Catherine Morland might have run to her room to cry, had it not crossed her mind that it was an action one would expect from the heroine of a horrid novel. After Henry had confronted her with the consequences of being overly influenced by such stories, she determined to be more practical and less dramatic. The sun was still up, and she had spent rather too much time indoors today, and thus she turned her steps to the path she had trod with Eleanor recently — Mrs. Tilney's favorite walk.
A breeze dried her tears and, having assured herself that no one was nearby to overhear, Catherine addressed herself to the absent Mrs. Tilney, offering an apology for imagining the poor woman had been murdered by her husband. No more would she be overruled by her imagination, Catherine promised.
No sooner had the promise been made, than a hedgehog crossed her path — and such an unusual specimen, its quills white as snow, it brought to mind the pale creatures said to cross one's path to herald a quest. Indeed, she thought that stags were the expected herald, but a hedgehog-sized quest was more appropriate for her lowered spirits.
She followed the creature as it left the path, and within a minute it stopped in front of an ancient gravestone. Catherine stooped to read it, and found the name Dorothea and dates corresponding to the century when Northanger Abbey had belonged to the Church. Dorothea, it seemed, had perished at the age of twenty-two. There was no epigraph, but an image carved into the stone beneath her name resembled a hedgehog.
Catherine returned her gaze to the creature who had led her here. "What am I to do?" she wondered. But the creature had disappeared, and now she heard the voices of her friends. Suddenly she noticed that the sun was dipping below the horizon. She had spent longer than she intended studying the gravestone, and now she retraced her steps back to the main path to assure her friends that she was not lost.
Should she tell them about the gravestone? was her next quandary. She did not recall the etiquette for quests, and whether it was proper to enlighten one's friends of the possibility of embarking on one. After their meal, she asked if they might suggest a volume from their library she could peruse, stating a preference for an adventure featuring a quest. Henry found one he thought she would enjoy, and offered an approving smile at this change in her reading habits. Unfortunately, the stresses of the day had brought on a headache, and she set the book aside to read the next day.
#
Catherine woke early and reached for the book, only to find it had disappeared from her bedside table. But this was not the strangest occurrence of the morning. When she arrived at the breakfast table and asked after Henry, his sister looked surprised and said he was not expected until Tuesday.
"But this is Tuesday, is it not?" Catherine asked. "And he arrived unexpectedly yesterday afternoon."
Eleanor shook her head, insisting that today was Monday.
Catherine sat at the table, confused, and finally said, "I had the most convincing dream, it seems. How odd that I remember it so vividly." She decided to treat the dream as a warning, and made slight adjustments to the day's routine. Instead of lingering over Mrs. Tilney's portrait in Eleanor's room and then being interrupted by the General as she and Eleanor later approached his wife's bedchamber, they visited Mrs. Tilney's rooms first.
It was a shock, indeed, that the rooms should match so closely what Catherine had seen in her dream. There was nothing mysterious or untoward. She was soon ready to leave, but on turning around was startled to see a maid in the room. "Oh, excuse me!" Catherine exclaimed, for she had nearly bumped into the maid — but such an odd maid it was, wearing all-white livery, which seemed entirely impractical.
Catherine looked at Eleanor, wanting an explanation for the unusual maid in an unused room, and then received an even bigger surprise when the maid had vanished. All that remained were white lace curtains moving in a slight breeze as might have been caused by Catherine's abrupt movement.
"Do not be alarmed," Eleanor said. "As children, my brothers and I often thought we saw an unfamiliar maid out of the corner of our eyes, only to find the curtain rustling. Mother laughed and named our supposed ghost Dorothea."
"Dorothea? How odd." Catherine shivered to hear the name from her dream. "Wherever did the name come from?"
"I know not," Eleanor admitted. "Mother told stories about her, describing the woman as a nun who had lived at the Abbey."
Catherine nodded. What she had mistaken for livery could have been a nun's habit. "Do you know, when Henry drove me here, he told me the most chilling tale featuring a housemaid named Dorothy."
"I suspect Mother's stories to Henry and Frederick were more frightening than the ones she told me, as the youngest. Henry likely repeated a version of one he had heard as a child." Eleanor smiled. "Mother claimed that Dorothea was the patron saint of the hedgehog."
"H-hedgehog?" Catherine stammered, shocked at this additional element from her dream.
"Yes, she said it meant Dorothea had a prickly personality." Eleanor looked pensive. "There are times, now that I'm grown, that I believe Mother was teaching me how to deal with Father when she described Dorothea's moods and how the abbess soothed her."
#
Thus began a series of repeating Mondays, with Catherine seemingly the only person aware that the day refused to give way to Tuesday. She encountered Dorothea and the hedgehog multiple times, explored Mrs. Tilney's room thoroughly, and after a month of Mondays announced an intention of returning home immediately, in the hopes leaving the grounds might break the cycle. Alas, the next morning she had returned to Northanger Abbey.
She learned the General's schedule by heart and easily avoided him, but one Monday she sought him out and asked if there was in the library a tome describing the history of the house. She hoped that she might learn more about the mysterious Dorothea and how the ghost might be persuaded to rest.
General Tilney shook his head and then paused. "You remind me of a manuscript my wife had entrusted to me. She had intended it to be printed for our children, but upon her passing I was too distraught and worried it would sadden them as well. Eventually I forgot about it, but I believe I know where it is." He led the way to his desk, and unlocked a drawer from which he retrieved a manuscript.
For a moment it brought to mind the tale Henry had spun. He had claimed that Dorothy would lead Catherine to a chamber where she would discover a manuscript penned by a long-gone writer. Here it was, at last — not a tale of woe and misery, but a history of the house intended for children.
"May I read it?" Catherine asked, and the General gave his assent, as long as the manuscript remained in the library. For the next several hours Catherine read the tale of Dorothea, a lonely and homesick young woman who was too busy spinning grand adventures in her mind to respond to the overtures of those who would befriend her. Only when Henry himself called her to supper did she reluctantly put aside the manuscript.
"What were you reading that had you so enthralled?" he asked.
"Do you remember telling me that I would find a manuscript written by a mysterious woman? At last I have found it. It is not as thrilling as you had foretold, but fascinating all the same."
"Not a horrid novel, then."
"No, a history of sorts."
"Well, this is a surprise," Henry said. "As I recall, you dislike histories, and thought them written to torment children."
"I have learnt to appreciate a history when it is intended to entertain children," Catherine admitted. "How odd that it is only as an adult this change has been wrought."
"In the time of our acquaintance you have learned to love a hyacinth, and then a history. What next, I wonder? And will it also begin with an H?"
Catherine blushed and stammered, for she was exceedingly fond of Henry. He smiled and mentioned how very pleased he was that he had returned home early.
#
The next morning, Catherine was shocked at the change in the breakfast room. Eleanor wore a different frock, and Henry sat at the table with her.
"Goodness!" Eleanor exclaimed when Catherine froze and turned nearly as pale as Dorothy. "Catherine, are you well?"
She murmured an assurance, but was grateful for Henry leading her to a chair and bringing breakfast to her.
Catherine did not understand what had finally broken the curse. For the remainder of her stay, neither Dorothea nor the hedgehog was seen again, and eventually she concluded that the spirit was satisfied with knowing her story had not been forgotten. The General shared it with Henry and Eleanor, who exclaimed over it and insisted it be printed, so that they might share the tales with their own children one day.
However, Dorothea was not the only prickly person mollified by the events of that fateful Monday. Dear reader, observe how the General reacts when he learns that Catherine is not an heiress at all. He is displeased, but does not immediately evict her from his home. Instead he discusses with his daughter what exactly Catherine had said of her fortune, and realizes that she had never misled them.
Now see what occurs when Henry announces his intention to marry Catherine. The General is grave, and asks penetrating questions about Henry's expectations, but does not refuse his blessing. In the years to come, the couple will share the stories of Dorothea to their children, and imbue in them a love of reading combined with such common sense that they do not often let their imaginations overtake them.
A/N: I was pleased to have an excuse to reread Northanger Abbey. I'd forgotten about Catherine learning to love hyacinths and believing history books were a torment. Henry's story about Dorothy and the manuscript Catherine would find at Northanger Abbey served as inspiration, and I decided to introduce both the character and the mysterious manuscript in this variation.