The Matters at Mansfield

Twenty

Mr. Archer had always reminded Elizabeth of an undertaker. However, she had assumed the solicitor’s undertakings were aboveboard.

Now she was not quite so certain.

As Elizabeth descended the stairs in search of Meg, who had not yet been informed of her husband’s death, she contemplated Lady Catherine’s solicitor more seriously. Of all the people she and Darcy had discussed as having motive for Henry Crawford’s murder, they had avoided the mention of one who almost certainly had wished him dead.

And Mr. Archer worked for her.

The thought that Lady Catherine had instructed her solicitor to eliminate her daughter’s seducer was absurd. Was it not? Darcy’s aunt was a titled aristocrat. The daughter of an earl. A landowner in her own right, a patroness of — well, of Mr. Collins, the realm’s most obsequious clergyman, but a patroness nevertheless. She might be domineering, she might think herself infallible on the subject of what was best for everybody else, she might be in the habit of bullying everyone around her until she got her own way. But such people as her ladyship — ladies with a capital L and the pedigree to support it — did not go round orchestrating assassinations.

Unless they were provoked beyond reason.

And Lady Catherine had every reason. Henry Crawford had not only interfered with what she had considered a very desirable marriage contract, he had destroyed Anne’s chances of ever receiving another. Darcy’s aunt had been incensed from the moment she learned of the elopement, and her ire had only grown as the magnitude of the damage compounded. Perhaps she had indeed surpassed reason.

Elizabeth suspended her musings for a moment to enquire after Meg. Mrs. Garrick had last been seen heading for the livery. Whatever for, Elizabeth could not imagine, but she followed the direction nonetheless.

She found Meg in the stable, deep in conference with Charleybane. She stood just outside the Thoroughbred’s stall, stroking the animal’s marred face and speaking in low, lulling tones. The horse leaned its head toward her hand.

Elizabeth was reluctant to interrupt — this was the most content she had ever seen either the mare or the woman, but the news she bore could not be postponed, and Meg deserved to hear it from a sympathetic teller.

“Meg?”

Meg turned. “Mrs. Darcy. I was just—” She glanced back at the Thoroughbred self-consciously. “I was just visiting John’s — Mr. Crawford’s — horse. I thought she might be missing her owner.”

“Are you missing her owner?”

“I—” She shook her head and shrugged. “I do not know. I doubt I can ever forgive his betrayal, but all the same, he is my husband, and with each passing day since Charleybane’s return, I fear more for his safety.”

Elizabeth wished she had a better report to offer. “He has been located.”

Relief lit Meg’s features, but for only a moment. Then a look of doubt set in. “You have left something unspoken — I can hear it in your voice. Was he found with yet another woman?”

“No. I am afraid he was found dead.”

Meg blinked rapidly and swallowed — twice — before speaking. “I feared as much. How?”

“He was shot. The coroner is determining whether by accident or intent.”

Charleybane nickered. Meg turned and absently stroked the mare’s face while she composed her own. The intelligence had clearly taken her by surprise. So, apparently, had her grief. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Elizabeth offered her a handkerchief. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news.”

“I am sorry to be the recipient of it.” She dabbed the tears and returned the handkerchief. “Now that he is gone, I do not know what I shall do.”

“As his widow, you might attempt to petition the courts for dower rights. Even if you receive merely a portion of his personal property, that ought to help support you. This horse alone is worth quite a sum, despite her injury.”

“I cannot afford to keep a horse, let alone petition the courts for anything. I cannot afford my room at this inn.”

“Do not distress yourself over the room at present.”

She shook her head. “That is most generous of you, but I shall find a way to manage for myself.” She stroked the horse’s mane. “In the meantime, I believe I shall take Charleybane out for some exercise. Perhaps the ride will help organize my thoughts.”

Elizabeth left Meg with the mare and went back toward the inn. As she neared the door, Mr. Archer emerged. He nodded brusquely and continued past her, heading for the stables. She followed him with her eyes, her earlier reflections returning to her mind. Where had Mr. Archer gone when he rode off on the night of Mr. Crawford’s disappearance? Had he discovered Henry and dispatched him, then returned to report his search unsuccessful?

There was one way to find out. Probably more than one, but today Elizabeth preferred the direct approach. The challenge would be obtaining the information she sought without revealing her suspicions. She retraced her steps to the livery, rapidly inventing and then discarding means of phrasing the questions she wanted to ask, and hoping inspiration would reach her before she reached him. She expected to find him just within, arranging with the ostler the hire of a mount or post-chaise — for what else would take him to the stables? — but he was not immediately inside. Nor were the ostler or his stable hands.

She proceeded toward the rear of the building, where she had left Meg and Charleybane. The Thoroughbred’s stall was round a corner, and she slowed at the sound of voices.

“… her ladyship’s interests. His death has not changed that.”

“It might have changed mine.” The voice was Meg’s. The other belonged to Mr. Archer.

“I thought you would see reason. I shall inform her ladyship.”

“Do not inform her yet, for I have not made up my mind.”

“You are hardly in a position to refuse. Reports already circulate that Mr. Crawford might have been murdered. You were seen riding off after him the night he disappeared.”

“So were you.”

“I am a respected London solicitor employed by a lady of irreproachable reputation. You are a penniless commoner. Who is more likely to swing from a tree? Come, now, Mrs. Garrick — you need only maintain silence on the subject of your marriage.”

The ostler reentered, startling Elizabeth. He asked whether he might be of assistance. She shook her head and departed quickly, hoping Meg and Mr. Archer had not heard him and therefore remained unaware of her presence.

Rather than return to the inn, she strode down the lane, hoping to put enough distance between herself and the livery that when Meg emerged with Charleybane she would not suspect her conversation with Lady Catherine’s solicitor had been overheard. Clearly, it had not been their first conversation, nor did it sound like it would be the last.

Elizabeth soon found herself approaching White House, where Maria Rushworth presently resided with her aunt. A curtain fell in one of the front windows, and a moment later Mrs. Norris bustled out.

“Mrs. Darcy, I have seen your husband coming and going from the village all morning. Are there tidings of Mr. Crawford?”

“Why would Mr. Darcy’s errands lead you to think of Mr. Crawford?”

“Mr. Crawford has been on my mind since his horse returned without him. Poor, ugly creature.”

“Do you refer to Mr. Crawford or the horse?”

“His mount, of course! I have never seen a more frightened animal in all my days. Naturally, one wonders about the fate of its master.”

“When there is news of Mr. Crawford that concerns the general public, it will be circulated.” No doubt with the aid of Mrs. Norris. Though she had met Mrs. Norris only once before, and that during Maria’s argument with Mr. Crawford, Elizabeth knew her well. There was a Mrs. Norris in every village in England.

“But has he been found? However cowardly it was of him to flee, one would not want serious harm to befall him. Not I, at least. He injured my Maria terribly, but never let it be said that I failed in my Christian duty of forgiveness.”

“You demonstrate great generosity of spirit.”

“I am but a poor widow, yet even one with limited means can afford to be liberal in spirit. I have been telling Maria, and Sir Thomas, too, that if we are to know any peace ourselves we must all of us turn the other cheek. That is what my late husband, the Reverend Mr. Norris, would say were he here.”

As Mrs. Norris had hardly seemed moved by the spirit of Christian forgiveness during her last encounter with Henry Crawford, Elizabeth wondered at her change of heart. Had she already heard of the morning’s discovery? One such as Mrs. Norris generally managed to be among the first to learn any village news. She could well have been informed of Mr. Crawford’s demise by someone at Mansfield Park — perhaps her sister, Lady Bertram — and now angled for more information.

Elizabeth decided to indulge her — or at least, appear to indulge her. In the process she would conduct a fishing expedition of her own.

“I am sure Mr. Crawford would appreciate your magnanimous sentiments. Unfortunately, Mr. Darcy and I were advised this morning that he has passed away.”

“It is as I feared! I knew when his horse came back that its return did not bode well. Found him far from here, I expect?”

“No, in fact — in Mansfield Wood.”

“Mansfield Wood! Sir Thomas did not say a word. Only imagine — Mr. Crawford’s being there all along. Did his horse throw him? It looks a most unsound animal, if you want my opinion.”

Elizabeth did not want her opinion, but she did wonder when Mrs. Norris had formed it. “When did you happen to see his horse?”

“I saw it—” She glanced down the lane. “I saw it when he arrived in the village. Everyone passes White House on their way to the Bull.”

Indeed, Mrs. Norris could not have a more convenient situation for the gathering of village intelligence. A well-timed peek through her curtains could yield a day’s worth of news. Elizabeth decided to offer her a bit more, and see what resulted. “I understand Mr. Crawford died of a gunshot.”

“Indeed? How dreadful. Well, I expect his libertine ways must have caught up with him. Died in an argument, no doubt, over some lady or other. One wonders who the other gentleman is.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said slowly, “one does.” Considering that her niece’s husband was such an obvious suspect, Elizabeth would expect Mrs. Norris to be less vocal in her speculations. “I am certain, however, that he will be found.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Norris blinked. “Is he still at large?”

“So far as I know.”

“Oh, my.” She glanced up and down the lane, no doubt hoping to spot a friend to whom she could immediately impart the news.

“How is Mrs. Rushworth?” Elizabeth asked. “Is she at home?”

“Mrs. Rushworth?” she repeated absently, still looking round. At last, she returned her gaze to Elizabeth. “Maria is presently at Sotherton with her husband.”

“Oh? I understood she lived with you. I must have been mistaken.”

“She has been staying with me — such a good-hearted girl, to keep her poor aunt company. Kindness and thoughtfulness itself, I am sure. But she had matters to discuss with Mr. Rushworth this morning.”

“I had hoped to call upon her today. Perhaps I will try again later, after she returns. Is Sotherton far?”

“It is ten miles. I intended to accompany her, but she would not hear of it. I am sure she thought only of my comfort. It will indeed be a long journey — the roads are narrow and toss one about even in the best of weather. But once at Sotherton, all is ease. It is one of the largest and finest estates in England, you know. An ancient manor. Mr. Rushworth is a man of some consequence.”

“I did not know. Perhaps Mr. Darcy and I will call upon both Mrs. Rushworth and her husband, to improve our acquaintance with them.”

“Perhaps you had better not. As I said, it is a tiresome journey.”

“Then maybe we will have an opportunity to converse with Mr. Rushworth the next time he visits Mansfield.”

“Mr. Rushworth does not come to the village often. He was a frequent visitor to Mansfield Park whilst courting Maria, but after they wed, they spent all their time in London and other fashionable spots. Of late, however, I believe he has largely been at home.”

“With such an estate as you describe, I can well imagine Mr. Rushworth prefers it above any other location — especially now, as hunting season approaches. I have always heard Northamptonshire reputed as fine country for sportsmen.”

“Oh, it is. The finest! And Mr. Rushworth loves to hunt and shoot. He is forever talking about his hounds.” She glanced up the lane again, focusing on something past Elizabeth’s right shoulder. “Oh — there is Jacob Mauston.”

Elizabeth turned to see a laborer coming down the road, carrying with him a box of tools.

“If you will excuse me,” Mrs. Norris continued, “I must speak with him about some work I would like done.”

“By all means.”

Mrs. Norris first reentered her house, returned with a key, and locked her door. “One cannot be too cautious,” she said as she passed Elizabeth.

Indeed, thought Elizabeth as she watched Mrs. Norris bustle toward Mr. Mauston. In this village, one could not.