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Chapter Text

It was often said (usually by his sister, Eleanor) that Henry Tilney was in love with the sound of his own voice, and when he was being entirely honest with himself, he admitted that he was initially attracted to Catherine Morland because she seemed to be, too.

Henry had enjoyed many a flirtation in his life (Eleanor said he was indiscriminately agreeable to young ladies and that he ought to have more discretion), and he had originally thought that Miss Morland was just his latest object, but there had always been something different about her. She was artless in a way that he found completely charming; she was utterly without pretense. She was often naive, and occasionally silly, but always adorable.

But did he love her?

He was certain he did not.

...Reasonably certain.

But he could easily imagine things progressing in that direction.

He wasn't sure what to think about that.

He couldn't deny that he liked her better than any other young lady he had ever known.

He wasn't sure what to think about that, either.

There were matters that gave him pause: she was very young; he had not known her long; it was genuinely worrying that his father seemed to be promoting the match, and it grew increasingly worrying the more Henry thought about it. And yet, he never did seem to worry about any of these things while in Miss Morland's company. He only seemed to think about how much he enjoyed being around her. 

He would need to begin clarifying his intentions, if only to himself. It was getting to the point where Miss Morland might start harboring expectations, expectations he wasn't sure he was ready to meet.

Then again, maybe he was ready to meet them.

Stop being silly and go to sleep.

At any rate, he would see Miss Morland again tomorrow. He would dance with her, if she accepted (and she probably would accept).

He grinned into his pillow, feeling both pleased and ridiculous. He could figure out what it all meant later.

Chapter Text

Henry was probably more pleased than he should have been to hear that Miss Morland had accepted an invitation to stay at Northanger Abbey. He tried to tell himself that it was for Eleanor's sake that he was so happy, that he was merely grateful that his sister, so removed from friendly society, would have an amiable companion around to ease the long days at home, but he did not deceive himself. His happiness was almost entirely selfish: it was his own delight in Miss Morland's company that made her acceptance so pleasing. He would get to see her more often and with fewer distractions, and he could not seem to stop smiling at the thought.

Quite astonishingly ridiculous.

The day of their departure arrived, and with it came a further ostentatious show of civility from the general. Henry could come up with no explanation for his father's solicitousness that satisfied him. He was not a good-natured man, and yet Henry could not think of a nefarious reason for why the general had so singled out Miss Morland that wasn’t far-fetched. Perhaps he considered her to be a suitable companion to Eleanor. But that did not explain why he suggested that Miss Morland ride with Henry in the curricle. 

Not that Henry minded. In fact, he was peculiarly grateful for the suggestion, and well-disposed towards his father for once. Henry watched Miss Morland from the corner of his eye, enjoying her breathless excitement, her curiosity about the abbey… how pretty she looked in the sunlight.

Probably better not to think too much about that last part. 

Instead, he concentrated on the abbey, and the Gothic adventures she was, undoubtedly, already imagining for herself therein. He could help her there. He spun a little tale of intrigue and dread, of locked doors and hidden rooms and long-concealed secrets. Miss Morland hung on his every word.

“You hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber,” he said in hushed, dramatic tones, “but scarcely have you been able to decipher ‘Oh! Thou—whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall’—when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness.”

“Oh! No, no—do not say so. Well, go on.”

God, she was charming.

He was too amused to finish; he would not be able to keep from laughing. He invited her to continue the story, and was a little disappointed when she declined to do so, visibly collecting herself and trying to seem calm and reasonable. He thought she would have done a good job if she had tried concluding his tale. She always surprised him with the way she thought and spoke and reasoned. He would have liked to see this new glimpse of her-- her imagination and her creativity at work.

There was an odd, niggling feeling in his stomach.

I hope you know what you are doing, he scolded himself. You might actually be in some danger.

But he shrugged this off. It was much more pleasant to sit in Miss Morland’s company, to drive her to his family’s home, to enjoy her bright eyes and her eager smiles, and to ignore the future entirely.

Chapter Text

“But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible. Besides, a taste for flowers is always desirable in your sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once raised, but you may in time come to love a rose?”

Henry found himself saying things like this more and more often now. He took great pleasure in teasing Miss Morland.

Flirting with her, said a voice in his head that he promptly silenced. 

How he enjoyed having her at Northanger! It had been some time since he had seen Eleanor so happy, and he himself relished Miss Morland’s company, laughing at her ways, listening to her thoughts… smiling at her, admiring her, growing ever more fond of her.

It was getting worryingly easy to accept those last things. 

He was thinking of all of this as he thundered up the stairs to his chamber and was thus unprepared to come face to face with the lady herself.

“Mr. Tilney!” she exclaimed. “Good God! How came you here? How came you up that staircase?”

“How came I up that staircase!” he replied, still too surprised to really know what he was saying. “Because it is my nearest way from the stable-yard to my own chamber; and why should I not come up it?”

Miss Morland’s cheeks were now a deep shade of pink. He tried not to notice how pretty it made her look.

She would not speak and she avoided his eyes; she merely moved towards the gallery without offering further information.

“And may I not, in my turn,” he said finally, “ask how you came here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a road from the breakfast-parlour to your apartment, as that staircase can be from the stables to mine.”

“I have been to see your mother’s room,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, her eyes on the ground. 

“My mother’s room! Is there anything extraordinary to be seen there?” He could not imagine that the place held any interest to a stranger.

“No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till tomorrow.”

“I did not expect to be able to return sooner, when I went away; but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to detain me.” 

Miss Morland’s blush had disappeared; she was now a ghostly white.

“You look pale. I am afraid I alarmed you by running so fast up those stairs.” He was concerned now that she might faint. He had never known her to be so delicate. “Perhaps you did not know-- you were not aware of their leading from the offices of common use?”

“No, I was not. You have had a very fine day for your ride.”

“Very,” he said, but he would not be distracted; “and does Eleanor leave you to find your way into all the rooms in the house by yourself?”

“Oh! No; she showed me over the greatest part on Saturday-- and we were coming here to these rooms-- but only” -- her voice dropped so low that Henry actually leaned closer to hear her-- “your father was with us.”

Yes, he well knew the effect his father had.

“And that prevented you,” he said. “Have you looked into all the rooms in that passage?”

“No, I only wanted to see—Is not it very late? I must go and dress.”

“It is only a quarter past four and you are not now in Bath. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour at Northanger must be enough.”

He had never known Miss Morland to be this evasive. She was usually so artless. 

He was disheartened to see that, for the first time since he had met her, she seemed desirous of leaving his company. It gave him an odd sort of feeling in his stomach, hollow and empty, to think that she may not enjoy being around him for any stretch of time.

Good Lord, he was in trouble.

He cleared his throat. “Have you had any letter from Bath since I saw you?”

“No, and I am very much surprised. Isabella promised so faithfully to write directly.”

Well, now. This was something he could work with.

“Promised so faithfully! A faithful promise! That puzzles me. I have heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise-- the fidelity of promising! It is a power little worth knowing, however, since it can deceive and pain you.”

She did not have that look of amusement and slight confusion on her face while he teased her that he so enjoyed provoking. His stomach dropped a little further.

“My mother’s room is very commodious, is it not?” he said. “Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed! It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent you to look at it, I suppose.”

He wished he would stop babbling.

“No,” said Miss Morland simply.

“It has been your own doing entirely?”

Silence.

He did not like this at all. 

“As there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must have proceeded from a sentiment of respect for my mother’s character, as described by Eleanor, which does honour to her memory. The world, I believe, never saw a better woman. But it is not often that virtue can boast an interest such as this. The domestic, unpretending merits of a person never known do not often create that kind of fervent, venerating tenderness which would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, has talked of her a great deal?”

“Yes, a great deal. That is—no, not much, but what she did say was very interesting. Her dying so suddenly, and you—none of you being at home—and your father, I thought—perhaps had not been very fond of her.”

Oh, dear. He had not expected this… though, perhaps, he should have. Miss Morland was so very preoccupied with her novels, and Northanger Abbey was a rich environment to create a little Gothic horror of her own. 

“And from these circumstances,” he said, “you infer perhaps the probability of some negligence—some”— he paused as she shook her head and tried to soften his tone—“or it may be—of something still less pardonable.” 

She finally looked at him, her eyes wide and alarmed, her entire countenance radiating distress.

“My mother’s illness,” he said, trying to sound calm and measured, “the seizure which ended in her death, was sudden. The malady itself, one from which she had often suffered, a bilious fever—its cause therefore constitutional. On the third day, in short, as soon as she could be prevailed on, a physician attended her, a very respectable man, and one in whom she had always placed great confidence. Upon his opinion of her danger, two others were called in the next day, and remained in almost constant attendance for four and twenty hours. On the fifth day she died. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I (we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation can bear witness to her having received every possible attention which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin.”

“But your father,” said Catherine, “was he afflicted?”

“For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to—we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition—and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death.”

“I am very glad of it,” said Catherine; “it would have been very shocking!”

There was an uncomfortable feeling rising within him - indignation, derision, exasperation that she could suspect such things; embarrassment, shame, humiliation that his family could be thought of in such a way - and he spoke with the heat of his emotion.

“If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to—Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from? Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open? Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?”

Miss Morland was crying now - oh God, he had made her cry - and she ran towards her room, covering her face with her hands.

He added guilt and remorse and sorrow to his pile of feelings. He should have been gentler with her. She was a good sort of girl, only a little fanciful, and wasn’t it that very streak of guileless naivete that he found so charming in her? 

So she thought his father was a murderer. That was… not good. But his father was guilty of a good number of other unpleasant things that would lead the fantastical mind to leap to such conclusions. He could see, if he squinted, the reasoning behind her suspicions.

He almost laughed aloud, in spite of his disgruntled mood. She really was unlike anyone he had ever met.

It was, perversely, at this moment that Henry realized that he was really quite sure that he loved Miss Morland.

Chapter Text

Henry, having discovered that his fondness for Miss Morland ran rather deeper than he had previously allowed himself to admit, accepted the development with an easy sort of composure. She was not the grandest match he could make, of course, and he was acquainted with many young women who were prettier and more sophisticated and who had considerably more importance in the world.

And yet none of them captivated him in quite the way that Miss Morland did. 

He was not too blinded by love to see that there was no real reason for this: she did not have the accomplishments and manners and education that the other ladies had. But still, Miss Morland had something the rest of them lacked: a pure, sweet, guileless charm that - who could have possibly guessed? - Henry found irresistible.

So he loved Miss Morland. There was no cause for anxiety there. Miss Morland quite clearly loved him back.

Well, he was assuming she still did, despite the fact that she thought he was the son of a cold-blooded murderer… and despite the whole fiasco of their confrontation.

No matter. If her affection for him had faltered over it, he would win it again.

Indeed, he had a chance to do so right away. Miss Morland had clearly continued to cry after their meeting, had clearly continued to be miserable, and it gave Henry the opportunity to soothe her in the best way he knew how: by showering her with attention. 

"You have certainly been solicitous this evening," Eleanor whispered to him later, one eyebrow raised. 

Henry merely grinned back. 

He comforted her, too, when her brother James's fateful letter arrived, announcing his broken engagement with Isabella Thorpe and suggesting that that lady was now betrothed to none other than Captain Frederick Tilney.

Henry, knowing his brother, greeted the report with skepticism and attempted to make light of it, hoping to make Miss Morland smile. The subject was too interesting a one for it to be dropped very quickly, however, and it therefore provided Henry with many such opportunities to soothe and amuse. Eleanor had developed a rather knowing look in her eye that Henry chose to ignore.

Thus life continued at Northanger. Henry was perfectly happy to spend his time there growing ever more fond of Miss Morland, and never allowed himself the freedom to dream of her outside of that sphere, when a push in that direction came from an unexpected quarter. His father, of all people, suggested a visit to Woodston. 

Why had Henry ever thought of the general as a disagreeable and forbidding father? The man was a genius; generosity itself. 

“And when do you think, sir, I may look forward to this pleasure?” Henry asked, working hard to keep his face composed and his tone even. He had sneaked a glance at Miss Morland, whose countenance glowed with delight, and was finding it a difficult task to perform. “I must be at Woodston on Monday to attend the parish meeting, and shall probably be obliged to stay two or three days.”

“Well, well, we will take our chance some one of those days. There is no need to fix. You are not to put yourself at all out of your way. Whatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I can answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor’s table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland, never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men. They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be with you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may look for us.”

Henry did not listen to his father’s prattle. He was too busy imagining Miss Morland at his house, among his things, ensconced in his new life and away from his old one. 

When he left for Woodston an hour later (Miss Morland’s face, he could not help but notice, had fallen dramatically at the news of his departure), it was with spirits even higher than usual.

***

Henry was not sure how he managed to make it to Wednesday. 

He paid very little attention at the parish meeting and performed all of his duties most perfunctorily. What did any of it matter, really? He had more important things to think about.

At last, the day arrived, and it was a particularly fine one. Henry watched with impatient anticipation for the arrival of the chaise and four that would deliver his guests to Woodston and was barely able to keep himself from sprinting out of the door to greet them. 

“Not to greet them,” said that unhelpful little voice in his head, “but to greet one person in particular. ” 

Oh, Henry was always happy to see his sister, of course, but today was about Miss Morland, and there was no use trying to deny it to himself.

The lady herself was rather quiet as she entered the house, and did not, in fact, speak much at all until the general explicitly asked for her opinion of the house. Henry looked at her eagerly. Though her response was measured, he could see (or thought he could see) something in her expression that spoke her greater enthusiasm. He was satisfied. Miss Morland was pleased with the place. It mattered not what she said to his father. 

The general, of course, rambled on about the parsonage, about its being small and confined but very good indeed, though Miss Morland did not seem to hear much of it. Henry delicately changed the subject and arranged for a tray of refreshments to be brought in. His distractions were successful. The more time that passed, the more comfortable and easy Miss Morland became; she was less guarded, more spirited. Henry smiled to himself. 

She grew more delighted still as he showed his guests about the place, and she was especially pleased with his unfinished drawing-room.

“Oh! Why do not you fit up this room,  Mr. Tilney?” she said as she admired the view. “What a pity not to have it fitted up! It is the prettiest room I ever saw; it is the prettiest room in the world!”

Henry was quite sure that he was smiling so broadly as to look ridiculous; he studiously avoided Eleanor’s gaze.

“I trust,” said his father, “that it will very speedily be furnished: it waits only for a lady’s taste!”

“Well, if it was my house, I should never sit anywhere else. Oh! What a sweet little cottage there is among the trees-- apple trees, too! It is the prettiest cottage!”

He absolutely would not imagine Miss Morland sitting in this room, without his father and sister present, looking at the trees and the cottage. 

“You like it-- you approve it as an object-- it is enough. Henry, remember that Robinson is spoken to about it. The cottage remains.”

Henry did not even flush at his father’s implications, nor at his applying to Miss Morland about her choice for the color of the paper and hangings. He was too busy envisioning just what he had told himself he would not.  

Henry hurriedly suggested a walk out of doors.

The day passed quickly and cheerfully, and before he knew it, it was time for his guests to leave. He watched them go (he watched her go) with a sort of dismay. 

Dismay, he scoffed to himself. Do not be so dramatic.

Still, he spent the rest of the evening thinking only of Miss Morland, and whether or not the next time she returned to Woodston she would arrive there as Mrs. Tilney.

Chapter Text

Henry expected to return to Northanger Abbey, after a short stay in Woodston, to find Eleanor and Miss Morland waiting for him; he expected to enjoy their company in the absence of his father and to continue to flirt outrageously with Miss Morland in every spare moment.

What he did not expect was to be greeted by a weepy, flustered-looking Eleanor. She had plainly been watching for his arrival; she burst out of the door and ran to him, her face streaked with tears and an air of frustrated helplessness about her. 

“Oh, Henry, you cannot imagine what has happened!”

He was not used to seeing his sister this way. She was usually so calm and collected; to see her lose her composure like this was so extraordinary that it was an immediate cause for alarm. He felt a jolt of anxiety course through him. Had some harm come to Catherine?

“What is it?” he demanded, worry sharpening his tone into harshness. “What is the matter?”

“Oh, Henry,” she repeated, but she went no further, unable to speak through her sobs.

“What is the matter?” He wanted to shake her, to force the words out of her, his fear making him feel impatient and cruel. This was a side of himself he was unaccustomed to; it was unpleasant and uncomfortably reminiscent of his father. “Is Miss Morland ill? Where is she?”

Eleanor took several deep breaths in an effort to calm herself, swiping her tears away and not meeting his eyes. “She is not here, Henry. She has gone. I hope she is well, but I cannot possibly know…” 

She made a hopeless sort of gesture as she trailed off.

“But where has she gone?” said Henry in some confusion. There was a sick feeling in his stomach, twisting and sour; his head felt muddled; there seemed to be a buzzing in his ears. Had she been taken away somewhere, to a surgeon or a physician? Had there been some sort of accident? He needed Eleanor to explain, and quickly. 

“Father has… has sent her back to Fullerton.”

This was so unexpected that Henry simply stared at his sister for a moment. “He has sent her back to Fullerton? Why ?”

“I do not know, Henry. He has not given me any sort of satisfactory explanation, but I have rarely seen him in such a temper.”

Well, Henry would simply have to demand some answers from his father. He sidestepped his sister and began to make his way inside.

“Henry, wait!” Eleanor hurried to keep pace with him, grabbing his arm before he could walk through the door. “You do not yet know all. We are to leave for Lord Longtown’s on Monday, and I am sure my father intends you to come with us. He says that he has only now recollected the engagement and that we must not disappoint his friend.”

Henry would not be going to Herefordshire, no matter what his father intended.

“Pray, tell me if I have understood you correctly,” he said, his tone now an eerie calm that did not correspond with his feelings. “Miss Morland has been turned from this house, after we have taken her from the Allens in Bath, and has been sent back to Fullerton so that we can keep a previous engagement; an engagement that neither of us had any inkling of before our father suddenly remembered it?”

Eleanor acknowledged it to be true.

“There is a more honest explanation for all of this and I mean to find it out.”

He removed his arm from Eleanor’s grasp and pushed his way into Northanger Abbey. 

Henry located the general more quickly than he had thought he would. His father was in even higher dudgeon than usual, but Henry remained undaunted.

“So you have returned,” said his father, sparing him a glance before turning away. “I assume that Eleanor has told you of our plans.”

“She has,” said Henry pleasantly. “I have heard, too, of Miss Morland’s sudden dismissal from our home.”

“Do not speak to me of that scheming little--”

“Scheming?” Henry interrupted. “I cannot imagine a lady less likely to scheme than Miss Morland. What has she done to offend you?”

“She has deceived us from the moment we set eyes on her,” the general hissed. “She has claimed to be wealthy and connected and important, and she is merely a poor clergyman’s daughter, one of ten children, with no fortune of her own and no claim to Mr. Allen’s estate. She is not the heiress she makes herself out to be. She is a useless, slatternly little liar--”

“I have never heard Miss Morland claim to be any of those things,” said Henry, the blood pounding in his ears. “She has never made any claims of wealth and grandeur that I ever heard of. She has always been exactly as she has presented herself to be: a charming, artless young lady enjoying a visit to Bath with her friends. Whatever ideas you may have formed about her station, she has certainly never encouraged you in them.”

“But neither has she disabused me of them,” his father retorted. 

“I doubt very much whether any suspicions of these ideas you have harbored about her have entered into her head! They had certainly never entered my own.”

His father continued as though he had not heard him. “She was perfectly happy to continue the fiction so long as it benefited her!”

“And who created this fiction?” Henry demanded. “How did any such story reach your ears in the first place?”

For the first time, a touch of mortification colored his father’s countenance as he muttered something in which the words “John Thorpe” were discernible.

“John Thorpe ?” Henry was unable to contain the snort of derision that escaped him. “You believed a single word that passed John Thorpe’s lips? John Thorpe, a man without an ounce of sense to recommend him and with whom you are barely acquainted? You trusted his intelligence and felt no need to verify it?”

The full picture soon emerged: everything John Thorpe had said; all the ways in which the general had acted on the information; the utter ignorance of Henry and Miss Morland at the center of these machinations. Henry felt his contempt rising with every word his father spoke.

“And so,” said the general, “she wormed her way into my house--”

“You invited her here!” Henry cried. “She would never have presumed to worm her way anywhere!”

“--and took advantage of my hospitality and generosity,” he continued as though he had not been interrupted. “She has been artful and cunning and deceitful, after all the kindness I have shown her, and yes, Henry, I had her turned from the house because of it! She is lucky that that is all I have done!”

“Oh, yes,” said Henry, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “you have been merciful indeed! How could anyone believe otherwise? You have merely taken a young girl away from her friends, then thrown her out to fend for herself after you have found out that you were taken in by some cock-and-bull story that you should never have given credence to in the first place!”

“I will not be spoken to--”

“Never mind that you were willing, when you thought her to be an heiress, to whisk her off in order to attach yourself to her money. Never mind that you did everything in your power to separate her from her guardians in order to procure an advantageous connection for your family. No, it is you that have been wronged here. You have certainly been the injured party!”

“You have always held such foolish ideas about love and position and money,” his father sneered. “What I did, I did for you, in order to make a prudent match for you, and you should feel yourself just as deceived in Miss Morland as I do now.”

“And yet I feel no such thing. I have never thought her to be more than what she is - a sweet, good-hearted, amiable young woman - and, therefore, I have nothing to grieve over.”

“She is insignificant and ordinary,” said the general coldly. “It was only the illusion of wealth that gave her any sort of appeal whatsoever.”

“I would find Miss Morland just as delightful if she were penniless,” said Henry boldly, “and any supposed fortune that she was said to have could not add to her charms.”

“You have always been a fool,” said his father, “but you will forget Miss Morland soon enough. Lord Longtown has several eligible daughters. You will accompany me to Herefordshire and make yourself agreeable to one of them.”

“I will not.” Henry could not remember ever defying his father outright before. There was something wonderfully liberating in the feeling. “I feel myself bound to Miss Morland, both in honor and in affection, and I am determined to make her my wife.” 

It was the first time he had said the words aloud, the first time he had even thought them in a concrete way instead of in a hypothetical, whimsical fashion, but he found that they were true. His heart wanted Catherine Morland to become Catherine Tilney and nothing could stand in its way.

His father erupted into such a furious tirade that Henry was sure that he heard several servants in the passage scurrying away in fright. He, however, stood his ground. For too long, his father had ruled their family with an awful sort of tyranny, keeping them all cautious and browbeaten and wary. His mother, though unmurdered, had been forced to endure much, and he, Frederick, and Eleanor had been bullied and domineered throughout their lives. It was more than any of them deserved and it had been allowed to go on, all of them simply accepting that this was the way that their lives had to be. 

Well, no more. Henry was not going to stand for it. His father could yell all he wanted, but he, Henry, would not be moved. He was his own man; he had his own house, his own life, his own love. He would not remain under his father’s thumb any longer. 

He could not recall how he left his father, whether he said anything further or whether he stormed out mid-beratement. All he could remember was taking his hat and greatcoat from one of the servants, and seeing Eleanor’s stricken face and murmuring something soothing and unsatisfactory to her, before leaving Northanger without a second look.

He would return tonight to Woodston with only one thought in his mind: getting to Fullerton, and to Catherine, the next day.

Chapter Text

Henry found himself at a sudden and uncharacteristic loss for words as he stood outside of Fullerton Parsonage. He did not like it. It felt like a bad omen.

“A bad omen,” he mocked under his breath. “You sound like Catherine.”

And it was much less adorable, coming from him.

He let out an odd, shuddery sigh. He was not sure how this was going to go or what he was going to say. He was just going to have to make it up on the spot. He tried not to dwell on the fact that it was highly probable that no one named Tilney was particularly welcome at Fullerton. It was an unhelpful thought and he was already experiencing more anxiety than he could ever recall feeling before. 

He was shown into the parsonage, his feet still managing to carry him forward, even while his mind went blank, his mouth went dry, and his stomach kept twisting itself into tighter and tighter knots. He was led to the parlor, where he expected to meet the unknown Mr. and Mrs. Morland, probably indignant at the treatment their daughter had received at the hands of his father. He expected hostility. He expected to throw himself immediately into expressions of great remorse, begging forgiveness and trying to absolve himself in any way he could.

He did not expect to be greeted by Catherine and several of her sisters. 

Truthfully, Henry did not notice the sisters at first. He only had eyes for Catherine. 

Her jaw had dropped open when he walked into the room; he would have laughed if he had been in any fit state to see the humor in the situation. As it was, with his face flushed and his hands a little shaky, he stammered out what he hoped was an intelligible apology for having arrived there with no warning. Catherine said all that was proper and polite, her own color high, but she did not look at him as she did so, nor when she sat back down and took up her work. Her mother, it seemed, had gone upstairs for a moment and would return soon.

The silence was awkward, sitting there in the Morlands’ parlor, being openly gaped at by the younger girls while Catherine worked with diligent focus, her face partially obscured by the bend of her neck and the way her hair had fallen forward. He wished he could see her better. Beneath her obvious discomposure, there was a dispiritedness about her he had never seen before, even after her brother’s letter and the revelation of Isabella Thorpe’s perfidy. He could not bear to see her upset. He wished the sisters were not here.

The minutes dragged by, but finally Mrs. Morland appeared. Though plainly surprised to see Henry, she greeted him with grace and with the same sort of earnest warmth that she had passed down to her daughter. The Morlands, it seemed, had placed none of the blame for Catherine’s treatment at his or Eleanor’s feet and were keen to let the past remain where it was. 

What a contrast to his own family, he thought. How fortunate the Morland children were, to have grown up in such a loving and generous environment. 

Catherine still could not look at him. A great change, however, had come over her since her mother’s arrival and subsequent ungrudging reception of Henry. Her air of despondency had disappeared and a Catherine more like the one he was accustomed to had emerged. She seemed flustered and feverish, but not unhappy. He was heartened by the alteration. 

Henry had barely noticed, preoccupied as he was with sneaking glances at Catherine, that another silence had fallen as Mrs. Morland ran out of things to say. They all looked uncomfortably around at each other for a moment before Henry seized his opportunity.

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Allen now at Fullerton?” he asked, turning to Catherine. 

Her eyes were huge in her face as she gave him a charmingly dithering answer, amounting roughly to, “Yes.” 

“I should like to pay my respects to them.” He rose to his feet. “Would you be so kind, Miss Morland, as to show me the way?”

He felt his face grow hot again. Oh, why, why had he gone red again now?

“You may see the house from this window, sir,” said one of the sisters. 

He went redder still and bowed in acknowledgment. Mrs. Morland rescued him, saying something lightly about Catherine showing him the prettiest path thither, and soon he was outside and alone with Catherine herself. His palms were slick with sweat and his knees felt unsteady beneath him.

“Please,” he prayed silently, “please let me say the right things.”

He adjusted his hat. He toyed with the cuffs of his coat. He fussed with his cravat. He tried to gather his thoughts into something literary and beautiful, something that would delight Catherine and sweep her off her feet. Nothing came to him. Oh, God, he hoped he could be coherent, then, at the very least.

“Miss Morland, I--” he faltered as she looked at him, the sun in her eyes making her squint slightly, despite her bonnet, and her hair blowing across her face in the gentle breeze. He had always thought her a pretty girl, but right now, if only to him, she was breathtaking. “Will you marry me?”

He hadn’t meant to just blurt it out like that. His clever little words had failed him, right when he’d needed them most.

But, as it turned out, it hardly mattered. He didn’t even have time to feel mortified. 

“Yes!” said Catherine immediately, artlessly, enthusiastically, and so very like her.

Henry could not say later how he managed to refrain from picking her up and twirling her around right where they stood.

***

Oh, then some other things happened. They applied to the Morlands and received their conditional approval. Henry returned to Woodston to wait out his father’s unreasonableness. He was too naturally sanguine to fret much in general, and too happy to have Catherine’s love to stew over this new set of hurdles. They would be overcome in time, he was sure of it, and the only thing for him to do was to keep Catherine’s spirits up while they waited. He answered her letters - tear-stained and despairing - with relentless encouragement and cheer, and, at last, after months of his father’s temper and bad humor (not to mention Eleanor’s sudden proposal from a very grand suitor), their fortunes changed. Henry Tilney and Catherine Morland were free to marry.

Really, Henry thought with a grin, it was like something out of a novel.

***

And so they began their life together at Woodston. Catherine was, after all, a sad, heedless young housekeeper, but she learned quickly. Henry, for his part, fell easily into the role of her husband. He did not have a model on which to base this new identity, so he simply went with his instincts; and, when in doubt, he thought of what the general would do in any given situation, and then he did the opposite.

It was a bright spring morning, a slight chill sharpening the air, and the Tilneys had not yet decided to stir out of doors. Henry watched his wife write a letter back to Fullerton in their newly-finished drawing-room, the very same spot he had pictured her all those months ago when she had visited him here at the parsonage. He was not a man who tended to inspect his feelings too closely - there was something mawkish in such an examination and he cringed away from it - but this feeling of gratification and joy and love in his chest, building him up and making him feel positively buoyant with happiness, was a revelation. His disposition had always been cheerful, that was not new, but he had never experienced this degree of contentment in his life before.

Catherine was very intent on her letter, brow furrowed, shoulders hunched, face very close to the paper. He wondered what she was writing about. There had been a brief scare the other day, when they had thought one of the puppies had gone missing; perhaps that was it. She looked quite serious indeed. He wanted to say something to make her laugh, to smooth her brow and shake her free from her preoccupation. 

He knocked on the doorframe to make himself known. She looked up at him and smiled, her eyes brightening up and her countenance glowing. 

All his little jokes and follies could wait. 

Kissing his wife on the temple as he passed, he sat down in his own chair. All he wanted now was this quiet day spent with Catherine.