Northanger Abbey

by Val McDermid

  Fiona gave him a look of mock disapproval. ‘Come in, Henry. At least you’re here now. Which is just as well because this young lady here –’ she gestured towards Cat ‘– is without a partner.’ She smiled at Cat. ‘My dear, I presume you’re Catherine Morland? Susie Allen phoned earlier. This unpunctual reprobate is Henry Tilney, who helps me out with my classes. Henry, meet Catherine.’

  As he moved towards her, pushing his luxuriant honey-blond hair back from his brow, Cat had the chance properly to take stock of him. Henry was the right sort of tall – a shade under six feet, broad-shouldered but slim without being skinny, graceful rather than gawky. His eyebrows and lashes were much darker than his hair, and had it not been for his dark hazel eyes she might have suspected him of tinting them for effect. His forehead was broad and his cheekbones well defined on either side of a prominent nose that saved him from being too pretty for a man. His skin was pale and clear, unblemished by freckles. He didn’t have the confected good looks of a boy-band member but his face was compelling and memorable. Heroic, even, Cat allowed herself to think.

  He dipped his head in greeting. ‘Nice to meet you, Catherine. I promise you, it’s not as hard as it looks. I’ll be gentle with you.’

  When she looked back on that first meeting, Cat would wonder whether she should have been more wary of a man who began their acquaintance with such a blatant lie. For there was nothing gentle about what followed.

  After an hour of being whirled and birled, of Gay Gordons and Dashing White Sergeants, of pas de basques and dos-à-dos, they broke for refreshments. Cat was uncomfortably aware that she was sweating like an ill-conditioned pony and that Henry seemed positively cool by comparison. She expected him to peel away from her at the first opportunity, to make a bee-line for one of the tall blondes with the far-back vowels and hair bands, but he told her to stay put while he fetched her a drink.

  She collapsed gratefully on a bench till he returned with plastic tumblers of fizzy water. He sat down beside her, long legs in raspberry-coloured cords stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankle. ‘Phew,’ he sighed. ‘Fiona really does believe in putting us through our paces.’

  ‘Why are you here? You totally knew what you were doing, every step of the way.’

  ‘The Alexanders are neighbours of my father. Fiona mentioned that she was always short of competent men in her classes, so my father volunteered me. He likes to play the good neighbour. It stands him in good stead when he does something monstrous,’ he added, almost too softly for her to hear.

  Mysterious bad behaviour was naturally meat and drink to Cat. Now she was even keener to find out more about her intriguing dance partner. ‘Well, I’m glad he did,’ she said. ‘This would be a nightmare if I was partnered with someone as clueless as I am.’

  Henry gave her a wolfish grin, revealing small, sharp teeth. His eyes looked almost tawny in the afternoon light, like a lion stalking prey. ‘You’re welcome. But I’m failing in my Edinburgh duties,’ he said, straightening up and ticking off his questions on his fingers. ‘How long have you been in Edinburgh? Is this your first time? Do you prefer the Pleasance to the Assembly Rooms? What’s the best show you’ve seen so far? And have you eaten anywhere decent yet?’ He had a delicious accent; almost BBC, but with a hint of Scots in the vowels and the roll of the r.

  Cat giggled. ‘Is that the checklist?’

  ‘Absolutely. So, have you been in Edinburgh long?’ He gave her a wicked look.

  ‘Almost a week,’ she replied, stifling another giggle.

  ‘Really? Wow, that’s amazing.’

  ‘Why are you amazed?’

  He shrugged. ‘Somebody has to be. And are you an Edinburgh virgin? Is this your first time at the festival?’

  ‘It’s my first time north of the line between the Severn and the Trent,’ she confessed.

  Now he looked genuinely amazed. ‘You’ve never been north before? How on earth have you managed that?’

  Cat felt shame at her untravelled state. ‘I live in Dorset. We’ve never travelled much. My dad always says we’ve got everything on our doorstep – beaches, cliffs, woodland, green rolling hills. So there’s no need to go anywhere else.’

  Henry’s mouth twitched, whether in a smile or a sneer she couldn’t tell. ‘Dorset, eh? Well, I can see the temptation to stay put. But you must admit, Edinburgh’s pretty good fun. Worth the trip, wouldn’t you say?’

  Now she was on safer ground. ‘I love it,’ she said. ‘It’s beautiful. And there’s so much going on, it makes me dizzy just thinking about it.’

  ‘And have you been to the Assembly Rooms?’

  ‘Our first night we went to a comedy show. God, but it was packed.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Always is. Have you seen any theatre yet?’

  ‘We saw a wonderful play last night about coal mining. Dust. You should catch it if you can, it was very moving.’

  ‘I’ll add it to my list. What about music?’

  Cat shook her head. ‘The friends I’m with don’t really have the same taste in music as I have. But I’ve got a whole list of writers I want to see at the Book Festival. Honestly, Henry, this is the most exciting time I’ve ever had.’

  ‘More exciting than Dorset?’ He was teasing, she could tell.

  She laughed. ‘Almost.’

  ‘I had better work a bit harder, then. Otherwise I’m going to end up on your Facebook page as, “almost as exciting as Budleigh Salterton”.’

  She gave him a gentle punch on the arm. ‘Budleigh’s in Devon, you ignorant boy. And what makes you think I’m going to mention you on Facebook?’

  ‘Because it’s what you girls say. “Went dancing in Morningside, partnered with weirdo in red trousers who doesn’t even know where Budleigh Salterton is. Duh!”’

  She giggled. ‘No way.’

  ‘Here’s what you should say: “Mrs Alexander partnered me with the best dancer and conversationalist in the room. Ladies, check out the fabulous Henry Tilney.”’

  Cat shook her head in pretended sorrow. ‘Anyway, what makes you think I confide everything to Facebook?’

  He gave her an incredulous look. ‘You’re female and, I’m pretty sure, under twenty-one. If you don’t do Facebook, how are your sisters and your cousins and your best mates going to be provoked to teeth-gnashing jealousy of your trip to Edinburgh? How else will they know you’re having the time of your life while they’re doing whatever it is they do in Dorset? All you girls do it all the time – Facebook, Twitter. I have this theory. It’s why you’ve all suddenly got so good at writing novels. Chick lit and the serious stuff. It’s because of all the practice you get spinning yarns on your phones and iPads.’

  ‘You’re telling me that guys don’t do exactly the same thing?’

  Henry nodded. ‘We do different stuff. We talk about sport or politics or who got impossibly drunk on Friday night. We don’t do the chit-chat about our lives the way you girls do. We talk about serious stuff. Plus we have better punctuation and grammar.’

  Cat hooted with laughter. ‘Now you really are kidding. Here’s one thing that guys do much more than women – trolling. You are the evil that stalks the Internet, with your shouty capital letters and your sweary insults and your truly terrible mangling of the English language.’

  Now he was laughing too, enjoying the effect of what she realised was a wind-up. ‘To be honest, I think the honours are pretty much divided between the sexes,’ he said. ‘Men are just as gossipy as women, and you girls can give as good as you get in the abuse stakes.’

  Whatever Cat might have said in response was lost, as Fiona was shepherding them all back on to the floor.

  ‘On your feet, girl,’ Henry said. ‘There are willows to be stripped and eightsome reels to be beaten into submission.’

  Cat threw herself into the dance with renewed energy, discovering that the basic steps had finally sunk in. By the end of the afternoon, she could go for several minutes without having to apologise for crushing Henry’s to
es. When the final measures of the Canadian Barn Dance concluded and they collapsed on the bench again, she realised she’d had more fun with Henry than she’d ever had on a dance floor before.

  ‘That was such good fun,’ she said.

  ‘You’re all set for the Highland Ball now. I take it that’s what this is in aid of?’

  Cat nodded. ‘I suppose you’ve been going your whole life?’

  ‘I’ve been a few times. But I’m not sure whether we’ll still be in Edinburgh by then.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My family. My father gets a little stir-crazy in the city if he’s here too long.’

  Before Cat could ask why a grown man’s schedule should be dictated by the preferences of his father, Susie Allen swept through the double doors in an elaborate multi-layered confection of muslins. ‘Cat, darling, over here,’ she called, as if her entrance hadn’t already earned the attention of the whole room. She continued towards them in a cloud of floral perfume. ‘I thought I’d better come and get you. Andrew’s got us an invitation to a preview of Jack Vettriano’s latest show this evening, and it’s over the bridge in some little town in Fife, can you believe it? So he’s outside in the car.’ All the while she was speaking, her eyes were raking Henry from crown to toe, making a mental catalogue of his attributes. She gave him a sultry look that Cat feared was meant to be seductive. ‘And is this your dance partner, Cat? Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  Although she knew she ought not to grudge sharing Henry with Susie, who was the only reason Cat was there in the first place, still she felt a twinge of resentment. ‘Susie, this is Henry Tilney. Henry, this is my friend and neighbour Susie Allen, who has very kindly brought me to Edinburgh.’

  Susie extended a hand as if to be kissed. Instead, Henry jumped to his feet and shook it delicately. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, head cocked as if assessing her for the pot. ‘That’s a lovely frock, by the way. I love the way all the layers are cut on the bias so they cascade like a waterfall.’

  Susie gave him a shrewd look. ‘Thank you. Are you in textiles yourself? A designer perhaps?’

  He laughed delightedly. ‘God, no. I just have a sister, that’s all. Ellie likes to lecture me on the finer points of women’s fashions. She’s got her eye on a design course at the College of Art.’

  Satisfied that he wasn’t a gay man in disguise, Susie tucked a hand under Cat’s arm. ‘Sounds like she’d be a perfect pal for you, Cat. I hate to drag you away when you two are just getting to know each other, but we’re on a tight schedule.’

  Henry inclined his head politely. ‘It’s festival time. Everyone’s always running to catch up with themselves. No doubt I’ll see you around at the Book Festival. I usually grab a coffee there in the morning.’

  ‘’Kay,’ Cat said. She followed Susie to the car, completely oblivious to the ache in her feet and ankles.

  Amazing. Awesome. Astonishing. Henry Tilney had seen her at her worst, red-faced, sweating and cursing. And still he seemed keen to see her again. That was some consolation for knowing she looked such a mess. Whatever their next encounter might be, she couldn’t look any worse.

  4

  Her complete failure to recall anything about Jack Vettriano’s latest collection of paintings was not something Cat was proud of. She’d always admired his work when she’d encountered it on cards and prints. It was the sort of art she could imagine practising herself one day. On any other occasion, she’d have been riveted to see the originals and she’d have snatched at the chance to talk to the artist himself. But Henry Tilney had driven all other thoughts from her mind. She’d even have been hard pressed to remember which town they’d been in, principally because she’d spent the entire journey on her phone researching Henry.

  Her first port of call had been Facebook. Disappointingly, Henry didn’t share his information with people who weren’t his friends. And since they had no friends in common, there was nothing she could glean by a more circuitous route. Next she tried Google. There, she did find a Henry Tilney, but since this one was a much-decorated general who had made his name in the Falklands war before Cat had even been born, this obviously wasn’t her dance partner. Out of curiosity, she clicked on the ‘image’ button. Even allowing for the scale of the photo on the phone, the resemblance between General Tilney and her dance partner was so uncanny that the relationship between them was immediately obvious. Father and son, no question about it.

  General Tilney had made his reputation on a night operation against the Argentinian ground forces. He’d been a lieutenant-colonel at the time, which Cat thought sounded pretty impressive. In spite of his rank, he’d led the sortie himself, single-handedly accounting for an improbable number of the enemy before finally effecting a single-handed rescue of one of his men who had been wounded and trapped behind enemy lines. ‘Almost superhuman,’ one newspaper cutting said. Clearly not a man you’d want to cross, which possibly explained Henry’s deference to his father’s wishes.

  ‘What have you found out about him?’ Susie asked from the front seat.

  ‘What? Who?’

  Susie chuckled. ‘Your dance partner. No point in pretending, Cat. I know what you’re up to, tapping away on your phone. What have you found out about Henry Tilney?’

  ‘Nothing much. His dad’s a general.’

  ‘General Tilney?’ Mr Allen interrupted. ‘The Falklands hero?’

  ‘That’s what it says on Google.’

  ‘He owns Northanger Abbey,’ he said. ‘One of those medieval Borders abbeys. It got turned into a fortified house at some point. I remember a film company trying to rent it for some Gothic horror movie, but Tilney wouldn’t even take a meeting. I can’t imagine him being much of a dancer.’

  ‘Pay attention,’ his wife scolded. ‘It’s the son we’re interested in, not the General.’

  Fortunately for Cat, who was mortified by Susie’s fascination with Henry as all teenagers are by adult interest in the objects of their attraction, they arrived at their destination.

  On the return journey, Susie talked incessantly about the guest list, while Mr Allen managed to squeeze in a few comments on the paintings themselves. Left to herself, Cat hit on the brilliant notion of checking out Henry’s sister. What had he called her? Allie? No, Ellie, that was it. Back on Facebook, Cat searched for ‘Ellie Tilney’, but without success. She tried ‘Ellen’ but that didn’t help. She waited for her companions to pause for breath then asked, ‘Susie, what’s Ellie short for?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Eleanor?’

  And so it was that Cat found herself face-to-face with Henry Tilney’s sister. Eleanor had the same thick blonde hair and brown eyes set in pale skin and a finer-boned version of the same features. Like her brother, not exactly beautiful, but striking. There were the usual photos of parties and dimly lit bars, Ellie mugging at the camera with an assortment of young men and women. Cat scrolled through the photos until she eventually came across one of Ellie and Henry leaning into each other at a sepulchral café table with espresso cups in front of them. Definitely the right Eleanor Tilney, then.

  She clicked on the ‘about’ button and discovered Henry was indeed her brother. He was also a lawyer, an occupation that would have struck dread into the heart of most seventeen-year-old girls. Lawyer equalled boring, lawyer equalled know-all, lawyer equalled run for the hills. Except that Cat’s brother James had just been accepted as a trainee barrister in a set of chambers in Newcastle upon Tyne and she knew James equalled none of those things. So his profession did not quench her interest in Henry as it might have done with another girl.

  Mining Eleanor’s Facebook page offered the information that she had another brother, Freddie, a captain in the army. But there were no other titbits about Henry. Still, at least now Cat knew he was respectable. And in spite of her longings for romance and adventure, deep in her heart she knew respectable was not something to despise. She gazed out at the gathering dusk, remembering the coolness of his hand against hers, the d
ancing laughter in his unusual eyes and the promised prospect of meeting at the Book Festival. Not to mention a Borders abbey. That was more than enough romance and adventure to be going on with.

  The next morning found Cat suspiciously early at the breakfast table. She could barely contain her impatience while she waited for Susie to complete her morning preparations. Cat sat by the window, unable to concentrate on Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. She frowned at the clouds hanging low over the distant hills of Fife, wondering if she should read in them a portent of gloom to come.

  But by the time Susie finally pronounced herself ready to set off for Charlotte Square Gardens and the tented village of the Book Festival, the clouds had scattered, bathing them in warm sunshine as they climbed the steep hill of Charlotte Street. This time, Cat was determined to subscribe to the pathetic fallacy. The sun shone; therefore only good things could happen to her.

  The event for which they had tickets was not due to begin till noon, but Susie minded the lengthy wait as little as Cat did, for it gave her the opportunity to see and be seen. It also provided her with plenty of time to bemoan the fact that she still hadn’t run into any of the legion of friends and acquaintances she knew to be in the city. ‘Honestly, Cat,’ she complained, ‘a more paranoid person than me would think they were deliberately avoiding me. I’ve been tweeting my movements on a daily basis, even texting some of the girls, but somehow we keep missing each other. I really must make more of an effort, if only for your sake, darling.’

  But Cat was paying scant attention to Susie. She’d managed to secure them a table with a clear view of the entrance. And if Henry was already listening to Janice Galloway reading or to a pair of historians debating the Arab Spring, he would be unable to leave without her spotting him. She was like a pointer, casting about in every direction for the faintest spoor of Henry Tilney.