“But, ma’am, with respect — is it not possible that Sir Arthur had no intention of disinheriting his nephew? Especially since the provisions of his will ensured that his money would stay in his immediate family.”
“My brother was a good man, a moral man, Mrs. Tilney, but he had one weakness: his wife. He countenanced her extravangances, and let her teach her worldly ways to his daughter. The right thing would have been to disinherit Philip after he disgraced the family at Brighton, but instead Arthur provided for his daughter so she should no longer be a spinster on the shelf, an embarrassment to her family. And a good thing too, for what might she have got up to with that apothecary of hers?”
“I do not think that Miss Beauclerk has any intention of marrying Mr. Shaw.”
“Marry him? Oh, no! But where do you think Philip got the poison that he used to murder my brother?”
“Sir Philip poisoned his uncle?”
“Yes, ma’am; with the connivance of my sister and my niece.” Her face took on a dreamy expression. “A slow poison was administered, and he fell a victim to the jealousy and subtlety of — of a woman.”
Mrs. Findlay’s words struck a chord with Catherine. Where had she heard them before? But she had no time to think of it. Confused and doubtful, she tried to imagine the vivacious, fluttering Miss Beauclerk convincing her lover to give her sufficient poison to murder her own father; certainly, Mr. Shaw had provided her with arsenic; but then, gleaming like the light thrown from a welcoming doorway on a moonless night, she found a flaw in Mrs. Findlay’s theory. “But ma’am, Miss Beauclerk has received poison from the apothecary quite recently. He brought it to the theatre last night. I overheard them speaking.”
Mrs. Findlay’s eyes gleamed. “I knew it! My sister-in-law will soon learn the wages of sin when her own daughter turns on her! She will be next to die, and then my niece and nephew will be free to take my brother’s money and do what they like!”
“Ma’am, you go too far!”
“Do I, Mrs. Tilney?” She grew dreamy again. “The moment of Lady Beauclerk’s triumph, the moment to which she looked forward for the completion of all her wishes, will prove only the commencement of suffering, that never will leave her to her dying hour.”
“Laurentini!” cried Catherine. “‘The moment of Laurentini’s triumph’! I remember now where I have heard this before — Mrs. Findlay, you read Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels!”
“Novels? I never read novels, ma’am.”
“You must — you do! That is from Udolpho! ‘A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim to the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini.’ Ma’am, you have been reading horrid novels, and imagining plots where there are none!” Catherine’s face grew warm even in the dark cold of the chaise, remembering a time when she had done the same thing.
“I, imagine? I imagine nothing.”
Suddenly, there was a scratching noise at the door of the chaise, and they both jumped a little. Raised voices could be heard outside. “It is they!” cried Mrs. Findlay. “They have sent brigands to apprehend me! Oh, where is that wretched Barney?” She raised the blind; something like a masked face was pressed hazily against the glass, and a loud knocking sounded. Mrs. Findlay screamed and swooned, very much like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines, a comparison that no doubt would have given her great pleasure.
“Mac!” cried Catherine joyously, recognizing the countenance of her Newfoundland pressed against the glass and smearing it with his saliva. “Ma’am, it is my dog — please rouse yourself!” She opened the chaise door. “Henry, is that you? I need assistance — where is Barney?”
Henry’s face appeared in the doorway. “Is that you, Cat? Are you well?”
“I am very well, but Mrs. Findlay has fainted, and I have not my reticule or salts.”
Mrs. Findlay uttered a little moan.
“Well, she seems to be coming round,” said Henry, “and I would take you home — you’ve no coat, and it’s quite cold and damp. Come along, and let — Barney, is it? — take care of his mistress.”
“Aye, miss,” said Barney, “I take care of the mistress now. Ye go home, miss.”
Catherine climbed down eagerly and let Barney climb in. She hesitated at the open chaise door. “Can you look after her, Barney?”
“Aye, miss, I will rouse her, and then take her home. Go and have your tea, miss.”
Henry put up the steps and shut the chaise door, and they set out along the pavement, MacGuffin and Matthew leading the way with the lantern and Henry and Catherine further back.
“Are you warm enough?” said Henry.
“Yes, I have my shawl. Where are we?”
“Just around the corner from our lodgings. You did not get far on your little adventure, and Mac took us right to you. An unsigned note, Cat! I can see why you were tempted to meet with the sender, but I wish another time you would tell me first.”
“I did not intend to meet anyone. I only wanted to see who had sent the note, and Barney pulled me down the pavement to his mistress’ carriage before I knew what I was about. He is a very odd sort of servant. I am sorry if I worried you, Henry.”
His arm around her tightened. “Only for a few moments. I take it Mrs. Findlay wanted a private audience? Would she not send up her card?”
“She wanted to be secret. She thinks they are plotting against her — oh, Henry! She thinks that Lady Beauclerk, Miss Beauclerk, and Sir Philip conspired to poison Sir Arthur!”
“Indeed?”
“But it is all from horrid novels. She reads Mrs. Radcliffe, and imposed Signora Laurentini’s plot against the Marchioness of Villeroi onto her brother’s situation.” Henry made a noise like a cough, and Catherine looked at him suspiciously. “You should not laugh. It is very wicked to make such accusations upon no evidence. And to think I almost believed her!” She was silent for a moment. “My own imaginings last year were just as wicked.”
“It was not quite the same thing, Cat. As you said, you made no public accusations, and you never truly believed Mrs. Findlay.”
“My thoughts were bad enough.”
They had reached the lodgings, and Matthew opened the door. “I will have your dinner sent right up, sir, ma’am,” he said, and disappeared into the back of the house with MacGuffin.
Henry and Catherine ascended the stairs to their rooms, and Catherine immediately went shivering to the fire.
“You were cold,” said Henry. He brought her shawl and wrapped her in it warmly, then put his arms around her and kissed her on the top of the head. “Better, my sweet?”
“Yes.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “What is this?” Her hands found the pistol in his coat pocket.
Henry removed the pistol and placed it on the table. “Matthew is a cautious sort of fellow. He gave me this before we set out to look for you.”
Catherine bowed her head and huddled into her shawl. “It was very stupid of me to go looking for the person who wrote that note; it could have been anyone! When will I learn to think things through? Mamma is right; I am a sad, shatterbrained simpleton.”
He went to her and again took her in his arms. “I do not believe Mrs. Morland ever called you a simpleton. You have good sense, Cat, and a good heart. You would not think anyone would try to harm you, because you would not harm another person with malice aforethought. You think the best of everyone, and I would not have you lose that quality. It was the first thing I truly loved about you.” He lifted her chin and kissed her.
Catherine was quiet for a moment, wrapped in warmth and happiness. Finally she said, “Although the accusations of murder have been proven wrong, Henry, I think I should not like to have much more to do with the Beauclerks.”
“Nor I, my sweet; but they may be family soon enough, if my father persists in his courtship.”