Letters of Love and Deception
Dear Catherine,Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and me. I shall not enter into particulars - they would only pain you more. You will soon hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time! But it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly given - but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father. Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I had reasoned with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it; but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted at last by mutual consent - happy for me had we never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you give your heart.
Believe me, &tc.
Your brother,
James Morland
It was on a Tuesday that Isabella Thorpe was thwarted.
It was on a Wednesday that she sought revenge.
The day was suitably dreary in Bath, streaking the windowpanes with ghoulish smudges, and casting shifting shadows onto the crumpled scarlet gown that lay huddled in the corner like a dismal flame. The smeared light was no kinder to the chamber's lone inhabitant, who was doubly illuminated by the inconstant fire that picked out the shine of her golden curls and swirled across the weight of her vert nightrobe.
Isabella sighed and narrowed her eyes in the light. Before her were various missives, the most recent, the one which had ruined her Tuesday, in her hand.
Madame,Enclosed are the souvenirs of your affection. Please believe the latter is not returned. Another has long held claim to that.
Yours,
Captain Frederick Tilney
"The cad," she muttered, crumpling the edges of the paper. "He deserves Charlotte Davis, the horrid minx."
Her frown deepened as she regarded the next letter - this from James Morland, her sometime fianc», dated two weeks ago, when his affections had still been hers. It was an old letter, written at a time when Isabella's hope to exchange Thorpe for Tilney had seemed a to her a sure future. It had lain for some time on the table, put aside - as were her affections for James - but today both were taken up again.
Dear Isabella,I pray you convince me that what I have heard, what I have seen, is not true. Neither one bears repeating - you must forgive me if I am loathe to write the name of him who has seemed to win your heart - but I beg you would refute the proof of my senses and put all to right. I cannot write more - my heart is too full of grief.
Your love,
Her own laughing, lying answer she remembered very well. "There is nothing between Captain Tilney and myself," she had said. "He has importuned me, but nothing more!"
And all had seemed well for a few days. She held the tether to two men - with the assurance of one that he would wed her, and the hope for that the other - more affluent - might offer likewise. But....
The second letter from James, received a week ago, bore a greater resemblance to Captain Tilney's missive from the previous day. This letter too, she remembered - creasing her brow - had arrived on a Tuesday.
Miss Thorpe,I can no longer deny the ocular proof. I wish you every joy with your Captain - my own heart you have broken. I am returning to Oxford, where - pray God - I shall find familiarity enough to forget you, who have made me the most miserable of men.
Yours,
"Curse Charlotte Davis!" Isabella cried again, rising like a thunderstorm and striding across the room. How perfectly had she planned her fortune! Marry Captain Tilney; break off with James Morland - and by that, break from his insipid sister, Catherine - but now! "Curse her!" she cried again, instinctively maligning the feminine part of the equation.
But if she cursed Miss Davis, still for Isabella's own actions, she felt no remorse. Willingly would she sacrifice a thousand James Morlands if only Frederick Tilney's ring should adorn her finger! His fortune should be hers, not that plain wretch's! But Isabella Thorpe had trespassed at Aphrodite's altar, and the blind boy had pierced the Captain's heart to another, and forcibly opened the eyes of James Morland to Isabella's duplicity.
The expression on James' face when he saw his affianced with the Captain, his harsh and deserved words when she had explained that the kiss he had witnessed was filial merely, the tremor in his voice when he broke their engagement - these images returned again, but did not break her spirit. A better woman might have blushed.
Such loss would have been nothing, though, had not Frederick - with that insufferable letter! - also denied her. She had no love for either man - the loss of the Captain's fortune was a greater pain to her than the loss of his heart - but to be rejected by two men at once! It was a heavy blow indeed. Captain Tilney was lost to her forever - he had returned to his regiment and to Charlotte. But James...James might be recovered. Yes, she had made him miserable - and misery was easily preyed upon.
A small peal of thunder rolled across the dismal sky as Isabella returned to the desk. She was not fond of writing, and so she found a patchwork piece of a letter addressed to Catherine Morland - "the foolish child," she chuckled - James' sister, who might prove pleasantly instrumental in this scheme.
...The spring fashions are partly down; and the hats the most frightful you can imagine. I hope you spend your time most pleasantly, but am afraid you never think of me... was the last that she had written, nearly a week ago. To this she added, over the course of the hour, her plea for aid to bring James and herself together. Several times she lapsed into gossip about the town, thinking that this might remind Catherine of their friendship in Bath. With no more to say, she concluded with this tender, fabricated sentiment: I wear nothing but purple now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter - it is your brother's favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest Catherine, in writing to him and to me,Who ever am, &tc.
Isabella Thorpe sat back, biting the end of the quill. No, she decided, the letter would never do. Those horrid Tilneys may have poisoned Catherine's mind against her already, if James had not yet done so. More than an hour's worth of effort was required. It almost seemed too much for James' minor fortune, but no effort was too little, no stoop too low for Isabella. So dipping nib in ink again, she wrote quite another letter.
My dearest Catherine, she began, with a smile every bit as sinister as that which spread over the serpent's face.
I pray you would forgive my silence. 'Twas not from indifference to you, but from my own wretched state. Bath utterly disgusts me, now that it and I am bereft of my dearest friend and confidante! I cannot express my own profound longing to see you, my dear, sweet Catherine. You would counsel me well, I am sure. But that very event which has thrust me into the depths of misery, have - alas! - sprung from a source more dear to both of us than life itself.My darling friend - oh, I can hardly write for weeping! - no doubt you have heard the malignant rumours about your dear friend, rumours born from those who wished both my beloved and myself harm. My only, small consolation is this: I rejoice to say that the young man whom, of all other, I particularly abhor, has left Bath. You will know, from this description, I must mean Captain Tilney - yea, he who has torn me asunder from my beloved, your brother!
Oh Catherine! What advantages that man took of me, whilst I, in despondent state since my darling James had left for even so happy a business. I was importuned, set upon, I was made to stand up with him at dances! I cannot fault James if he, in his goodness, heard of my misfortunes and, in innocence, spurned me. I spurn my own disposition, which sees goodness in even the blackest hearts.
For my first acquaintance with Captain Tilney were for your benefit, darling friend - for I know how you dote on his younger, and far more deserving brother. I was kind to him only for the memory of you. You must believe me that those moments when I was in Captain Tilney's presence were abhorrent - and I shudder with horror that I was ever acquainted with such a ruthless man, and with relief that I am now liberated from his odious company. Oh - how often I wished you were with me! You should have seen through his disguise and counselled me. You should have kept me from his unwanted and unsolicited advances. I can only imagine what horror must have possessed poor James when he - oh Fate! - happened upon us...no, it is too terrible to recall. I have been abused, dear friend. Abused by one and refused by another!
('Twas evening now, and the rain had subsided to a cold mist that exactly mirrored the artistic droplets that Isabella sprinkled over the paper.)
I am the most wretched of women, dearest Catherine. My only beloved, my very heart, has been torn from me - and how shall I regain him? He is the best of men, the most upright. Should he but give me leave to speak for a flitting moment, I should express to him in words never meant to stumble on this earthly sphere my overwhelming and ardent love - yes love! - and admiration for him whose honesty and goodness has no equal and without whose attentions I shall surely die of a heart not merely broken, but lost to him forever! But my pleadings go unheard, my love languishes in my breast, heavy and sorrowful!But my darling Catherine - I beg you - I have no wish to solicit your kind aid. I have no wish to cause dissension between those whom I love best, by setting sister against brother. My own clumsy attempt on your behalf, with the brother of your beloved, has proved to me the folly of such a request. I would not have you suffer as James and I suffer.
I pray you - I know your kind heart well, and the love you bear for both of us - to be discreet about my continued love. What tearful avowal could move him? My soul must mourn in quietude. But - oh Catherine, dearest friend and lost sister! - if in your wisdom you see fit that even the merest breath of my admiration should reach his ear, then convey to him that this unworthy shall ever love him, that my heart is eternally his, and that - should he ever deign to forgive him whom he once loved, and for whose ignorance alone was condemned - then whisper to him that I shall ever be in spirit, if not in truth, his own.
Who ever am, &tc.
The firelight was sputtering as Isabella blew upon the ink and smiled widely to herself. Someone knocked on the door, was received, and admitted - surprisingly - her brother, John, who said that Lord Beauchamp had come to call on them, and they were all going out to the theatre.
"Beauchamp?" Isabella asked disinterestedly as she sealed the letter. "Who is he? No - never mind. I've no desire for company tonight, John."
"No company tonight! A d--n helpful sister you are if you will not make a fourth."
"A fourth to whom? Call Greta, will you, John? I've a letter I must send this evening."
"D--n your letters, Belle! Anne Mitchell's to come to the theatre with us, and you must be our fourth! I've arranged it all perfectly."
She sighed and finally turned to face him. "And who is this Beauchamp that I should bother with him?"
"A man of six thousand a year, and the owner of the finest curricle I've ever beheld. I've half a mind to win the thing off him, for he's a gambling streak in his blood, you know."
"Six thousand?"
"And five feisty pointers, although only three's in town."
"Well...." The smile upon her face slid into a ponder as she said, "Send Greta up - I'll change and come down momentarily."
A quarter of an hour later saw Miss Isabella Thorpe descending the stairs in the scarlet dress and twinkling jewellery - her eyes bright, the twin inheritants of the dying fire. Greta followed soon after to send the first rather than the second letter to Catherine - ducking past her masters even as Lord Beauchamp leant over Isabella's hand and said, "Charmed, madam. I trust you are not engaged?"
It was on a Tuesday when the American found the letter in an old room in Bath.
It was on a Wednesday that she pieced it together.
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