Dressed in Black

Chapter 4

Catherine was thoroughly pleased with the General's delicate care of her person throughout their journey. His attention was unremitting. He saw to everything such as settling rooms in an inn and assisting her to alight from the chaise, and spoke charmingly, interesting her with his tales of the sea as much as his father had once done. A day passed in this manner, the General hardly ever allowing our young heroine to think, so often did he voice his own thoughts. She would not label him a chattering coxcomb, for he was too gentle to fit the vulgar image. At all events, an avid speaker was what Catherine was in present need of.

It was the next day; five hours after they had left the inn and taken care of the required settlements for legal guardianship, that the driver announced the Abbey, and Catherine – skilfully concealing her ardour – peeped through the window only to see the heavy iron gates being unlocked by a porter who looked as though he had seen better days. "Good morning, Job!" cried the General, leaning out of the window with a great smile plastered across his bearded face. He winked at Catherine as he regained his seat, and they proceeded in silence, both feeling a good deal too much to make room for words.

At length the chaise came to an abrupt halt, and the General helped Catherine alight. "Thank you," she nodded with ready politeness, her eyes feverishly moving to the edifice standing before her. A sigh escaped her, and well might the General have misinterpreted it for a sigh of wonder – but he could not have been more mistaken. Catherine could not have been more mistaken. Albert Musgrave had been right in asserting that the General's living was not a veritable abbey. Colouring with shame at her own nonsense, she asked softly if this was the family's abbey: from his reports, she had nearly expected to see one.

"An abbey, Great Scott!" he laughed outright, offering her his arm as they made their way to the causeway leading up to the elegant house. "Your innocence amuses me, Miss Crane – it is of the most charming nature," he beamed, "but the Abbey is merely my manor's name. I hope you are not disappointed?"

"No," she replied decisively, not wanting to lower her obliging guardian's spirits. "It is much handsomer than I could have imagined. I quite praise you in your good taste."

"Oh, it is no matter of good taste," he grinned elatedly, gazing up at it with excusable pride, for it was a fine house after all, and any man or woman in possession of it would surely have been proud of it. "It was bequeathed to me, and so it will be to my son. I am glad, Miss Crane, that he will not be with us very often. He is a bore, and would make you feel more wretched than you already are." Catherine dismissed this with a hope of finding him more quietly interesting than his father, and that Henrietta too was a character worth knowing. The house was like any other – as fine as Mr. Musgrave's, and romantic despite its not being an abbey, for it was of a rather older style – probably from the Georgian period.

It had a round front porch with balustrades, Paladin windows, bold pediments, a round jewel window where she believed the attic to be, was topped with a widow's walk with eased railings and, if one looked more to the side, had an attached veranda with stone columns. The manor had three floors and was eight windows wide, with vines clinging onto the walls of the outer ground floor. Catherine thought it would grow on her: this disappointment she could bear. However, if she were to be disappointed in her other expectations she would think herself in very bad luck indeed and wonder whether she should not have listened to Albert after all.

"Here we are," said the General, touching the bell. A butler opened the door. "Parker!" he cried out, patting the lanky man's shoulder amicably, as if they were old friends. Catherine could appreciate his warm manners towards his domestics, as her father had been much the same, treating them as his equals.