‘Mr Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother’s, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with,’ she assured me.
‘And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!’
‘Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them,’ she said with admirable logic; adding, ‘Besides, I do not want to talk to anybody.’
I found myself to be surprisingly pleased by her assertion and asked whether she found Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before. Upon her replying that she found it ever more agreeable, I reminded her to be tired of it at the proper time, saying, ‘You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks.’
‘I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.’
‘Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody finds out every year.’
‘Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there,’ she replied.
‘You are not fond of the country,’ I said.
‘Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another. Here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs Allen.’
I was very much amused.
‘Only go and call on Mrs Allen! What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here.’
‘Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again. James’s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful, especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with, the Thorpes, are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?’
‘Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do,’ I said, and it was true.
Soon after reaching the bottom of the set I saw my father watching me. He asked me about my partner, and seeing that Miss Morland had witnessed the exchange, I told her that the gentleman was my father. She appeared pleased with him, not surprisingly, for he was in a good humour, and talking cheerfully to his friends.
The dance over, we were joined by Eleanor. We fell into conversation about the fine walks to be had around Bath. Miss Morland was eager to experience them but feared she would find no one to go with her, for Mrs Allen was no great walker and Isabella Thorpe would much rather go out in a carriage.
‘Then you must come with us,’ said Eleanor.
‘I shall like it beyond anything in the world!’ said Miss Morland with becoming eagerness. ‘Do not let us put it off, let us go tomorrow.’
This was readily agreed to. ‘As long as it does not rain,’ said Eleanor.
‘I am sure it will not,’ said Miss Morland.
We arranged to call for Miss Morland at her lodgings in Pulteney Street at twelve o’clock and took leave of one another.
‘And so, you are to see more of your Miss Morland,’ said Eleanor.
‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied, as we followed my father and Mrs Hughes out to the carriage. ‘As long as three villains in horsemen’s greatcoats do not force her into a travelling-chaise and four on her way home, and drive her off with incredible speed.’
‘In which case you will simply have to rescue her and return her to her lodgings in time to keep her appointment with her friends.’
There was time for no more. My father was already seated in the carriage and waiting impatiently for us to join him.
MARCH
Friday 1 March
Contrary to Miss Morland’s belief, it rained this morning and we reluctantly put off our visit to Pulteney Street, but by half past twelve the weather was clearing and after giving it ten more minutes to make up its mind, we set out.
As we walked along, with one eye on the sky and another on the puddles, Eleanor said, ‘I am very glad to have met Miss Morland and I think that I do her good, too. She has no one to talk to but Isabella Thorpe. From what she has said, Isabella is more interested in young men than in any true friendship, though I think Miss Morland is not yet aware of this. She is used to country manners, where people mean what they say, rather than town manners, where people rarely say what they mean.’
We had just turned into Laura Place when a carriage raced past, driving through a puddle at the side of the road and sending the water flying everywhere.
As Eleanor looked after the retreating carriage in dismay she let out a cry and said, ‘Why, it is Miss Morland!’
And indeed it was, being driven at breakneck speed by John Thorpe. He was lashing his horses and sending up spray from the wheels of his carriage like a fountain, soaking the passers by.
‘It seems you overestimate Miss Morland’s admiration of me,’ I remarked.
I took out my handkerchief and made a doomed attempt to wipe the water from my coat as I watched them fly down the road.
‘Perhaps it was not her,’ said Eleanor, taking my arm as I abandoned my efforts and returned my soggy handkerchief reluctantly to my pocket. ‘I only caught a fleeting glimpse, and in such a bonnet, you know, it is hard to tell. We are almost at Pulteney Street, we should call to be sure.’
We walked on, but on our calling at the house, the footman told us that Miss Morland had set out not five minutes since, and that she would not be back all day.
‘Has any message been left for me?’ asked my sister. ‘Miss Tilney?’
‘No, miss.’
‘Then I will leave my card.’
Finding that she had none about her, we had no choice but to go without leaving one.
‘Perhaps we have been wrong about her,’ said Eleanor as we returned to Milsom Street to change our wet clothes. ‘Perhaps her nature is already changing. Bath has a habit of altering people. A few days ago she would not have broken an appointment, I am sure, but now ... ?’
‘If it is so,’ I said, ‘then it is better we know now than later. After such a short acquaintance, we will very soon cease to regret her.’
Saturday 2 March
I was eager to escape the city this morning and rode out to the hills, where I worked off the worst of my ill humour in brisk exercise. Eleanor took a walk with my father but when she returned she had some interesting news to give me.
‘I was just about to go out with our father when Miss Morland called,’ she said. ‘The timing was most unfortunate. Papa refused to delay our walk and he insisted on my saying that I was not at home. I do hope she was not offended.’
‘We seem to be unlucky where Miss Morland is concerned,’ I remarked.
But at the theatre this evening our luck changed, for whom should I espy but Miss Morland. The play concluded, the curtain fell, and on leaving the box I was hailed by Mrs Allen and her friend. I spoke with mere politeness, being out of humour, but not so did Miss Morland reply. As soon as she had a chance she said, ‘Oh! Mr Tilney, I have been quite wild to speak to you, and make my apologies. You must have thought me so rude, but indeed it was not my own fault, was it, Mrs Allen?’