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.



Sunday 18 April

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.’

I ventured that it might be a woman.

‘What, not Miss Orpington? I thought I had cured him of that. She was not good enough for the heir of Northanger Abbey, and when I sent him into the library I felt sure he would see it for himself.’

‘The library?’

‘Yes, the library. She was busy flirting with one of Frederick’s less savoury friends in there. I am surprised that Frederick expected anything better from either of them, I never expected him to take it so much to heart, but I could not let him continue in ignorance. He had better get over his ill humour before Saturday. We are having some of our friends and neighbours to supper and I will not tolerate his being rude to them. Miss Plainter will be there, along with her brother Charles, and Miss Maple. We will have some improvised dancing after supper, nothing formal. I will make sure there are musicians there, and then it can all be done on the spur of the moment.’

The Reverend Mr Wilkes returning at that moment, the talk moved on to parish business until we retired for the night.

As I went upstairs I could not help wondering which friend had played my brother false. I do not know them all, but I know of three who are richer than he is, and none of them as worthy of love as Frederick. Miss Orpington must be intolerably stupid, and I cannot help thinking that he has had a lucky escape.



Monday 9 April

We returned to the abbey this afternoon and Papa set about organizing the musicians for the supper party. Frederick was out riding. Mama was feeling much better and was sitting in the parlour with her needlework. Eleanor was sitting beside her with a piece of sewing in her lap, fidgeting.

‘There you are, Henry,’ said Mama, giving me her cheek to kiss. ‘Did you enjoy yourself at Woodston?’

She listened attentively whilst I told her all about it and then said with a smile, ‘You will oblige me greatly if you will take your sister out of doors. She is fidgeting terribly.’

The day was indeed lovely and I could tell that Eleanor longed to be outside.

Eleanor jumped up, but then said nobly, ‘I will stay here with you, Mama, if you prefer. I can help you with your needlework.’

‘Heaven forfend!’ said Mama. ‘I want to have it finished by dinner time and if you remain by my side it will never be done! Off you go, child.’

Eleanor needed no more urging and we were soon outside. The weather being fine, we went down to the arbour and I was not surprised when she drew out her book. Feeling lazy, I said, ‘I think, today, you should read to me.’

‘Very well.’

She had scarcely settled herself on the bench when she took up the book and began to read. Her face glowed and her eyes widened as she discovered the horrors within:

‘It was about this period that the servant Vincent was seized with a disorder which increased so rapidly, as in a short time to assume the most alarming appearance. Despairing of life, he desired that a messenger might be dispatched to inform the marquis of his situation, and to signify his earnest wish to see him before he died.

‘The progress of his disorder defied every art of medicine, and his visible distress of mind seemed to accelerate his fate. Perceiving his last hour approaching, he requested to have a confessor. The confessor was shut up with him a considerable time, and he had already received extreme unction, when Madame de Menon was summoned to his bedside. The hand of death was now upon him, cold damps hung upon his brows, and he, with difficulty, raised his heavy eyes to Madame as she entered the apartment. He beckoned her towards him, and desiring that no person might be permitted to enter the room, was for a few moments silent. His mind appeared to labour under oppressive remembrances; he made several attempts to speak, but either resolution or strength failed him.

‘At length, giving Madame a look of unutterable anguish, “Alas, madam,” said he, “Heaven grants not the prayer of such a wretch as I am. I must expire long before the marquis can arrive. Since I shall see him no more, I would impart to you a secret which lies heavy at my heart, and which makes my last moments dreadful, as they are without hope.”

‘I knew it,’ said Eleanor. ‘I always suspected Vincent. I am sure it was he who carried the lantern. He must be the source of the mysterious lights.’

‘I seem to remember your being convinced the castle was haunted.’

‘I never said any such thing,’ she said comfortably, before returning to the book.

‘“Be comforted,” said Madame, who was affected by the energy of his manner, “we are taught to believe that forgiveness is never denied to sincere repentance.”

‘“You, madam, are ignorant of the enormity of my crime, and of the secret – the horrid secret which labours at my breast. My guilt is beyond remedy in this world, and I fear will be without pardon in the next; I therefore hope little from confession even to a priest. Yet some good it is still in my power to do; let me disclose to you that secret which is so mysteriously connected with the southern apartments of this castle.”

‘ “What of them!” exclaimed Madame, with impatience.

‘Vincent returned no answer; exhausted by the effort of speaking, he had fainted. Madame rang for assistance, and by proper applications, his senses were recalled. He was, however, entirely speechless, and in this state he remained till he expired.’

‘Oh, no!’ I cried, clutching my chest and rolling my eyes, much to Eleanor’s amusement. ‘What horrible secret does he take to his grave?’