Catherine protested that it was not necessary and that my father himself had said that I must not make any effort; little knowing that he expects me to arrange everything perfectly, whatever he might say.
If it were not already Saturday I might have returned in the meantime, but tomorrow is Sunday and I must not neglect my duties. Poor Langton has taken enough of my sermons these last few weeks, and I must give my parishioners the benefit of my instruction, which of course is more beneficial than Langton’s instruction, since he has two fewer capes to his greatcoat and rides a horse with only three legs; or at least, travels at the pace of such a beast, which is the same thing.
I have given instructions to my housekeeper and therefore between us we hope to make the place tolerable for Wednesday’s visitors.
Sunday 14 April
The weather being fine, the church was full this morning. The Miss Bridges were wearing their finest bonnets, and Miss Lowry had surpassed herself with her flowers. There was a newly stitched hassock to be admired and a new baby to be kissed. Miss Jenson had made me a pot of jam, which her mother declared to be the finest in the country, and I accepted dinner invitations for Monday and Tuesday, having no excuses ready. And so the Jensons are to have the pleasure of my company on Monday and the Viscontis on Tuesday.
Monday 15 April
The parish meeting was like all the parish meetings that have gone before and like all the parish meetings that will come after: a lot of hot air expelled by various worthy burghers on subjects as pressing as the right of way across the long meadow, the state of the path that runs beside the stream and the repair of the wall at the crossroads. The arguments raged, their proposers declaiming with the passion of the orators in the Houses of Parliament, and with glances so angry that a battleground full of generals could not have produced anything finer. But at last the matters were resolved, if not to the pleasure of all, at least to the satisfaction of some. And so the subjects will sleep until the next time they are raised and are canvassed with equal vehemence.
This evening was spent at the Jensons. Mrs Jenson remarked on the masculine nature of the parsonage and the need for a woman’s softening touch, whilst the Miss Jensons sang, played and chattered cheerfully in French, all but beating me over the head with their accomplishments. But alas for the Miss Jensons! My heart is already taken, and by a young lady who neither sings nor plays nor speaks French, at least not particularly well, but who nevertheless amuses me, endears and enchants me.
Tuesday 16 April
Knowing that my father will expect to find everything ready, there was much still to do this morning, and I was not finished with the house and the grounds until well after four. There was just time for me to dress before setting out for the Viscontis.
I had thought I was safe, for the Viscontis have no daughters, but two nieces just happened to be visiting for the day – quite unconnected to my visit, as Mrs Visconti was at great pains to assure me. The two nieces sat meekly in the corner whilst Mrs Visconti spent the evening commiserating with any poor bachelor who led a lonely existence in his solitary abode, without the benefit of a pretty wife. On many occasions I changed the subject, but she defeated me each time, showing her true Latin heritage, for whatever diversions I created, I discovered that all roads led to Rome: no matter where each conversation began, it ended relentlessly at the need of an established bachelor to take a wife.
Mrs Jenson was right about one thing, however: the rectory is very much a man’s domain. I have my dogs and my guns, my books and my fishing-rods, but there is a lack of anything softer. Eleanor has tried, and her prettily painted firescreen sits in the library, whilst her samplers adorn the walls, but the place would be enlivened by yards of muslin and, yes, I confess it, by Catherine sitting on the swing in the garden, her face a picture as she is transported to all the horrors of an Italian castle by Mrs Radcliffe.
I hope her adventures in the abbey have not put her off such fare, for she was very ashamed – as if it were the end of the world – when I discovered her thoughts about my father. To be sure, I was shocked at first, but on reflection I find that I like that about her. Not for me the unthinking, unfeeling woman who wears a halo of common sense and sees nothing in an abbey but an old building with inconvenient passages. Far rather would I have a young lady whose head is in the clouds, when those clouds are filled with such startling adventures.
Wednesday 17 April
I woke early, surprised at how eager I felt to show Catherine my home. I exercised the dogs and attended to business, looking at the clock more than once in an effort to make the hands turn faster, but at last my guests arrived, and exactly when they could be reasonably looked for! I hastened out to the carriage and was delighted to see Catherine’s expression as she ran her eyes over the front of the parsonage, for it was easy to see how well she liked it. As the carriage rolled to a halt I handed Catherine out, taking pleasure in her touch, and the smallness of her fingers in mine. She looked up at me, smiled and blushed, and I thought she had never looked prettier. Then she petted Caesar, who gambolled around in the way only a large Newfoundland puppy can do, and laughed at the terriers as they ran around in circles. A good start!
We had scarcely gone inside, however, when my father started interrogating her on her view of the parsonage.
‘It is not much, Miss Morland, not at all what you are used to, but not too bad in its way, I think?’ he asked.
She, poor creature, was too overawed by his attentions to say very much, but her eyes said all that needed to be said, at least to me: that she thought it the most agreeable house in the world. But my father did not perceive her pleasure, and went on asking for compliments in the manner of a beauty desiring constant flattery. Poor Catherine!
On he went, saying it was nothing compared to Fullerton or Northanger but, considered as a mere parsonage, it was not altogether bad. By then, Catherine was luckily too much taken up with looking round the room to pay him much attention. His talk of throwing out a bow in one breath and then objecting to his own suggestion by saying he detested such things in another, passed her by.
My father did not have it all his own way, however, for just as he talked relentlessly of improvements to the rectory, so did I talk relentlessly of anything else – her journey, her activities over the last few days – until a tray of refreshments was brought in.
The tray was piled high with good things, but although I doubt if anyone has ever seen a greater range of delicacies in a country parsonage, my father apologized for them as well.
The tea over, my father led the way out of the room with Catherine on his arm, determined to show her the rest of the parsonage and eke what compliments he could from her. I was left to walk behind with Eleanor.
‘I have all the pain of loving where our father disapproves, and you have all the pain of loving where he approves,’ said Eleanor. ‘Neither is desirable, but, of the two, I believe you are the most fortunate.’
I could not argue, but I wish he had been less eager to sing Woodston’s praises, for he frightened Catherine into silence. He was determined to show her into every corner of the house, and my own room was the next to be inspected; suitably tidied, and cleaner than it had been for a long time, with no specks of mud on the floor brought in by the dogs or by one of my boots. From there we went to the drawing room, and I smiled to see how it charmed Catherine and gave her the courage to suggest that I should fit it up, ‘for it is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!’ she said.