“You would be better guided by your own good sense, Cat. There is more worth here,” touching her head gently, “and here,” brushing his fingers over her heart, “than in all of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works, charming as they are.” He lifted her chin gently with a finger and kissed her.
“Oh, Henry,” said Catherine with a sigh. “I do not want to think about Sir Philip any more.”
“I am very glad to hear it.” He reached out to extinguish the candle.
Chapter Eight
Most Alarming Adventures
Catherine prepared for church the next morning with a lingering expectation that the expedition to Beechen Cliff would be put off by some emergency; the general requiring his son’s company, or a summons from the Beauclerks that could not be ignored. Indeed there was almost a delay, as Eleanor wished to call briefly in Laura-place to leave a receipt for rosewater cold cream in which Lady Beauclerk had expressed an interest.
“Matthew can take the note to her ladyship,” said Henry, and Eleanor, who did not relish that duty, was happy enough to surrender it. Catherine thought she saw a significant look pass between Henry and Matthew as the note was handed over, but it was soon forgotten in a flutter of anticipatory pleasure. The charm of a country walk with Henry had not abated upon her marriage, and Catherine was as happy as she had been during a similar walk a year earlier; it could be argued she was even happier, as she now had the right to take Henry’s arm and walk beside him, talk to him and be the first object of his interest; a state which Henry enjoyed no less than she.
Most of Bath was promenading upon the Royal Crescent, and they were nearly alone by the river, so Henry let MacGuffin off the leash. In his delight at being outside and unrestrained, the Newfoundland reverted to rather puppyish behavior, cavorting along the edge of the river and chasing some mallards who lounged on the bank.
The mallards, indignant at their Sunday repose being spoiled, squawked and flapped their wings at MacGuffin; undaunted, he barked and teased them, challenging them to a game they had no desire to play, ending it by the simple expedient of entering the river and swimming away. MacGuffin stood on the riverbank, barking after them; there was a splash, and MacGuffin was in the river, swimming after the ducks.
“I suspected he would end up in the water,” said Henry, not at all disturbed by his pet’s behavior.
“Oh! Henry! Get him out!” cried his sister. “Will he not drown?”
“Newfoundlands are famous swimmers, Eleanor. I have trained Mac to retrieve in the pond at home.”
MacGuffin was indeed a strong swimmer, but the ducks were in their natural element, and soon outstripped him. He made a wide turn in the water, became caught a little in the current — Eleanor gasped, and Catherine’s heart was in her mouth — but he soon was climbing up onto the riverbank and running back towards them, bounding with energy and canine happiness.
“That will do very well, lad,” said Henry. “You have had your swim, and now must stay with your master.”
MacGuffin shook himself violently, spraying water all over them. He stood before them, his fur standing on end; his tail wagged wildly, thick strings of saliva suspended from his panting mouth, but his joy was obvious; to Catherine, he looked almost as though he were laughing. He turned and bounded ahead of them along the riverbank towards the steep climb up to Beechen Cliff.
Catherine could not help laughing at the dog’s comical appearance; her companions, busily employing their handkerchiefs to dry themselves as best they could, looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Trained him to retrieve, did you, Tilney?” said his lordship. “I think you need to train him a little more.”
“Mac is a good dog,” said Catherine, remembering how he had tried to protect her from Sir Philip Beauclerk the previous day. “He is still a puppy, really.”
“Indeed he is; and we must all be forgiven our youthful trespasses,” said Henry with a smile. Catherine took his arm once again, and the party proceeded to where MacGuffin stood waiting for them at the base of Beechen Cliff.
Lady Beauclerk’s butler gave Matthew a careful once-over. The young man was clean, plainly dressed, unremarkable in every way, and his demeanor was respectful; there was no reason to make him wait outside like a common tradesman. He stood back from the open door and said, “You may wait here whilst I ascertain if her ladyship wishes to respond.”
Matthew entered and stood in an out-of-the-way corner in the entry. The butler nodded approvingly, placed the note on a silver tray and carried it off.
A maidservant walked past, her arms full of folded sheets. She paused when she saw Matthew, and her gaze traveled over his person. “Beg pardon,” she said, curtseying.
Matthew noticed the shapely ankle she managed to display as she did so, and her no less shapely figure. As she looked up from the curtsey, she caught his eye boldly, and he winked at her.
“Oh!” she said, not at all put out. “Bold as brass, aren’t you? See something you like?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Who’s your governor, then?”
“Mr. Tilney,” said Matthew.
“Mr. Tilney?” asked the maidservant. “General Tilney’s son?”
“Yes.”
The maidservant giggled behind her hand; a habit that Matthew normally found distasteful, but knew it would not be wise for him to say so at the present juncture.
“That will do, Biddy,” said the butler, returning to the entry. “There is no reply,” he said to Matthew.
Matthew nodded and made as though to leave, but Biddy said, “Come down to the kitchen, Mr. Perhaps, if you’ve no other duty right now; Cook’ll give you a mug of beer.”
Matthew glanced at the butler, who sniffed disdainfully and walked away. He followed Biddy down to the kitchens, a level below the street in the back of the house.
“That’s more than His Nibs up there will give you, ducky,” said Biddy as they descended. “Won’t get a farthing out of that one, run all over Bath though you will, fetching and carrying. They keep you running, these Tilneys, do they?”
“Mr. Tilney keeps me busy, yes.”
“He seems a right one; not too high in the instep. Not like the old man.”
“Mr. Tilney is a very kind — governor.”
“Oh, I’ve heard no ill of him. Here, Cooky,” she said, entering the steaming kitchen, “I’ve got a gentleman caller. Give him a mug of beer while I take these to the linen-room.”
“A gentleman caller?” The cook looked over Matthew with a sharp eye. “He looks too good for the likes of you, Biddy Johnson.”
“He’s Mr. Tilney’s man, brought a note to her ladyship.”
“Oh, aye. Sit down, love, we’ll give you a bit of bite and sup.” And within a few moments there were a mug of foamy ale and some bread and cheese before him on the wooden table. He found he was hungry, and partook heartily, which the cook watched with approval before turning to the counter where her underlings cut vegetables and cleaned fowl in preparation for the evening meal.
Biddy had disappeared briefly, but soon came back and sat disconcertingly close to him on the long bench.
“What’s your name, then?” she asked.
“Matthew.”
“Is that your Christian name or your family name?”
He smiled at her and said, “It will do for both.”
“Have it your way, then, Mr. Perhaps. Have you been in the Tilney family long?”
“Two years, since Mr. Tilney took the Woodston living.”
“So you know General Tilney, then?”
“Aye.”
“He’s not very friendly, is he?”
Matthew, who had particular reason to know, said, “I find him a fair-minded man.”
“Mmm,” said Biddy. Under the table, she slid a slippered foot up the back of his leg, then down again. “I hear her ladyship is going to marry him.”