She lifted her head and looked up at him in alarm. “I forgot. Now that you have your intelligence, what will you say to General Tilney?”
Henry sighed and shook his head. “I do not know. I am not sure I have the right to tell him anything. His happiness is not in my keeping, and it would not be right to prevent it.”
The maidservant knocked on the door at that moment, and they went to have their dinner and talk of happier things.
Chapter Eleven
Speaking Well Enough to be Intelligible
By prearrangement, the Tilneys were to meet the Whitings in Milsom-street the next morning and proceed to the pump-room. Accordingly, Henry and Catherine set out from Pulteney-street, leaving behind a very sad MacGuffin, who had come to consider himself an indispensable part of any expedition out of doors. Fond as the Tilneys were of their pet, he could not go to the pump-room, so they left him with much petting and extravagant promises of an afternoon walk. MacGuffin lay by the fire as they departed, his chin resting on his paws and his eyes reproachful.
As they passed through Laura-place and into Argyle-street, there was a commotion on the pavement ahead of them: exclamations of surprise, laughter, heads craning for a better view. At last they saw the object of this public amusement, one that astonished them both.
General Tilney stood on the pavement, holding a lead with Lady Beauclerk’s cat on the end of it. Unlike MacGuffin, or dogs in general, Lady Josephine did not eagerly pull on the lead, seeking out the next interesting-smelling thing in her path; she meandered, she leapt up on posts and stoops, and otherwise made little progress. At the present moment she sat on her haunches in the middle of the pavement, cleaning her paw very carefully, stretching her claws apart so that her tongue could reach every place between them; she was fully absorbed in her task, and took no notice of either the general or the leering crowd.
General Tilney stood waiting, his posture ramrod straight, his expression dignified and proud, as though he were an ensign in formation. Catherine had to bite her tongue quite hard to keep from laughing, feeling herself at the same time to be an undutiful daughter. She glanced at Henry; besides a slight crease in his brow, he did not seem to think his father’s behavior odd. Growing up in a military family had taught him to control his expression.
“Good morning, sir,” he said. “I see you have called upon Lady Beauclerk. May I inquire after her health?”
“She was very well when I left her,” said the general stiffly.
“I am glad to hear it. Pray convey my compliments, and Catherine’s, too,” he added, looking down at her.
Catherine said, “Oh, yes, sir, if you please.”
“Very well.”
Lady Josephine finished her toilette, stood, stretched, and finally took notice of her attendant. She wound herself around his legs, rubbing against them and purring loudly. The briefest expression of something like revulsion crossed the general’s face. “I believe Lord and Lady Whiting are waiting for you in Milsom-street,” he said.
“Yes, we are to meet by appointment. Good day, sir.”
“Good day, Henry, Mrs. Tilney.” He bowed, but as Lady Josephine was still rubbing against his legs, he made an awkward job of it.
They continued on their way down Argyle-street. Catherine glanced up at Henry, wondering what she might say; she judged it best to let him start any conversation, but he seemed lost in thought.
The General’s servant showed them into the sitting-room; his lordship received them there and sent the servant to fetch her ladyship, preparing them with a murmured, “We have had some bad news.”
Eleanor rushed into the room and went to Henry directly. “My father told me this morning that he intends to make Lady Beauclerk an offer. You must speak to the him, Henry,” she said. “You must tell him what Matthew learned from the maidservant. It is the only chance we have to stop this.”
“I fear it is too late for that. Depend upon it, Eleanor, when a man humiliates himself in public for the sake of a woman, he is too much in love to stop for worldly reasons.”
“What do you mean?”
Henry told the Whitings what he and Catherine had seen in Argyle-street. His lordship seemed to find it a very good joke, but a look at his wife’s face stopped his laughter. He did, however, exchange a covert, sympathetic smile with Catherine.
Eleanor sat as if stunned. “You are right, Henry; it is too late. We must consider this settled. They must be. . . engaged. How strange to talk of one’s father as engaged! And what a mother-in-law we shall have! But at least we have the comfort of knowing that there is affection in the match. There must be.”
“Indeed. We must take our comfort where we can find it.”
“I cannot help thinking of my poor mother,” said Eleanor quietly. After a moment, she roused herself and smiled at them. “Well, as there is nothing else to be done, we must make the best of it. Shall we go to the pump-room, then, and let all of Bath gossip about our family behind our backs?”
The Whitings led the way down Milsom-street toward the pump-room, and Henry and Catherine walked a little behind. The day was fine, and being young and in Bath and the happiness of walking on Henry’s arm put Catherine in high spirits that could not be dampened even by General Tilney’s intended nuptials. She asked Henry, “Did you ever humiliate yourself for me?”
“No, I do not think so; other than a fist-fight with John Thorpe outside the Upper Rooms when he said something about you that I did not quite like.”
“Henry! You did not!” A closer look at his expression let her know he had not, and she laughed in her relief; though a little something else would persist; a feeling that she might like Henry to have engaged in fisticuffs with John Thorpe for her honor.
Henry, with that disconcerting habit he had of guessing her thoughts, said, “Would you like that, my sweet?”
She blushed, but said, “No, I should not like it. Neither John Thorpe nor his opinion mean anything to me.”
“Very sensibly said.”
“ — but not very romantic.”
“Everyday life provides little in the way of romance, Cat; we must make our own.” He gave her a significant look and a smile that made her shiver pleasantly.
The pump-room was pleasantly crowded with all those in Bath who had come to see and be seen. They drank their water, and Henry and Lord Whiting joined a group of men discussing politics and the news of the day, while Eleanor and Catherine circled the room arm in arm. They drew not a few appreciative glances, being young and pretty and fashionably dressed; Eleanor’s rank did not discourage this appreciation, Bath being a place where rank is given consideration — perhaps more than its due.
They met some women of Eleanor’s acquaintance, and stood comfortably chatting when a familiar voice behind her gave Catherine a start.
“Mrs. Tilney,” Sir Philip Beauclerk murmured in a low, confidential voice meant only for her ear. “It is not often that I find you without your keeper.”
“I am sure I do not understand you, sir.”
“Fear not, madam; your husband is across the room, and engaged. Your sister is occupied; you can slip away very easily.”
Catherine had no notion of “slipping away” with Sir Philip, but she knew, with a sinking feeling, that he must be told of his misapprehension, and this was the best opportunity she was likely to have. Eleanor looked at her at that moment, looked at Sir Philip, and then back at Catherine, her brow creased in concern. Catherine nodded and smiled to send a message that all was well, and Eleanor returned the nod, though not the smile.
Sir Philip took her elbow and steered her away from the chattering ladies. “Your sister approves, then? She in your confidence?”