Henry Tilney's Diary (9781101559024) (3 page)

I went to the stables and was soon on horseback, enjoying my freedom. I miss it when I am at school, and like nothing better than roaming over the estate on a spring day.

Frederick was looking sober as we sat down to dine, but otherwise morose and pale. Despite his bravado I think he is not happy about going into the army, and there is some deeper wound. If Miss Orpington has disappointed him – and I can think of no other meaning to his words – then I am sorry for him. It is clear to see that he feels it most keenly, for although on the surface he is a rake, I am convinced that he is at heart a romantic.

Mama ate very little and Papa was concerned, asking her if she felt quite well. She said that it was nothing, just her bilious complaint, and that he must not be concerned.

I believe that he is concerned, though, inasmuch as he has it in him to be concerned for anyone.

 

 

 

It is as I feared. Mama was ill again this morning and did not leave her room. Papa blamed it on Frederick. Frederick bore our father's rants with a curled lip, but as soon as Papa went off to examine the kitchens, Frederick's bravado disappeared and he hastened to Mama's room, where he endeavoured to cheer her, and sounds of laughter could soon be heard.

This afternoon he rode over to the Dawsons, saying he was going to borrow something from Peter. He returned with a red coat, Peter being in the army, and went upstairs to show it to Mama. But she was by then feeling unwell, and he was unable to see her. Papa said he would send for the physician tomorrow if she is no better.

Eleanor spent the afternoon sewing diligently, so that she will have something to show Mama when Mama is feeling well again. Being disposed to help Eleanor in her noble endeavour, I took up
A Sicilian Romance
.

‘Oh, yes, Henry, please do read to me,' she said. ‘I do not know how it is, but a novel is always more enjoyable when it is shared.'

‘By which you mean you are afraid to turn the pages by yourself, lest Julia should discover a skeleton in the southern reaches of the castle.'

‘I am frightened of no such thing.'

‘Of course not. Very well, then, where did we leave it? Ah, yes, Julia was reading late one night and was moving to her chamber, when the beauty of the night attracted her to the window.

‘Do you think it is really haunted?' asked Eleanor.

‘Who can say? It seems only too likely,' I said. ‘I can think of no other reason for a mysterious light. There can surely not be a rational explanation of so strange a thing?'

‘And do you think Madame will really ask the marquis for the keys?'

‘I think she may very well ask him, but whether he will give them to her is quite another matter.'

‘Poor Julia,' said Eleanor, with a pleasurable shiver, ‘to live in a haunted castle. I am glad the abbey is not haunted.'

‘Are you sure? I believe I saw a mysterious light in the kitchen last night,' I remarked.

‘Oh, that was just Mama's maid making her a little something,' said Eleanor.

At talk of Mama she fell silent. Reading her thoughts, and knowing she was worried about Mama, I invited her to go riding with me, but she would not be distracted from her needlework.

Frederick was still wearing his red coat when I went upstairs to dress for dinner. He was just emerging from Mama's room, where he had met with a smiling reception, for Mama was feeling somewhat better. He looked remarkably handsome and he was pleased that Mama had said so.

Papa was less pleased to find that Frederick had been to her room, saying, ‘Your mother is too ill to be disturbed.'

‘On the contrary, she was feeling much recovered and needed someone to take her out of her thoughts,' Frederick remarked. ‘She said that red is a very good colour and suits me.'

‘It is a very good colour for disguising blood, anyway,' said Papa, ‘and there will be plenty of that when you see some action.'

Frederick scowled and said that, as he had worn the coat into town this afternoon it had already seen some action, a remark which incensed Papa. But Frederick laughed at his anger. I did not like to hear it. There was something bitter about the laughter, something cynical. I hope it will not last. Frederick is not made for bitterness and cynicism. I hope his disappointment has not soured him. I am sure it has not. He is too young to abandon all hope of meeting a heroine of his own.

 

 

 

Mama was well enough to join us at church and, apart from being a little pale, was so well that Papa felt able to go ahead with his plan of driving me over to Woodston this afternoon.

‘I am glad to see that you are not following in your brother's footsteps,' said my father as we set out. ‘A clergyman needs to be sober and respectable and I think I can rely upon you to be both. You have a propensity to humour and you have a love of the absurd, both of which you should attempt to curb, but I am pleased with you nonetheless, Henry. I will be glad to give you the living of Woodston when you are old enough for it. You will not become ordained for many years, but Woodston will be waiting for you.'

He wanted no reply, and so whilst he talked I was free to observe the countryside, with its hints of the coming spring. The drive was agreeable and the twenty miles went by quickly.

‘Woodston is larger than it was the last time I was here,' I said. ‘There are more chandler's shops, and some new houses, too.'

‘It is becoming more prosperous,' my father agreed. ‘Its situation is good and its people are hardworking. You will have sensible parishioners and you will be able to make your mark here. I foresee great things for you, Henry, my boy.'

We reached the further end of the village and my father pulled up in front of the parsonage.

‘There it is. What do you think of it, Henry?'

I was surprised at his question. We have been to Woodston many times before, but it was the first time he had sought my opinion.

‘A little run down, perhaps, and small, but well enough,' I said.

‘You think so? I cannot agree with you. In fact, I am very disappointed in the place. I have been growing more and more dissatisfied with it for some time. It is small and dark, and has a mean look about it. I think I am going to have it pulled down and have a new parsonage built in its place.'

I was astonished, but a moment's reflection showed me that I should not be surprised. There is very little left to do on the abbey and my father must always be altering something. Goodness knows what he will do with himself when everything is done.

‘The drive needs altering. What do you say? A semicircular sweep would look well, I think. Do not you?' He did not wait for me to answer but continued: ‘Good, good, I knew you would approve. It needs a pair of imposing gates to make the entrance worth looking at. Then, with an impressive sweep and a stone-built parsonage beyond, it will be passable. Inside, it will need spacious rooms, well shaped, with windows reaching to the ground. What do you think? The view of the meadows beyond is pretty enough. Perhaps that tree could be moved.'

He set the carriage moving again and drove on to the church, which we reached in time for the evening service.

‘The roof has just been replaced,' he said as we climbed out of the carriage, ‘and that window will be refitted. I have always thought it a pity it has no coloured glass. There is room for improvement there. We will replace it with a scene from the New Testament. Or perhaps the Old. What do you think? Yes, yes, you are right, David and Goliath, or perhaps the Battle of Jericho.'

The Reverend Mr Wilkes caught sight of us at that moment and set his servant to take care of the horses as he made us welcome. We were the object of some attention as we took our place in the family pew. I liked the atmosphere of the church, it was calm and peaceful. I looked about me at the venerable stonework and the carved oak, which had been made mellow by the countless generations worshipping there. My father's eyes roved around with quite a different view, seeking out things to be altered, and lingering now and then on an ugly bonnet or a battered cane, which I knew he was tempted to remove and replace.

As we waited for the sermon to begin, I wondered whether my heroine might be found at Woodston, and thinking she might be hiding her light under a poke bonnet I endeavoured to read every face. But I saw no one over the age of seven or under the age of forty.

The service at last began. It was tolerable, but I found myself to be my father's son, for I saw room for improvement, and I wrote my own service in my imagination as I listened. Alas, my sermon contained much that was humorous, and I think my father would have been horrified if he could have read my thoughts. But I see no reason why sermons should not be entertaining as well as instructive, and I feel it will be my duty to make sure that my parishioners remain awake whilst I am speaking, instead of falling asleep.

After the service was over we were invited to stay at the rectory by the Reverend Mr Wilkes. My father, having expected the invitation, had made sure we had travelled prepared. We were soon at the parsonage, and then we were left alone whilst Mr Wilkes went to instruct his housekeeper on preparing our rooms.

‘You see now why a clergyman needs a wife,' said my father. ‘Mr Wilkes is a bachelor and he has to see to all the arrangements himself. When the time comes I will find you an heiress, someone whose wealth will enhance your own and give you an opportunity to make as many improvements as you desire.'

It did not seem sufficient reason to take a wife to me, but I did not want to anger my father and so I did not say so.

Whilst we waited for Mr Wilkes to return, Papa looked around the parsonage with a critical eye.

‘Yes, yes, knock it down and start again, there is nothing else to be done. The rooms are too small, and although that wall could be knocked out, there is nothing I hate so much as a patched-on bow. The windows, too . . .' He shook his head in disapproval at the small-paned windows, which let in little light. ‘But with the new parsonage, you will have nothing to be ashamed of, it will be a gentleman's residence, I can promise you that. Everything in the newest style, well fitted out, the sort of home you can be proud of.

‘You will not be dependent on the living, of course, you have your own fortune, but it is important that you have occupation. It is essential for a young man. You are intelligent enough to know what I am talking about. I am not worried for you, Henry. It is your brother who fills me with unease. He never seems to belong to anyone. You are close to your sister, but Frederick has no such close friendship in the family. He loves his mother, as who would not? But that is not the same as having someone in whom he can confide. Confound it, there is something eating the boy, but the devil of it is, I do not know what it is.'