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Catherine had expected certain things from marriage. Abduction and ravishment, weeping while saying her vows before a foreign priest and a bridegroom holding her at gunpoint: those were all very well in novels, and she thrilled while reading them, but if she gave any thought to matrimony she assumed it would be something more ordinary. Her parents seemed to get along tolerably well, if their ten children were any proof (though Catherine refused to think further on how she and her siblings had come to be). The Allens, the other couples in Fullerton, all of them shewed her a tapestry of marriage stitched in sedate colours well-worn by the passage of years.
Thus she was surprised by how well she liked being married. Much of that could be attributed to Henry; her husband's good humour was a constant, his tenderness towards her was tireless, and his caresses a discovery of delight. Indeed, there were days in the first weeks of their marriage when Catherine was sure her lips and cheeks were as rosy as if she wore rouge, so often did Henry take the chance to draw her close for a kiss. It was as if he had saved up a great many of them during the months of their betrothal and now they all burst forth, like a child saving his pennies to spend them all at the harvest fair. When Catherine had read descriptions of heroines swooning in the arms of their lovers, overcome with passion, she had found those thrilling too, and she was happily able to compare her own experiences and not find them wanting.
Other parts of marriage were less delightful. Catherine's mother had been proven right in her doubts of her daughter's housekeeping, and it was only thanks to the excellent servants already at Woodston had Henry escaped various indignities of his person and his table. But she was eager to learn and to do honour to her new husband and the office in which she had found herself. Being a heroine might have been exciting, but being the wife of the parson required a certain dignity of bearing and attention to detail, she felt. Even if no heroine she could remember had to plan the meals and remember the washing-days. Better to be plain Mrs. Tilney and mistress of Woodston than a terrorized countess in a drafty castle, beset by horrors.
So it was that the first weeks of her marriage passed in mostly happy tranquillity. After moving in and becoming accustomed to her new home, Catherine set about the decoration of the drawing room she had found so pretty. She stood in the room gazing out the window, where the meadow was green and the apple trees beginning to clothe themselves in green, and considered what curtains she would like to hang. Her eye was drawn to the cottage there among the trees that had so enchanted her on her first view. It was much the same as she had seen it last year -- except that something moved in the window.
"I did not think Henry had let the cottage," she said to herself, stepping closer and squinting to try and see more closely. It did not look like the ripple of fabric. It looked rather like a face.
The younger Catherine, the one who was a heroine, would have leapt immediately to a dreadful conclusion. A secret bride; a hidden child; a true nobleman, secreted away by an impostor. But the new Mrs. Tilney had more sense than that, and was too grown-up for such fancies, she told herself. It must be a trick of the light. Or the cottage was occupied - or it would be, and one of the maids was cleaning it for the new tenant - surely that was all she had seen. Or a bird that had flown in by mistake. She shook her head and turned away from the window, considering whether she would want to paper the room or paint it.
At dinner that evening, she asked Henry if he had indeed let the cottage. He looked perplexed, the carrot on his fork hovering in midair. "I had not thought of it," he said. "And I do not believe us to be so in danger of penury that we must need take a tenant. Why do you ask?"
"Oh." Unbidden, the thoughts of a novelist came to the front mind, but Catherine ruthlessly stuffed them down. "I thought I saw something in the window today, but I must have been mistaken."
Henry set down his fork and gently caught her chin, meeting her gaze with his own. "Perhaps you need spectacles, after all your late nights reading." And seeing her blush, he left off his teasing and leaned towards her for a kiss. Catherine quite forgot what they had been speaking of.
The next day, as she went into the drawing room once more, she found her gaze drawn once more to the cottage. And there it was again: a shape in the window, pale and unmoving.
"This is very silly," Catherine told herself. Whoever heard of a ghost in a cottage that appeared in the middle of the morning? She went out at once to confirm it was nothing but an idle fancy. The mild regret of having set out without changing from her slippers to sturdier shoes was her main concern - and, as she approached the cottage, there indeed proved to be nothing at the window that she could see. A trick of the light, she thought, some odd play of a reflection from the angle of the drawing room. The door of the cottage was latched but not locked, and she pushed open the door and stepped inside.
There was someone standing before the hearth.
It is to Catherine's credit that she did not immediately faint dead away. Indeed, she was so surprised that she neither swooned nor shrieked, but merely stepped backwards and bumped into the door.
The figure turned to her but did not move towards her, a fact for which Catherine was very grateful indeed. It was still pale, but this close she could make out more than just the shape of a face - but none of it was very clear, for it seemed as insubstantial as gauze. It looked vaguely womanly, judging by the way it flared out at the bottom as if wearing a skirt, and looked to be about her own height.
"Good morning," Catherine said at last. Immediately she regretted it for being so plainly everyday. But she had already failed to swoon, so none of this was going as it ought.
The figure stood still. Catherine raised a hand and rubbed at her eyes, wondering if it was perhaps a trick of the light through the dust in the cottage. But no, the figure was still there. And as she watched it began to glide towards her, into the sunbeam that spilled through the cottage window. As it passed through the glow of the sun it became nearly invisible.
"Can you speak?" Catherine asked. She would have stepped away but her back was already against the door, pressed to the wall inside the cottage.
The figure did not answer. Instead it stretched out what must have been an arm, though it seemed strangely to drag some of itself behind where its arm would be. Catherine shrank away and the figure stopped.
"Spirit," she began. "If you can speak, I beg you do, and tell me how you came here. And if you cannot…." Here she paused, trying to think. What could it do? She cast her eyes about the cottage, wondering what would help, and lit upon the hearth. "Perhaps you could write in the ashes of the fire. If there are any. Perhaps I could bring you some!"
The misty shape drifted away from her once more, toward the empty hearth. It had not held a fire for many days, clearly, but there was enough dust and ash remaining for Catherine's suggestion. But there was no poker, no twig or anything that could be used to draw in, and the spectre did not seem to possess hands. Catherine fumbled in her pockets and found a pencil, setting it down and rolling it across the floor. She had the tremendous satisfaction of seeing the pencil lift into the air and then move slowly over the floor. The figure seemed to have squashed itself down as if it were crouching. A spirit with a pencil! How Henry would laugh.
Of course, he would never believe her. He had already taken pains once to remind her that the pleasures of novels were not to be translated to the prose of their everyday lives.
But there was a ghost dragging her pencil through the ash and dust on the floor of the cottage at the bottom of their gardens.
Feeling greatly daring, Catherine gathered her skirts in one hand and crept over. Surely if the ghost intended to harm her it would have found a way to do so by now. But it remained where it was, hunched over, even as the pencil fell on its side.
"Oh," she said softly. Dragged through the ashes was a single word. "I will try to help you, though - though I am not sure how." Catherine looked back at the ghost and was startled by how much more clear it seemed to be in the shadows. She could almost see the outline of a face, so close to her own. She held her breath as it wavered, not wanting to disturb the ashes or somehow frighten it away. As if the ghost would be frightened of her! But it only hesitated before gliding away into the corner. Catherine backed away as well, back to the door.
"I will bring my husband," she decided. "He is a very intelligent man, and once he sees the proof of you he will surely agree to help." Especially because Catherine was quite sure he would not wish to have a ghost haunting his cottage. "I beg of you, please be patient - it may be some time, but I promise I will return."
Back in the full sunshine and warmth of the day it seemed silly once more. She must be going mad. The novels really were affecting her mind.
But her pencil was no longer in her pocket, and there was a smudge of dust at the bottom of her hem.
It seemed hours until Henry returned from his morning walk about the village, with Rufus the shaggy Newfoundland trotting at his heels. Catherine leapt from the seat where she had watched for him and hurried to the door.
"Good afternoon," he said, smiling and catching Catherine's hand to kiss her knuckles. "I was not gone that long, was I? Did I miss our tea?"
"Henry," she said urgently, "I must show you something, and I beg of you, do not make fun until I have explained it all."
He sobered at once, though there was still that twinkle in his eye that was so irrepressible. "If you beg it of me, then I must accede. Lead on, Catherine, and show me your something."
Catherine led him through the garden, telling Rufus to stay behind, wondering all the while whether she was doing the right thing. She could no longer see the spectre's face at the window.
"Is there something amiss in the cottage?" Henry asked. "Is that why you asked about it last night?"
"Please," she said. "Just - just wait." She was afraid to say more until - until they were both in the cottage, at least. Henry kindly held his tongue.
Catherine pushed open the door, hardly daring to look and confirm that the spectre was gone - or that it was still there. She kept her eyes on the ground until she heard Henry draw in a breath.
The figure was still there, swaying slightly. Catherine turned back to Henry and had the novel sensation of observing her husband in a moment of true and utter shock.
"Catherine," he said, his voice urgent and low. "What manner of trickery is this?"
"It is no trick!" she cried. "I saw something at the window, yesterday and today, and I thought it must be a bird, or a trick of the light. But when I came today it was - well. Whoever this is."
The spectral figure glided towards them again, its form still gauzy and indistinct.
"How is it moving?" Henry muttered, stretching out one hand. The spirit raised an arm as well, leaning towards him. Catherine held her breath once more - and Henry caught his arm back with a curse. "It is as bitter cold as snow in January." He looked back at her, his face still troubled. "I cannot think how you would do it, if you were trying to play some sort of game." Henry scrubbed at his face, meeting Catherine's eyes again.
"Then you do believe me?" she asked, reaching for his hand. He sighed - nodded - and turned back to the figure floating before them.
"I believe you, and I believe what I see and feel," he said, his fingers tightening around hers. "Either we are both mad, or we have a haunted cottage."
Catherine sagged against him with relief, though she did not fully swoon. "I told her I would try to help her," she said. "At least, I think the ghost is a woman, for surely a man would not be so patient and obliging."
Henry gave her a smile, or something akin to a smile, and looked back at the figure. "You may be right, my dear. Very well: friend ghost, can you tell us something about yourself, and how you came to be in this cottage, and how we can help you on your way?"
It would be beyond the power of this humble writer's pen to illustrate the means by which the Tilneys obtained the freedom and eternal rest of their ghostly visitor. Let us simply say that a gentleman may not find it beneath his station to dig a hole when the situation calls for it, and that a clergyman may be persuaded to perform his rites out of season under similar circumstances, not least when they are the same man. Catherine was much heartened by the trust Henry placed in her, and Henry in his turn was further confirmed in his good opinion of his wife's sensibilities. The cottage remained in their grounds and over the course of the years transformed from an unlikely sepulchre to a happy place of play for children. Thus I leave it to be settled, by whatever authority there may be, whether this work recommends reading too many novels or believing too deeply in their contents.