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Eleanor had issued the invitation with the sincere hope that it would be accepted, but with the suspicion that it would be declined with all appropriate gratitude and politeness. After all, Henry and Catherine were very lately married; Eleanor could not blame them if, after their long and uncertain engagement, they wanted to spend Christmas together in a quiet sort of way at Woodston. She was aware, too, that the new Mrs. Tilney might find the prospect of a stay at Blackthorne House intimidating and that she might wish to avoid it, considering the tumultuous year she had already experienced.
Perhaps it had been Eleanor’s casual mention that the viscount’s family would not be with them until Twelfth Night, and that Christmas would be the Tilneys’ alone, that had influenced Catherine’s decision, but she wrote a rapturous reply to Eleanor’s letter, full of delight and anticipation. Eleanor did not truly care what had done it; she was just glad that she would see them. She went immediately to work to make the place as welcoming and cheerful as it could be for the arrival of her dearest guests.
Christmas Eve was mild and temperate, and the Tilneys were at Blackthorne’s door in good time. Eleanor scurried past the servants to greet them herself, ignoring her housekeeper’s scandalized look, and led them inside with a flurry of greetings and kisses. Catherine’s eyes were huge as she looked around the great hall, so instantly recognizable as the innocent, awestruck girl she had been upon first arriving at Northanger Abbey that Eleanor had to suppress both a smile of amusement and the unpleasant memories that flooded forth-- memories of her father throwing Catherine unceremoniously from the house and the months of separation that the friends had subsequently endured.
“Oh, Eleanor,” Catherine gasped, “your house is so grand, like something out of a novel!”
Eleanor saw Henry bite his lip to keep from laughing, saw her housekeeper’s astonished expression, saw one maid tittering to another, but she was delighted that the year’s painful events - and Eleanor’s new and impressive title - had done nothing to alter Catherine’s artlessness. Marriage suited her - had made her seem a little older, a little more assured - but she was Catherine still, earnest and enthusiastic and charming, and both Henry and Eleanor loved her for it.
The tour took some time-- Blackthorne was large and Eleanor was eager to show Catherine every bit of it, not wanting to hide anything away from her, the way her father had at the Abbey. Catherine gasped and exclaimed at all the appropriate points, admiring the large fireplaces and the tapestries, the rooms that had not been as meticulously modernized as Northanger’s had. Eleanor and Henry exchanged glances, making sure to look away from each other quickly lest Catherine notice their mirth. Finally, though, all of the house had been seen, and they were standing once more in the hall.
“Can we expect to see the viscount soon?” asked Henry.
“Not until this evening, I am afraid,” said Eleanor, “but he will join us for dinner.”
“Then I will pass the time until then enjoying his library,” said Henry. “I am sure that you ladies must be yearning for a chance to talk to each other without the hindrance of my company, and so I will remove myself immediately, before I become too much of a burden.”
“Oh, Henry,” said Catherine at once, “of course we do not wish you to go away!”
But Eleanor, who very much wanted some time alone with her new sister, shot him a grateful look.
“You will not miss me for long, my dear,” he said, smiling warmly at his wife, “not when you and Eleanor will have so much to say to each other. You can tell her of all my little oddities and complain about how very trying a husband I can sometimes be.”
“Nonsense, Henry–” Catherine started, but he gave her a tiny wink and set off for the library.
“Let us go to the drawing-room,” said Eleanor, taking her arm, “and I will send for some tea. I must confess, my dear Catherine, that the prospect of a nice, long chat with you is very pleasing to me, as much as we both enjoy Henry’s company.”
“Oh, Eleanor, it is pleasing to me as well.”
They sat together, sipping their tea, talking about everything and nothing. They fell easily into their old rhythm from those Northanger days, no subject too dull, no silence becoming awkward. Eleanor listened as Catherine told a story with great animation, nearly toppling her teacup in her exuberance, and felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to have this person in her life, always so irrepressively, uniquely herself. How lovely and necessary female companionship was, Eleanor thought, no matter how deeply one loved one’s husband; it was special and precious, something entirely its own. She had spent so many years without it, and had spent months worrying that she had lost the society of this friend in particular. How strange it was, to think that she had not yet known Catherine a year, that they had only made each other’s acquaintance in February. Much had changed in Eleanor’s life over the past twelve months - she had recovered her lost love, escaped Northanger Abbey, and seen Henry happily settled down - but of all that had transpired, one of the most delightful events had been becoming friends, and now sisters, with Catherine. She took another sip of her tea and smiled contentedly.