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The littlest Tilneys - Harry and Kitty and Johnny - were still up, their overly-indulgent mother entertaining them with fairy stories, their equally liberal father plying them with sweets.
“Tell us the one about Susan in the nobleman’s manor, Mama!” pleaded Kitty.
Catherine had taken to writing her own stories since her marriage, and the whole family was well-acquainted with Susan by now-- though the youngest were less familiar with the suspicious similarities between her and her creator.
Susan’s adventure in the manor was Kitty’s favorite of the Susan stories; it was more fanciful than most of the others, which tended toward the thoroughly ordinary. Catherine looked out of the window to the swirling snow outside. It was a good night for a little magic.
“There once was a young girl named Susan,” said Catherine, as Henry poured each of the children a cup of chocolate, “and she was a curious girl indeed.” Henry winked at her and she smiled back, a little self-consciously. “What Susan wanted most in the world was an adventure,” she continued, “and though she did not know it, she was about to embark on one that Christmas Eve.”
It did not matter if she moved this particular tale to the Christmas season; the children were still too young to have heard the adventure it was based on.
“The day was gray and there was a sharp chill in the air. Susan pulled her cloak more tightly around her.”
Kitty held her cup halfway to her lips, too distracted by the story to take a sip.
Catherine lost herself in the narrative, Henry smirking when every familiar detail emerged, exaggerated and embellished for the children’s benefit. There was the wicked nobleman, of course, and his honorable son; there was a grand estate full of mysteries and an innocent, gullible young girl; there was a banishment and a desperate, lonely journey. But sprinkled amongst the scraps of Catherine’s own history were some additions in a decidedly more fantastical vein: friendly sprites and helpful fairies and a generous dollop of magic in the air.
“Susan did not want the nobleman’s son to know that she had been searching for ghosts in his mother’s old room.” She shared another conscious glance with her husband. “He did not believe in the spirits, and nor would he think well of her if she told him her suspicions as to why a ghost might linger in that spot of the house. Besides, she should not have been wandering around anyway.”
A few more recognizable particulars, a few more secret jokes between Henry and herself.
“The son’s house was much smaller than the manor, of course, but Susan loved it all the same, with its magical apple trees and the litter of winged puppies.” It did not matter if she exchanged her love of Gothic horror for lighter fare-- she could make Susan’s adventures more terrifying when the children were older.
“And so,” she said, when half an hour had passed and the children were gazing at her, rapt and open-mouthed, “they lived happily ever after.”
Harry had a chocolate mustache and Johnny had spilled the last bit of his cup into his lap.
“Time for bed, I think,” said Henry.
“Oh Papa, can we stay up for a little longer?” asked Kitty. “Until the snow stops? It is exactly like the storm Susan rode home in!”
Henry hesitated, then smiled fondly, appreciating their daughter’s resemblance to a young lady he had met years ago in Bath. “Until the snow stops,” he agreed.
The Tilneys huddled together at the window to watch it fall.