A Clandestine Correspondence
September
Woodston Parsonage,
10 September, 1798
My love,
I am returned to Woodston at last. Our time together has been glorious, my sweet, but all too short. Only another fortnight, and a little longer, until we are together forever. And how busy I shall be until that time fitting up my house for you. I remember your instructions for the drawing-room; fear not, sweet one, I shall strictly adhere to them.
I must confess that my sorrow at our parting has been somewhat tempered. I know you will not mind when I name the balm that soothes me, the only one that could compensate me for your absence. Eleanor and her husband shall be here in two days. We shall have such a nice long visit before the wedding. Since I am to take you away to visit every ancient castle in England for our wedding-tour, I am sure you will not begrudge me this time. Our no-longer-clandestine correspondence will continue apace, my sweet, until the day that I lead you to the altar.
And if you wish to continue the correspondence after the wedding, I shall certainly not object. I rather enjoy the idea of finding love-notes tucked into the folds of my clean shirts, like the one I found in the bag you helped me to pack. How terribly clever of you, Catherine. If it would not be ungentlemanly, I would claim that my own regard surpasses yours, but I shall gracefully retire and allow your affection to carry the day
Woodston seems little changed since I have been away. I have stayed away previously, but this place has become so much more a home to me since you promised to share it. I could not have asked for a happier greeting; three ecstatic terriers, one drooling Newfoundland, and a smiling Mrs. Cooke. She made much of me, provided a rich dinner that gave me the stomach-ache, and spoiled my dogs quite properly while I was away, judging by their wild behaviour. Or do you think they were simply happy to have me at home? They pushed and shoved each other to fall asleep on my feet. I suspect that canine affection has no higher expression.
There is much work to be done before I retire, and I am already fatigued, so I will end now. In seventeen days I shall see you again; in nineteen we shall be wed. Those few days stretch out before me like a rock-strewn uphill path through the brush, but I shall employ my time usefully in preparing Woodston Parsonage for its mistress. Your new home awaits, you my sweet, as does
your impatient but still affectionate
H.T.
Miss Morland,
Fullerton Parsonage,
Fullerton, Wiltshire
Fullerton Parsonage,
14 September 1798
My dearest Henry,
Here we are, writing our hopes and dreams to one another once again! I can think of no more delightful way to endure our separation.
We have begun the wedding preparations in earnest. I have had fitting after fitting and spent more time in shops than I have at home. My parents have been terribly generous with the allowance for my wedding-clothes. My mother explained that I must have new clothes, as my old ones will not be fitting for my new role as mistress of the parsonage, and that I must also have warm clothes for our wedding-trip to the north. My father simply gave her another draught on his bank. He is such a wonderful, obliging father!
I sometimes catch my father watching me strangely. He looks at me so earnestly, with warm affection, and then sighs and turns away, shaking his head. I do not know what to make of this. Have you any insights you can share with me, Henry?
Such a delicious homecoming you had, my love! If I could not be there for you, who better than our dogs and dear Mrs. Cooke? I suppose by now you have told her of our impending marriage. I hope that we will be friends. I shall need her help as I learn my new duties. I must confess that I am nervous. I hope that I will learn to be the wife that you deserve.
I have found that I am quite emotional these past few days. I am busy with my work, then I look around the little parlour and realize that I am going away, and I begin to weep. Is that not a strange reaction? I wanted to be with you at Woodston for so long--and so I do still--and yet I grow nostalgic for my childhood home. I thought being engaged would give me the maturity to answer such questions, but I still have so many!
I shall retire now, my dearest love, and think on these questions. I suspect that I shall be tempted to banish them from my head entirely, for they take up too much room, which must be reserved for my Henry. That is how I am able to dream of you every single night. Until we meet in the land of dreams, I remain
your affectionate,
C.M.
The Rev. Mr. Tilney,
Woodston Parsonage,
Woodston, Gloucestershire
Woodston Parsonage,
18 September, 1798
My sweet,
Such a philosophical bent you have taken! I read your last over and over and thought about the questions you posed. I am not sure that anyone can answer these questions but you. You know your own mind best, although I think I may boast that I know your heart as well as anyone.
You said that you have been feeling nostalgic for your childhood home. I felt much the same way when the time came for me to take orders and move to Woodston. Even though I spent nearly half my time at Northanger, knowing it was no longer my real home gave it a poignancy of sorts. I actually pined for the Abbey at first, even though I had wanted to leave it badly--I think you know why. At first I simply thought that I missed Eleanor, and then I realized that I had experienced some of the highest joys and deepest sorrows of my life in my father's house. Such emotions are like tiny roots that we put into a place, and they ache when we are torn from their nourishing soil. But I find that now I suffer that pain when I must leave the parsonage. The Abbey is simply a house to me now; a house that contains memories both painful and sweet, but it is no longer my home. I hope that you shall put down roots here at Woodston after a time, but be not concerned if those roots are a bit tender at first.
As to your father, I think perhaps he has a few roots in each of his children, and he is experiencing that ache because you are being taken from him. He has been so cordial to me that I think he does not blame me for it, and I am sure that he does not blame you. That separation comes to every parent at some time. I suspect that we shall not truly understand until our own children leave home.
So, you are bringing a new wardrobe with you to the north country. I am all anticipation. Tell me of your wedding-gown, my sweet. How else shall I recognize you at the altar? Oh, yes, I know--you will be the sweet, lovely, glowing one on your father's arm. My own Catherine, to have and to hold. Yes, I am indeed running mad with anticipation!
Eleanor sends her love. We are having a wonderful visit. Her husband is as charming as I remember, and he almost deserves her. Which reminds me of a passage in your last--you say that you wish to be the wife that I deserve. I am not sure what that may entail. And to tell the truth I am almost afraid to find out, after the way I have teased you since our first meeting. Simply be the best Catherine you can be, and you cannot fail to be the wife I desire. On that happy thought I shall close, and it only remains to tell you that I am
your not-so-deserving
H.T.
Miss Morland,
Fullerton Parsonage,
Fullerton, Wiltshire
Fullerton Parsonage,
21 September, 1798
My dearest Henry,
I have never considered myself philosophical, but if you think I am, then I suppose I must be. I shall address the question you posed about the wife you deserve. You are the kindest, most generous and affectionate of men; you deserve a wife that is at least your equal, and one who can make you comfortable in your home. I shall endeavour to do so, sir.
However, in one respect I shall not be generous. Despite your pleas, I am not going to give you the details of my wedding-gown. My motives are purely selfish; I want to surprise you. Fear not, my love, I know your taste by now, and I shall not disappoint you.
I am continually dreaming of our wedding-trip. Imagine all those old castles! It will be as if one of Mrs. Radcliffe's works had come to life. But I shall not be frightened, not with you beside me. If I scream or become faint, take me in your arms, and your love shall revive me. My goodness, that is terribly poetic! I have taken to reading love poems of late. Shakespeare's sonnets are my favourite.
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease.
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
As you can see, I am selfish, my love. After we had a glorious fortnight together, and shall be together forever in just eight days, I still have the presumption to miss you. I suppose that I became spoiled, seeing you every day whilst you were at the Allens'. I confess that I have been so busy of late that I have not had much time to sit and dream of you as I did during our last separation, but you are never really gone from my thoughts, or my heart. All I do in preparation for our wedding is for you. And yet I save a few moments for you at twilight, when I watch the moon rise and remember how it felt to be in your arms. With that thought I close, and only pause to remind you that I remain
your devoted
C.M.
The Rev. Mr. Tilney,
Woodston Parsonage,
Woodston, Gloucestershire
Woodston Parsonage,
25 September, 1798
My sweet,
This will only be a flying note as I must finish packing and making sure all is in order for our trip. Eleanor, the Viscount, and I shall depart the day after tomorrow and should arrive at Fullerton sometime in the afternoon. I hope that you and Eleanor have the opportunity for a nice long talk together before we leave. I know that she is planning on it, so be sure to save some time for her.
You need not tell me the details of your wedding-gown. You are correct; you know my taste by now. If that gown is as lovely as the one you wore at the Allens' ball, it shall be more beautiful than I dared to dream. I must confess that it is really you of whom I dream, my Catherine, and not of your gown.
The parsonage is nearly ready for its new mistress, my sweet. Mr. Robinson shall attend to the last few details whilst we are away, and Eleanor has a complete understanding of our choices if he should have a question. If the dogs do not tear everything to bits before we return, all shall be ready, although I am sure that you will have some last details to command your attention. I only hope that everything is as you like. If it is not, you are free to change it in any manner that suits you.
I have much to do, and I will see you on the day that you receive this, so I must finish. In closing, since you were so kind as to write out such a beautiful sonnet for me, I have chosen one for you:
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlooked for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buriéd,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famouséd for might,
After a thousand victories thus foiled,
Is from the book of honour raiséd quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.
Then happy I that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove, or be removed.
I treasure your affection, Catherine. It is more precious to me than anything I have ever been privileged to own, or ever shall own. It is especially precious because you gave it so freely, without expectation of gain or return. However, I pledge that you shall have something in return: a heart that shall be always devoted, always loving, and always your own, a heart that belongs to
your affectionate
H.T.
Miss Morland,
Fullerton Parsonage,
Fullerton, Wiltshire
Fullerton Parsonage,
28 September, 1798
My dearest Henry,
Tomorrow we shall wed! It seems a lifetime ago that we met in the Lower Rooms, and yet it has not been a twelvemonth. It seems that we have waited so long to be together forever, and yet it has not been half a year. And despite the unhappiness I have suffered during those months, missing you and wondering if we were to ever wed, I would suffer it all again happily to be with my Henry.
I am nearly breathless when I think of the honour you have bestowed upon me by asking me to be your wife. Of all the young ladies in Bath--of all the young ladies in the world--you chose me. I had admired you since we met, and I hoped--dreamed--but never dared give voice to my admiration. But somehow you knew. Henry, my dearest, my love, you knew.
And when I think of how you read my terrible imaginings and yet forgave them, I tremble. How many men would have done so? How many men would have cast me aside forever? Many, I suspect, except for the one whose love and respect I can never fully deserve.
I will dream of you tonight, Henry, and then I shall need to dream no longer. We will be together, not only in our minds but in our hearts, our souls, our lives. Dream of me one last time tonight, my love, she who has always been, and will tomorrow be
yours forever,
Catherine
The Rev. Mr. Tilney,
Fullerton
Note accompanying a velvet box containing a pearl set consisting of necklace, ear drops, brooch, and two bracelets.
Fullerton,
29 September, 1798
My dear Miss Morland,
The last time I shall address a note to Miss Morland! Before the sun sets you shall be Mrs. Tilney. I look forward to that time with great impatience.
It is quite proper and significant that we marry on Michaelmas, my love. Imagine having an archangel guarding our union. Indeed, I believe that Michael has been fighting for us all along, and perhaps has even enlisted his compatriots Raphael and Gabriel. How could a mere general of the army stand a chance against such an array of celestial warriors? And yet I receive the prize; an angel of my own, named Catherine.
You once wrote to me that you thought a bride looked well in pearls. Here are yours, my sweet. They are not family heirlooms, at least not yet. My mother's pearls went to my sister, as you know. Perhaps you will give these to our daughter someday. Until then, wear them in joy, and know that they come to you along with all my love and respect.
I will see you at the altar, dearest Catherine, and I am always
your own
Henry
Miss Morland,
Fullerton Parsonage
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