre pace. His gaiety had gone and although I tried to bring it back again I did not succeed.

Saturday 24 April

The abbey was full of activity today as the house was prepared to receive our guests. Mama took to her room this afternoon to rest and Eleanor, full of energy, darted from room to room, unable to settle in her excitement at the idea of attending her first grown-up party.

‘You will wear a hole in the carpet,’ I told her. ‘Do sit down.’

‘Henry! How can you sit still?’ she asked me.

‘Easily. Come and sit down, bring A Sicilian Romance and we will see what is happening to Julia now that she is in love with Hippolitus. Will she win him, or will her evil father and even more evil stepmother ruin her happiness for ever?’

‘I hope that Julia and Hippolitus get married and live happily ever after,’ she said.

‘It will be a very short story if they do. Ah, here is Julia, thinking of her One True Love:

‘She was roused from her state of visionary happiness, by a summons from the marquis to attend him in the library. She found him pacing the room in deep thought, and she had shut the door before he perceived her. The authoritative severity in his countenance alarmed her, and prepared her for a subject of importance.

‘ “I sent for you, my child,” said he, “to declare the honour which awaits you. The Duke de Luovo has solicited your hand. An alliance so splendid was beyond my expectation. You will receive the distinction with the gratitude it claims, and prepare for the celebration of the nuptials.”

‘This speech fell like the dart of death upon the heart of Julia. She sat motionless – stupefied and deprived of the power of utterance.

‘The marquis observed her consternation; and mistaking its cause, “I acknowledge,” said he, “that there is something somewhat abrupt in this affair; but the joy occasioned by a distinction so unmerited on your part, ought to overcome the little feminine weakness you might otherwise indulge. Retire and compose yourself.”

‘These words roused Julia from her state of horrid stupefaction.

‘ “O! sir,” said she, throwing herself at his feet, “forbear to enforce authority upon a point where to obey you would be worse than death. Hear me, my lord,” said Julia, tears swelling in her eyes, “and pity the sufferings of a child, who never till this moment has dared to dispute your commands.”

‘ “Nor shall she now,” said the marquis. “What, when wealth, honour, and distinction, are laid at my feet, shall they be refused, because a foolish girl – a very baby, who knows not good from evil, cries, and says she cannot love! Accept the duke, or quit this castle for ever, and wander where you will.”

‘Saying this, he burst away, and Julia, who had hung weeping upon his knees, fell prostrate upon the floor. The violence of the fall completed the effect of her distress, and she fainted.’

‘Of what use was that?’ asked my sister unsympathetically.

‘Do you not think you might faint, if you were in her predicament?’ I asked.

‘I never faint,’ she declared. ‘I think Julia ought to run away with Hippolitus.’

‘It seems that Hippolitus is of your mind,’ I said, continuing, ‘for Hippolitus suggests that very thing. And Ferdinand, that most noble of brothers, agrees that it is the only way to happiness.’

Eleanor seized the book from me in her eagerness and read,

‘They now arranged their plan of escape; in the execution of which, no time was to be lost, since the nuptials with the duke were to be solemnized on the day after the morrow. It was settled, that if the keys could be procured, Ferdinand and Hippolitus should meet Julia in the closet; that they should convey her to the seashore, from whence a boat, which was to be kept in waiting, could carry them to the opposite coast of Calabria, where the marriage might be solemnized without danger of interruption.’

I read over her shoulder as she fell silent in her perusal of the lovers’ miraculous escape to the shore, but we did not read at the same speed and so I reclaimed the book, continuing to read aloud:

‘ “Now, my love,” said Hippolitus, “you are safe, and I am happy.”

‘Immediately a loud voice from without exclaimed, “Take, villain, the reward of your perfidy!”

‘At the same instant Hippolitus received a sword in his body, and uttering a deep sigh, fell to the ground. Julia shrieked and fainted—’

‘Again,’ said Eleanor, not impressed with Julia’s fortitude.

‘Ferdinand, drawing his sword, advanced towards the assassin, upon whose countenance the light of his lamp then shone, and discovered to him his father! The sword fell from his grasp, and he started back in an agony of horror. He was instantly surrounded, and seized by the servants of the marquis, while the marquis himself denounced vengeance upon his head, and ordered him to be thrown into the dungeon of the castle.

‘Julia, on recovering her senses, found herself in a small room, of which she had no remembrance, with her maid weeping over her. Yet her misery was heightened by the intelligence which she now received. She learned that Hippolitus had been borne away lifeless by his people, that Ferdinand was confined in a dungeon by order of the marquis, and that herself was a prisoner in a remote room, from which, on the day after the morrow, she was to be removed to the chapel of the castle, and there sacrificed to the ambition of her father, and the absurd love of the Duke de Luovo.’

I closed the book dramatically and said, ‘And now, it is time to dress.’

‘Oh, no!’ said Eleanor.

‘Oh, yes! You cannot be late for your first supper party.’

‘But poor Julia! What is to become of her?’

‘What indeed?’

‘Do you think she will be forced to marry the duke?’

‘It seems to be the lot of heroines to be forced into unhappy marriages,’ I said.

I stood up and walked towards the door, whilst Eleanor danced along beside me.

‘I wonder if I will be sacrificed to the ambition of my father when I am older?’ said Eleanor with interest.

‘I think it most likely,’ I said with a smile.

‘Then I must hope I fall in love with a good and wealthy man like Hippolitus before that happens.’

‘It is possible, of course, that you will meet someone like Hippolitus,’ I said, as we went upstairs. ‘I do not quite despair of it. But I fear it is more likely that you will marry a man who appears to be good and wealthy, but turns out to be poor and villainous.’

She nodded.

‘I dare say, once we are married, he will reveal that he is in fact a pauper, rob me of my small marriage portion and then lock me in a dungeon. And yet I must marry.’

‘Why?’

‘I cannot live here all my life,’ she said.

‘That is true enough. But I will have a living when I go into the church. You can come and live with me.’

‘That idea suits you now,’ she said, ‘but when you have met your heroine, the two of you will not want a third.’

‘My wife will love you as I do.’

‘No, she will only pretend,’ said Eleanor. ‘But she will secretly resent me. When you are away she will slowly poison me, or lock me in the attic—’

‘Or both.’

‘Very likely. And when you return to the parsonage she will say that I have been called away to nurse an old schoolfriend.’

‘I will accept her story. But then I will start to hear strange noises. I will ask her about the groaning coming from the attic....’

‘... and she will say it is the second housemaid, who has a toothache.’

‘And I will believe her. I will only discover that it is you, my dear sister, when it is too late. Thinking at last that there is something very strange about so prolonged a toothache, I will unlock the attic door....’

‘... where nothing but my skeleton will remain to greet you.’

‘Alas, what a cruel fate awaits you, dear Eleanor. But an even crueller fate will await you this evening if you are late, so hurry up and get ready.’

She disappeared into her room, and I disappeared into mine, both of us emerging in good time to welcome our guests.

Frederick earned Mama’s gratitude by pretending not to recognize Eleanor in her grown-up dress, and saying, ‘I beg your pardon, Mama, I did not know that our guests had started to arrive. And who is this beauty?’

Eleanor wriggled in delight, and said, ‘It’s me!’

At which Frederick pretended astonishment and told her she would outshine every other lady at the table.

Papa looked her up and down with a critical eye but then said, ‘You will do very well,’ which pleased her greatly.

Our guests began to arrive and they all greeted her with a friendly air. Pen Maple told her how pretty she looked and Charles Plainter said she was an adornment to the gathering.

To Eleanor, the meal was the most interesting imaginable; to the rest of us I fear it was dull. Penelope was in good spirits and sought to entertain Frederick, who made an effort to exert himself to begin with but then relapsed into silence, at which Penelope exchanged a glance with her mama and reconciled herself to entertaining an elderly dowager; Papa spoke at great length of his many improvements, which interested our guests for about five minutes and then steadily drove them into a stupor; Mama seemed unwell and although she was a perfect hostess she lacked her usual vitality; Charles drummed his fingers on the table until his mother caught his eye, whilst I endeavoured to entertain our guests, with small success.

I was grateful to leave the company after supper, and as I left the room, Charles said to me in an aside, ‘I envy you, Henry, I wish I could escape. Supper parties are the most tedious affairs.’

I am of Charles’s and Stewart’s opinion: give me my dogs and my horses and I am happy, but make me endure another such supper party and I will be tempted to leave for Calabria.

Sunday 25 April

Mama was tired and spent the day in bed; Eleanor was dull, a reaction to the excitement of last night; Frederick went out as soon as we returned from church without saying where he was going; Papa amused himself by showing his many improvements to his friend, who dealt with this imposition by talking of his own improvements whilst taking no notice of anything my father said. In this way they were both happy. I made the most of my last few days of freedom and went out with my dogs.

Only a few more days and I will have to return to school.

Tuesday 27 April

Mama was much recovered, and saw to the household as usual. She gave instructions for the packing of my boxes and went through all my clothes herself to make sure they would last me the term. I am sorry to be leaving Northanger and my family, but looking forward to seeing my friends again.

When the ladies had withdrawn after dinner, Papa gave me his fatherly advice for the coming term: that is, not to spend more than my allowance, and to behave like a gentleman. Since I have never done the former, and have always done the latter, his advice was unnecessary, but nevertheless it was well meant.

Eleanor presented me with the handkerchief, which she has now finished hemming.

‘I did not know this was for me.’

‘Neither did I! I did not know if I would finish it in time, but now that it is done, I give it to you with love and thanks. It will be very dull here without you.’

‘You still have Mama.’

‘Yes, I know, and I am thankful for it.’

I took the handkerchief with many thanks and put it in my trunk. So tomorrow it is back to school for me, and I will not see the abbey again until the summer.

JULY

Monday 12 July

This is not the homecoming I expected. The abbey is hushed, the servants walk about with frightened faces and Papa gives them contradictory instructions every half-hour. Mama was taken ill yesterday and is in bed. She refuses to let Papa send for Mr Leith, the physician, but if she is no better by tomorrow, Papa means to send for him anyway.

Tuesday 13 July

I am glad Mr Leith is here, and I am persuaded that Mama is glad, too, for she likes him and she trusts him. He spent the morning with her, but this afternoon he found me in the library and told me that she was asking for me.

‘She is very weak,’ he said. ‘Her bilious attacks are severe and almost constant. She is enjoying a brief respite at the moment but I fear it will not last long. I cannot disguise from you the seriousness of her condition. Say nothing to distress her. Speak quietly and do not let her tire herself. Your brother is with her at the moment, but you may go up in a few minutes. It is unfortunate that your sister is away from home. She is visiting your aunt, I understand?’

‘Yes. I had a letter from her this morning,’ I said. ‘I will read it to Mama.’

‘Good. Well, I think you may go up.’

I went upstairs. As I approached Mama’s room, Frederick was just coming out. He was visibly upset. I started to speak but the words died on my lips. He looked at me sorrowfully and then stood back to let me pass.

The curtains were drawn and the room was dark. I went over to the bed and was shocked to see how drawn she looked. But she smiled when she saw me and I did what I could to lift her spirits, entertaining her with a few tales of school and then reading her Eleanor’s letter.

‘I am so glad I sent her to stay with your Aunt Ann,’ said Mama, sinking back on her pillows. ‘It is not easy for her here, being the only girl, and when you and Frederick are away it is even more difficult, for she is very much on her own. This stupid illness of mine has made it impossible for me to spend as much time with her as I would wish. So I was very pleased when your Aunt Ann invited her to stay, though Scotland is such a long way away. But it seems the journey was worth the effort, for she is evidently having fun with her cousins. It does me good to hear of her trimming bonnets and looking through fashion plates like other girls of her age.’

She gave a wan smile, but then her face contorted and she waved me away. The sound of her illness followed me out of the room.

Wednesday 14 July

Mr Leith called in two of his colleagues this morning and all three of them remained in almost constant attendance on Mama, doing what they could to alleviate her suffering, which was intense. They became more and more concerned as the day wore on, until at last they told Papa that Eleanor should be sent for, if he wanted her to have a chance of seeing her mother again. Papa sent a letter at once, and then paced the garden without once looking at any of the transformations he had wrought. I went into the chapel and, being unable to help Mama in any other way, I prayed.

Friday 16 July

It is as I feared. Mama’s attack of the bilious fever was much worse this time and she suffered a seizure in the early hours of this morning. Though I can scarcely believe it, she is dead. The abbey is in mourning. The servants weep quietly and Papa is seriously affected. Frederick is subdued and I feel lost. But it is even worse for Eleanor. Poor child! To be away from home at such a time. There is now no chance of her seeing our mother again, unless it is to see her in her coffin.

AUGUST

Monday 2 August

Eleanor is home, the funeral is over, and the household is returning to normal, if anything can ever be considered normal again.

I am worried about Eleanor. I picked up our copy of A Sicilian Romance today and found that Eleanor had turned back the corner of one of the pages we had already read:

One day, when Julia was arranging some papers in the small drawers of a cabinet that stood in her apartment, she found a picture which fixed all her attention. It was a miniature of a lady, whose countenance was touched with sorrow, and expressed an air of dignified resignation. The mournful sweetness of her eyes, raised towards Heaven with a look of supplication, and the melancholy languor that shaded her features, so deeply affected Julia, that her eyes were filled with involuntary tears. She sighed and wept, still gazing on the picture, which seemed to engage her by a kind of fascination. She almost fancied that the portrait breathed, and that the eyes were fixed on hers with a look of penetrating softness. Full of the emotions which the miniature had excited, she presented it to Madame, whose mingled sorrow and surprise increased her curiosity. But what were the various sensations which pressed upon her heart, on learning that she had wept over the resemblance of her mother! Deprived of a mother’s tenderness before she was sensible of its value, it was now only that she mourned the event which lamentation could not recall.

Slipped inside the pages at that point was a small miniature of our mother.

I did not like to mention the matter to our father, but I was glad when he told me that Mrs Hughes has offered to visit. Mrs Hughes, being Mama’s oldest friend, will know what to do.

Tuesday 3 August

Mrs Hughes arrived this afternoon, full of sympathy and maternal solicitude. She radiated comfort and we were all glad of her presence, Eleanor particularly so. The two of them hugged, and Mrs Hughes listened to all my sister’s heartfelt grief with tender pity.

When I could speak to her alone, I showed her the novel. She read the passage and said, ‘It is not to be wondered at, but she will feel better now that I am here. I do not think she should read any more Gothic novels, however, at least not for the time being. Motherless heroines are all very well when they are a long way away, but at the moment they are too close to real life for comfort. Some company is what your sister needs, to take her out of her sad thoughts. I will stay for as long as I can, but I think that school would be a good thing. It will give her cheerful companions of her own age. The abbey will be very lonely for her otherwise. I will speak to your papa about it.’

She was as good as her word. I never thought Papa would agree to the idea, but Mrs Hughes represented the virtues of the idea to him and at last he gave way.

I went out riding and when I returned I discovered that Mrs Hughes and Eleanor were in Mama’s favourite walk. Eleanor never used to like it, but ever since Mama died she has been drawn to it. I thought it an unhealthy place, with its narrow path winding through a thick grove of old Scotch firs and its gloomy aspect, but when I spoke to Mrs Hughes about it later, saying that I thought it was certain to bring on a fit of melancholy, Mrs Hughes said that some period of melancholy was necessary.

‘And what about you, Henry?’ she asked.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you have lost your mother, too.’

I told her that I was happy, but it was not until she had listened to me for an hour that I realized how devastated I had been. She has done us all good, even Papa, who busies himself more than ever, but who I am sure misses Mama, as do we all. I cannot believe it. I keep expecting her to walk in the room with her customary smile and attend to her needlework, but I know I will never see her again.

Thursday 12 August

Papa called Eleanor into his study this morning and told her that Mama’s jewellery would, when she was old enough, be hers. It was a melancholy experience for her to touch the much-loved necklaces and bracelets, but it served to turn her thoughts forward as well as back.

‘Papa has promised me the pearls for my come-out,’ said Eleanor to me this afternoon. ‘They were a gift to Mama from her papa when she married. I have always liked them and I am looking forward to wearing them when I am old enough; they will remind me of her.’

‘You will look very well in them, I am sure, and Mama would be pleased. Do you like having Mrs Hughes here?’

‘Very much. I am only sorry that she will soon have to leave us, though I understand that her own family need her. But she has promised to visit us again, if Papa is willing, and she says that we must write to each other very often.’

I offered her my arm as we walked through the gardens.

‘She has told Papa that he should send you to school, otherwise you will be very much on your own here,’ I said.

She clutched my arm more tightly.

‘I could not bear to leave Northanger,’ she said in a worried voice.

‘Not at the moment, perhaps, but in time. You will have company at school, and an opportunity to make friends. Mama met Mrs Hughes when they were both at school, remember. I think it would be good for you, by which I mean, I think it would promote your happiness. I will soon be going back to school myself, and Frederick will be returning to his regiment, which means that, otherwise, you will be left here with Papa.’

She shuddered, knowing Papa’s temper to be uncertain at the best of times.

‘Perhaps it would be a good idea,’ she said. ‘And then I could invite friends to stay with me in the holidays as well.’

‘An excellent idea. I am glad you have decided to like school. I know Mrs Hughes will be suggesting the idea to you within a very few days, and at least you will now be prepared.’

‘Life is not what I thought it was going to be,’ said Eleanor with a sigh.

‘No, my dear,’ I said, putting my hand over hers. ‘It never is.’