Publication Day! The Bride of Northanger by Diana Birchall

Publication Day, and my book The Bride of Northanger is unleashed upon the world, in all its adventurous, Gothic, mysterious, romantic, historical, humorous and Austenesque splendor.  Or so it is in my own mind, for what mother does not admire her own sucking child?  Jane Austen did herself.  (With much more justification, needless to say, but I am glad she knew that happiness!)

The book, published by White Soup Press,  is now available on Amazon in paperback and in Kindle, and I do hope for the favour of a purchase in either, and oh, please do say something like “Nice job” or “Pretty cover,” with as many stars as generosity can conjure up, because I am told by the Amazon mandarins of the solemn importance of this!

This is my first book publication after a hiatus of too many years, and it does feel unreal to truly have this actual physical tangible lovely book in my hands!  By coincidence it is a year almost to the day since my husband Peter came home from the hospital, and the book itself is testimony to the joys and energy that a “normal” life confers, which we take for granted until it is threatened.  I have rejoiced every day of this golden year, and worked too, and that is what this book represents to me, even more than the excitement and exaltation I felt on my earlier publications.

In celebration I present an excerpt of the book here, the opening.  On Monday I will post a second excerpt. After that, my posts will come to you from the JASNA (Jane Austen Society of North America) Annual General Meeting in Williamsburg, VA, where I will be speaking and presenting the book at the conference author signing on October 4/5.  I hope to share pictures and stories and costumes from the front lines, ball, banquet and bookroom!

So now may I present…

THE BRIDE OF NORTHANGER, A Jane Austen Variation

By Diana Birchall

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul.

– Shakespeare (Hamlet)

Chapter l

If Catherine Morland was not born to be a heroine, she ended by becoming something very like one. In the first place, heroine-like, she was so fortunate as to marry the man of her choice at the age of only eighteen. Henry Tilney was, her parents knew, beyond her deserts in a worldly way, for he was the second son of General Tilney, whose fine landed estate and seat at Northanger Abbey entitled him to a voice in the affairs of the nation. To say the truth, Henry was rather a disappointment to his father’s vanity, for he had not the ambition General Tilney desired to see in him; he neither wished to amass a great fortune of his own, nor to be a fashionable figure at court nor a practiced politician. Henry was a clergyman, established in a comfortable family living at Woodston Rectory; and he asked nothing better.

A particular point of disagreement with his father, was that Henry considered as indispensible to his happiness, the blessing of choosing for himself a thoroughly amiable wife. His settling on Catherine, young and unformed, of no very distinguished lineage, and with only three thousand pounds, had brought down the wrath of the General; wrath all the more violent because of himself having initially promoted the marriage, under a mistaken idea that Catherine was an heiress. On discovering otherwise, he had shockingly turned his young guest out of Northanger Abbey, so that she was forced to travel home alone, a journey of seventy miles, exposed to all the dangers and discomforts of hackney-coaches.

Henry was ordered to give her up; but having engaged her faith, he stood firm, and for the first time in his life refused to obey his father. The young people were obliged to wait for their happiness, but time, and persuasion, had done the business. Now they were married; and a happier heroine than young Mrs. Tilney did not exist in England.

The evening before the wedding, Henry slept at the Fullerton rectory, Catherine’s home, so that they might have an early start to their journey on the wedding-morning.

Despite his happiness, he seemed preoccupied, and at last, with some seriousness, told Catherine that he wished to have a word with her and her mother and father, before retiring for the night. Though somewhat surprised, Catherine helped to get the younger children off to bed, and then joined Mr. and Mrs. Morland and Henry in her father’s study.

“What have you to say, Mr. Tilney?” said Mrs. Moreland, good humouredly. “Sure, you need not ask for Catherine’s hand again? Every thing is nicely settled in that way, and we are in full readiness for tomorrow, though here I am, still whipping up this last bit of lace for Catherine’s wedding-dress. You are a sad girl, to be sure, leaving it for me to do.”

“No – Mr. and Mrs. Morland, it is something else, that must be said, though I am very sorry to have waited for so long. I ought to have spoken sooner.”

Catherine was alarmed. “It is not something to do with your father again?” she cried. “Oh, no, Henry!”

“No, it is not that at all – only that it does have something to do with him, in a way,” Henry stopped in confusion, and the Morlands looked at him with surprise, as he was usually readiness with words itself.

“Only speak your mind, my boy,” said Mr. Morland kindly; “I am sure it can be nothing so very bad.”

“It is indeed nothing, in truth, a nonsense, a foolishness. And yet, it is right that you should know. I have not spoken of this until now, because my dearest Catherine, with all her good will, is a person of such real imagination – and so fond as she is of the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe and her sensational sisters – that I feared she might be frightened by what I have to say,” he finished, not very coherently.

“I know what you mean,” said her mother, with a sage nod. “That bad habit of hers, of reading immoderately.  That was what did the business, I am sure. She has been silly enough; but she is mended now, and grown quite a sensible girl I assure you, not much given to frights.”

Catherine’s eyes were fixed on Henry’s agitated expression. “For Heaven’s sake, Henry, what is it?” she asked.

“Yes, you had much better speak out, Mr. Tilney,” said Mr. Morland, firmly.

“It is only this. I have never told you – you have not heard – “

“What is it?” exclaimed three voices, and Henry resolutely spoke.

“That – that there is a curse upon Northanger Abbey!”