Chapter Text
The Reverend Henry Woodhope considered his life most fulfilling.
His parishioners in Great Hitherden were a reasonably devoted flock whose troubles were manageable, foibles forgivable, manners lovely, and invitations to dinner always warm and heartily meant.
His living - the advowson granted to him by Sir Walter Pole at Jonathan Strange's request - was a generous one, and he wanted for nothing in the parsonage, which was suitably appointed, reasonably near to the church, and the rooms of which managed to be well-lit at all times of day.
His life was blessed in many ways, and every day he gave thanks to God that his blessings outweighed his troubles by miles and miles.
The Reverend Henry Woodhope could not consider himself a lonely man, and in fact Henry Woodhope had never in his life considered himself lonely at all, until the day he learned of the death of his beloved only sister.
=
Not being young, Henry had known loss before. And being a clergyman, he had coached too many people through their own losses already. But the death of his sister - so vibrant and quick-smiling and full of the charm that a lively and inquisitive mind inspires - was a blow to him far greater than he could ever have anticipated. Never in his life had he been closer to a person than to Arabella.
But then to witness the treatment of her corpse at the hands of her husband - a man who had been Henry's greatest friend through the better part of his life - was a torment almost above that which he could stand.
Henry did not cry at her funeral service. He had shed his tears already. But beside that, he had a solemn duty to perform, and the tears on that occasion were reserved for Strange alone. Those tears were sparing and exhausted and Henry was struck by the sudden notion that Strange's tears would taste more of sorrow than of salt.
It was a bitter parting. The frustrated fire of the hope that had enflamed Strange for the past week had burned out into an eerie hollowness that revealed itself in the dull tones of Strange's voice, the empty windows of his eyes, and the strange void of his shadow. Henry had never been so disturbed by a shadow, and he had never feared the taint of magic as he did then.
Henry had tried for the whole of seven days to be both brother and religious comforter to Strange, but it had been all for naught.
They sat together one last time over tea, and spoke almost not at all.
Before he left for Northamptonshire, Henry sat beside him and placed his hand on the man's arm. "Jonathan," he pleaded, "You will find no comfort here in Ashfair. There are…" he almost said ghosts. He almost said, 'there are ghosts here,' by which he did not mean the spirits of those gone, but only the echoes of too many things that had come before. "There are too many memories here. Come back with me to Great Hitherden for a time."
"Oh, and for what?" Strange said- almost spat at him. "For your prayers? To keep house for you? That you might continue your lecturing indefinitely?" Strange made a scoffing sound of derision that was edged with some strange chaos. "Your cold comfort does nothing for me, Henry. And your God did nothing for Arabella."
Henry stood then, and he left. He offered no parting words. He had used up all his words. He had used up all his hope and sorrow and pity and patience. He left Strange with nothing but the empty space beside him on the sopha and the empty cup drained of tea and the emptiness of the man himself.
If Strange was in fact as empty as he seemed, Henry feared what he might fill himself up with again.
=
The return journey to his parish should have felt like going home.
It felt like a betrayal.
Henry thought upon their time together in boyhood: time at his father's parish in St. Swithin's, time at Ashfair avoiding Strange Sr., time with Arabella frolicking joyfully between them in the countryside of Shropshire, all of which they laid claim to as their playground. They were pirates in an old washtub and the rolling Clunbury field of green was their sea. They were Indians tracking the deer through the mild wilderness of Ashfair's furthest grounds. They were witches calling down the rain on a parched afternoon, and returned to St. Swithin's for the well water so fresh and sweet it might have been faeries' nectar.
Henry thought upon their time together as young men: one seeking a well-known path, the other wandering hither and yon as though no path might ever be found to serve him. And Arabella between them, always encouraging and calm and light-hearted and sweet. Henry and Strange remained friends despite the divergence of their livelihoods. 'Stolid Henry,' Strange called him as Henry sought his education and position in life. Henry did not have the heart to call Strange names, but he often thought to himself: Foolish Jonathan, Spirited Jonathan, Sparkling Jonathan. The man could have been a menace to more than himself, but for his natural good-heartedness. Henry sometimes marveled that Strange turned out as well as he did, considering that he grew up in the shadow of an increasingly resentful father, for Laurence Strange had - in the end - proved a worthless little spit of a man clinging to life with the grasping hand of a hardened miser.
Henry thought upon their time together in their later years: himself a curate in a Gloucestershire church with his sister keeping house for him, content in all things but for their joint concern over Jonathan Strange and his wandering spirit. Henry was thankful that spirit had come to some joy and constancy when joined with Arabella's.
But then: there was the magic.
It was far too uncanny, this unholy mix of words and gestures and will producing effects that England had not been witness to in over two hundred years.
And all of it led to this. His dear sister dead of a strange winter wandering. His brother-in-law half-mad with the agony of her loss.
The return journey to his parish should have felt like going home, but when Henry entered the sadly darkened hall, he barely had the heart to light even a single candle, and even that small light seemed like too much at the thought that Arabella could not light one of her own and stand at his side.
As he made his way up to his bed chamber, his thoughts turned again to Jonathan Strange. He suddenly thought he might never be able to think of anything else. He wondered if Jonathan had anyone to light a candle for him as the darkness came in, or if he'd chased all the servants off in some fit of pique. Surely, he would not think to light a candle for himself.
As he prepared himself for bed, he thought of his sister. Her body was safe in its grave. Her soul was safe with the Lord. She might be the safest of them Henry thought, for Jonathan's mourning was not quite like any Henry had before seen, and Henry himself found such strangely twined strands of love and sorrow and regret and dread before him that he feared a bit for his own self as well.
And as he lay himself down to sleep, he felt loneliness for the first time. For the first time in his memory, he closed his eyes to the night and did not send up anything like a prayer.
=
Henry Woodhope and Jonathan Strange did not see one another again before Strange returned to London.
=
His parishioners were earnest in their condolences at the loss of his sister, but Henry could could not take the sort of solace he wished from them.
His living in Great Hitherden was of only small comfort to him, for it meant he did not have to worry about any practical thing; this only let him turn to worrying about all the impractical things, mostly Jonathan Strange.
His life was once so settled and sure, and now it was like living a part in a play that he had memorized long ago and had lost interest in performing.
But then, just when Henry thought that life had begun to take on its glimmers of hope and joy again, he began reading in the newspapers about how the parting of ways of England's two magicians was unfolding upon the streets of London.
Henry worried vicariously until he finally set himself down at his desk to compose a letter, deciding that he ought to put off his worries until he could hear back from the man himself.
He feared that his letter of hesitating inquiry might not merit a response, but Strange replied with surprising promptness. The tone of this letter was distracted, but honest and Strange was obviously eager about the work upon his book as well as the possibility of pupils of his own in the near future.
=
But in too short a time - as soon as his manuscript hit his publisher's desk - Strange disappeared from London altogether. Rumors of where exactly he had gone were filtered through a number of publications, none of which could agree on where exactly he had last been seen. As soon as one of Strange's military acquaintances swore the magician had been seen in Belgium, some other declared the man had been in Geneva. Was it Turin, then? Or Genoa? One witness swore up and down that Strange had been seen in the company of Lord Byron somewhere in Swisserland.
Henry gave up on the newspapers altogether and tried (and failed) to stop thinking about Strange at all.
But as soon as he had given up this endeavor, Henry heard from no less than four of his own gossiping parishioners that Strange had gone to Venice and there he stayed with some new acquaintances: an English family also touring the Continent.
Finally, his fears and suppositions could be laid to rest, for Jonathan Strange took it upon himself to write Henry a letter and in it he put down a great deal about his travels and his new friends, and he wrote in depth about how very cross he still was at Mr. Norrell.
Henry had barely finished reading the letter through before he determined to write back, and in haste he sat himself down to compose a reply urging Strange against all those things he was so susceptible to-- all of which boiled down to impetuousness. Henry counseled wisdom, thoughtfulness, forgiveness, and patience.
Mr. Strange's eventual response was unimpressed with Henry's attempts at what he called 'a pastoral rector's holy meddling' and his language displayed no attempts at courtesy or kindliness.
Henry's response was pointed, but still persuasively hopeful.
The letter from Jonathan that followed was full of vitriol and spite, but - despite this - all around the edges of cruel words and hidden between abrupt sentences, Henry could see echoes of his oldest friend's humor and good nature.
But one day, the letters stopped. Henry continued writing, but no more responses did he receive. He wondered if Jonathan Strange's tempestuous nature had perhaps urged him to move on from Venice, maybe even toward home?
These hopes were dashed at the first rumor of madness.
Henry found himself again poring over the newspapers, and while he consumed the outlandish tales of the English magician gone mad in Venice, he did not read with the avid sensationalism of so many, but with the concern of a friend.
So affected was he, that he finally found the truth in himself of what must be done. If Strange's friends in London would not help him, and if his friends in Venice could not help him, then Henry himself must go, for who else in the world was looking after Jonathan Strange?
Without delay, he applied to his local ordinary for permission to take leave from his parish for a time, with the ultimate goal of retrieving his brother-in-law from the hands of madness. While it was not generally believed that God or magic could do the man any good, a reverend from Lancashire was sent to temporarily take over Henry's duties in Great Hitherden, and Henry set out for Venice.
Having never been further abroad than Edinburgh, this was something quite out of his usual way, and he should never have afforded it but for the patronage of Sir Walter Pole, who agreed to pay his way and sent with him the hope that Strange would be returned to them in good health and spirits.
This, too, was Henry's dearest wish as he set foot upon the ship that would take him across the Channel.