The Matters at Mansfield

Twenty-Four

Elizabeth could not believe her eyes. “How?”

“I cannot explain it.” Darcy instructed the driver to stop. They alighted just as Mr. Crawford reached the chaise.

“Pardon me — I did not mean to trouble you so far as to leave your carriage. I merely sought confirmation that this is the London road, as I am not familiar with the area and there is no signpost.”

Elizabeth was the first to recover herself. “Mr. Crawford, how ever did you come to be here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We believed you dead.”

“Madam, I happily offer my assurance that you are mistaken on that point. As you can see, I am quite alive. But as I am not the Mr. Crawford for whom you apparently take me, perhaps that gentleman is indeed less fortunate.”

“You most certainly are Mr. Henry Crawford,” Darcy said. “I would know you anywhere.”

“I am not, sir. My name is John Garrick.”

Now Elizabeth could not believe her ears. Not only was Mr. Crawford alive, but insistent upon continuing the fraud he had perpetrated against Meg. What could he possibly hope to accomplish by behaving so?

Darcy had adopted a stance so rigid that Elizabeth had seen it only a few times before — on occasions when he was beyond incensed. “Mr. Crawford, kindly spare us the insult of subjecting us to this charade any longer.”

“I give you my word, sir, I am not Mr. Crawford, but John Garrick.”

“John Garrick is a fiction you invented.”

“My wife would tell you otherwise, were she here. Now if you will excuse me, I have a great distance to travel before reaching home. I am sorry I am not the person you believe me to be — though if he is dead, I am not that sorry.” He signaled his horse to trot.

“Is your wife’s name Meg?” Elizabeth called after him.

He brought the bay to a halt and turned around. “How did you know that?”

“She is in Mansfield. She has been looking for you.”

“Meg is here in Northamptonshire? How did she get here?”

“You know perfectly well how she came to be here.” Darcy clipped his words. “You saw her arrive.”

“When?”

“A se’nnight ago.”

“A se’nnight ago I was—” He abruptly stopped speaking.

“You were what?”

“A se’nnight ago I was injured,” he said. “I have no memory of events leading up to that night.”

“How very convenient.”

“It was a head injury — a wound along my temple.” He dismounted and removed his hat. “See — it has not fully healed.”

Elizabeth and Darcy both looked at the side of his head. The gentleman indeed sported a stripe of damaged flesh above his ear. The wound garnered no sympathy from Darcy. His tone did not soften in the least as he asked what had caused the injury.

“I…” Mr. Crawford turned away from the impassive Darcy and instead addressed Elizabeth. “I need to see my wife.”

“Which one?” Darcy asked.

Mr. Crawford regarded him with confusion, then turned back to Elizabeth. “Please — you said you know where Meg is. Will you take me to her?”

Elizabeth could not determine what Mr. Crawford was about. “Do you also wish to see Anne?”

“Who is Anne?”

At that, Darcy’s ire flared. “We will take you to see Meg, but only if you answer some questions first.”

Mr. Crawford glanced between them, as if trying to determine whether they could be trusted. How absurd — considering that he was the one with a record of betrayal.

“I… I believe a bullet caused my injury,” he told Elizabeth.

“Whence did this bullet come?” Darcy asked.

“As I told you, I do not recall what happened. I woke up Thursday morning to the sensation of rain falling upon me. I was lying in a grove. It was dawn, or shortly thereafter — I could not be sure, clouds so darkened the sky. I had no idea where I was or how I came to be there. My head ached beyond anything, and I had trouble holding a thought. The side of my face was sticky with my own blood. It was agony to lift my head from the ground but I managed to push myself into a sitting position. That is when I noticed a pistol lying beside me.”

“And when did you notice the body?” Darcy asked.

Mr. Crawford started. “How do you know about the body?”

“It was still there days later, when it was mistaken for you. Whose body is it, Mr. Crawford, and why did you kill him?”

“I do not know!” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I do not know what happened, or who he was. I left the pistol where it lay — I wanted no part of it — and stumbled over to him, but he was past any assistance this world could offer. My mind was so cloudy that I could scarcely stand. A whinny drew my attention to a cluster of trees. This horse was tied there. I know not whether it was his horse or mine. I untied her, somehow managed to climb into the saddle, and nudged her forward.

“I must have lost consciousness again shortly afterward, for I remember nothing else until I woke up again in a crofter’s cottage. The farmer told me he had seen the horse pass his home with me slumped over her neck, and so had stopped the animal and brought me inside. His daughter nursed me until today, when I at last felt myself strong enough to attempt getting home to Meg. But you tell me she is near. I have revealed all I know — will you take me to her now?”

Elizabeth looked to Darcy. He was clearly unconvinced by Mr. Crawford’s story, but he assented. Their driver turned the chaise around and they headed back to Mansfield with Mr. Crawford accompanying on horseback.

“Just when one thinks Henry Crawford’s affairs could not become more knotty…” Elizabeth shook her head in amazement. “You are quite certain this gentleman is indeed Mr. Crawford?”

“Yes. Are not you?”

“Almost certain. He looks like Henry Crawford, but we have been mistaken in the past about the true identities of other individuals. And if this gentleman is indeed Mr. Crawford, that means you erred in identifying the corpse discovered in Mansfield Wood.”

“I am well aware of that,” he said tersely.

The defensive response took her aback. “I did not mean that as a criticism of you, only a statement of fact. Sir Thomas and the coroner also bear responsibility. I wonder who the unfortunate gentleman is, if not Mr. Crawford?”

“I cannot speculate. Whoever the deceased might be, Henry Crawford’s reappearance absolves us of any interest in the matter. From the sound of things, Mr. Crawford himself is most likely responsible for the man’s death, and even if he is not, I happily relinquish to Sir Thomas the charge of determining what occurred.”

“Our lives have indeed become simpler this half hour. Though Anne’s life, however, has not. I wonder what Lady Catherine will do when she catches sight of Mr. Crawford? Anne cannot marry the viscount now without first fully disclosing the details of her first marriage. As it is, he might not live long enough for the courts to sort out the matter.”

“My aunt will be most seriously displeased.”

“Poor Mr. Crawford — to return from the dead, only to have all his acquaintance wish he would go back.” She looked out the window at the gentleman in question riding beside them. “Do you suppose he truly believes himself to be Mr. Garrick?”

“The man has either lost the ability to distinguish his real existence from playacting, or he hopes to somehow use the ruse to win pardon for his crimes. I speculate the latter.”

“Do you think his head injury might have muddled his memory?”

“We shall see how he behaves in the presence of his wife.”

“Which wife?”

“Both of them.”

When they neared the village, Darcy suggested to Mr. Crawford that he ride in the chaise and allow his mount to follow. “Everyone in the village believes you dead. It will not do to have you parade through the streets. The shock would cause ladies to swoon.”

Mr. Crawford readily complied. As they rode the remaining mile, he spoke little of himself, providing no new information about his present circumstances. From the time the farmer found him until the present morning, he claimed, he had been confined to the cottage as he recovered and come into contact with no one save the crofter and his daughter. At last today he had believed himself restored enough to attempt the journey home.

He made repeated inquiries about Meg. Elizabeth and Darcy volunteered few details.

“When did you last see your wife?” Elizabeth asked.

“I cannot recall. I am a merchant marine, and thus do not enjoy opportunities enough to spend time at home with her.”

Darcy regarded him with impatience. “If you are a marine, why do you not speak more like a sailor?”

“I…” Mr. Crawford appeared confused and lapsed into contemplative silence.

Upon reaching the inn, they ushered Mr. Crawford into the small parlor as quickly as they could. His arrival, however, was noted by several patrons in the dining room, who then swallowed the remainder of their meals at an indigestion-courting rate so as to be the first to circulate the news abroad.

Mr. Crawford’s arrival was also noticed by Meg, who nearly dropped a tray full of food in her shock. Her struggle to keep its entire contents from tumbling to the floor drew his attention.

“Meg!” Happy expectation, coupled with relief, overcame his countenance.

Her breath caught in her throat. She turned to Elizabeth, her wide eyes begging an explanation.

Elizabeth took the tray from her hands, set it down, and led her toward the parlor. “We are as astonished as you are. Come, he has been asking for you.”

They shut the parlor door against intrusive eyes. Darcy stood in one corner, arms folded across his chest. Mr. Crawford took a step toward Meg.

“Meg, why do you regard me so? It is as if you do not recognize me. It is I — John.”

“John?” The name prodded Meg from her disbelieving daze. “John! How dare you use that name?”

“What do you mean? That is my name. What other am I supposed to use?”

“Henry Crawford — the name you revealed to me before you disappeared. We thought you were dead, you know.”

“Who is this Henry Crawford fellow? I heard his name whispered even as we entered.”

Meg looked as if she wanted to strike him, but restrained herself. “Where have you been this past week?”

“I suffered an injury and have been recovering at a farm several miles hence. A crofter and his daughter took me in.”

“A crofter with a daughter? And you’ve been there a week. Have you married her yet?”

“I do not understand you.”

“I do not understand you! After everything you did to me, now you come back here calling yourself John Garrick? What do you want from me?”

He took another step toward her. “I want my wife.”

“Do not come near me!” She kicked him in the shin.

“Ouch!” He doubled over and reached for his leg. Suddenly, he shifted his hands to his head. “I am dizzy.”

He hobbled to a chair and sat down. He shut his eyes tightly for a minute, then opened them and regarded Meg in wonderment. “You have done that before.”

“I have done what?”

“Kicked me that way.”

“Yes. Once.”

“Here, at this inn. Outside.”

“Yes.”

“I am remembering… We argued — I do not recall the subject — but we argued… and afterward I went to my chamber. I found a note there — an unsigned note. Its author invited me to meet at the grove in Mansfield Wood, there to discuss a matter of honor that could not be forgiven.”

He rubbed his brow and turned to Darcy. “I kept the appointment. When I arrived, I was met by a man with a pistol. I recognized him as another guest at this inn — he had the room next to mine. He said I had behaved dishonorably, and that he had been hired to punish my conduct. I said, would he kindly name his employer? He refused, just handed me a pistol that matched his own and ordered me to walk fifteen paces. He took his shot as I was yet turning around. A searing pain seized my temple, and I fell to the ground, believing myself dying.”

“What occurred afterward?” Darcy asked.

“It is as I told you earlier. I recollect nothing more. Except…”

“Except what?”

“The body. When I awoke, the body that was lying nearby — it was his.”

Darcy opened the door and summoned Mr. Gower. Though surely he had heard the news of Mr. Crawford’s return as it circulated the inn, their host nevertheless regarded Henry in amazement upon entering.

“What can you tell us about the gentleman who occupied the room next to Mr. Crawford’s?”

“Mr. Lautus? He arrived just after you did; gave an address in Birmingham when he signed the register. Settled his account in full each day and kept to himself, mostly. I last saw him the day your wife and all the others arrived. He said he would be moving on soon, though at the time I did not understand him to mean that day. But Mrs. Garrick’s coach arrived while we were speaking and in the confusion I must have mistook him.”

“Mr. Crawford has information pertaining to him that will be of interest to the magistrate. Kindly send someone for Sir Thomas.”

No sooner had Mr. Gower left the parlor than Lady Catherine entered it. Upon sighting Mr. Crawford in the chair, her expression turned stony.

“So, the report is true. You are yet among the living.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Is there no end to the damage you wreak? Your very existence causes me tribulation and grief.”

Henry turned to Elizabeth. “Do I know her?”

“She is your mother-in-law.”

“You are mistaken. She is not Meg’s mother.”

“Henry Crawford’s mother-in-law.”

“Oh. Perhaps he is happier dead.”

“What is this you are saying?” Lady Catherine snapped. “What is this pretense? You are Henry Crawford! And because of you, my plans for Anne’s future have once more come undone.”

“What? What do you say about Anne?” Viscount Sennex shuffled into the room. “Oh, here you are, Lady Catherine. I have been looking for you this hour. I have questions about the agreement we discussed—”

“I am afraid we must discuss it further, my lord, before it can be finalized.”

“Further? Very well. But what has this gentleman to do with my bride?”

“Nothing, my lord. Nothing that need trouble you. He is only — only a Mr. Garrick.”

He blinked and scratched his head. “But I thought I heard you call him Henry Crawford.”

“You did. I should not have addressed him so.”

“Well, is he Mr. Crawford or Mr. Garrick?”

“The matter is complicated.”

The viscount rubbed his chin, which appeared in need of shaving. “If he is Mr. Crawford, is he Miss de Bourgh’s Mr. Crawford?”

“Anne no longer has a Mr. Crawford.”

The elderly gentleman appeared so confused that he looked as if he could not at once absorb Lady Catherine’s words and remain standing. He leaned heavily on his cane. “This is all most perplexing…”

“Indeed, it is, my lord. Allow me to escort you back to your chamber whilst I explain everything you need to know.” With a final glare at Mr. Crawford, Lady Catherine led the viscount from the room.

Elizabeth wondered just how Lady Catherine planned to “explain” the present situation in a way that would enable her plan to proceed. As sorry as Elizabeth felt for Anne, she experienced equal sympathy for Lord Sennex. It vexed her to witness Lady Catherine taking advantage of his age and mental frailty to advance her own selfish interests.

She excused herself from the parlor temporarily. To her knowledge, no one had yet informed Anne or Colonel Fitzwilliam of Mr. Crawford’s return from the dead, an omission she undertook to rectify. She was stopped on her way to the staircase by Mrs. Norris, who apparently had come to the inn solely for the purpose of being among the first in the village to obtain particulars about Mr. Crawford’s miraculous resurrection.

“Mrs. Darcy, is it true? Is Henry Crawford indeed alive?”

Elizabeth lacked the patience to deal with the busybody at present. The day would soon turn to evening, yet there seemed to be no end of it in sight.

“Yes, he is. Would you care to join the queue of persons who have business with him?”

Her eyes widened. “No — no, indeed! I merely wanted to know — for Maria’s sake. I have no wish to see that scoundrel.”

Now that Henry Crawford was alive once more, he was again a scoundrel. So much for Christian forgiveness.

“But if Mr. Crawford is alive,” Mrs. Norris pressed, “who was found in Mansfield Wood?”

“A traveler.”

“Does anyone know who killed him?”

“That is perhaps a question best directed to Sir Thomas. Now, if you will excuse me…”

Elizabeth left Mrs. Norris and headed upstairs, restraining herself from physically throwing back her shoulders to shake off the encounter. She found the old gossip more disagreeable with every conversation.

On the landing, she met Colonel Fitzwilliam and quickly apprised him of the day’s extraordinary events. His jaw settled into the same rigid set as Darcy’s did when aggravated, and she was struck by the resemblance between the cousins. They both carried within them a strong sense of honor, and a subsequent disdain for those who so profoundly lacked one of their own. Both were highly conscious of duty; just as Darcy upheld his responsibility to his tenants and others who depended upon him for their livelihood, so, too, did Colonel Fitzwilliam take seriously his responsibility to the men under his command. They also shared a commitment to family, particularly the protection of those in their charge. He was a good man, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and could make a fine husband to Anne if only Lady Catherine and Henry Crawford would leave them be.

He muttered something under his breath. Elizabeth could not quite make it out, but from the hard expression of his eyes she suspected it was not the most gentlemanly of sentiments.

“I was on my way to acquaint Anne with this turn of events,” she said. “Though perhaps you would do me the favor of delivering the news? You have been a steadfast companion to her these many days; she might hear it better from you.”

“I would that there was no such news to impart,” he said. “But yes, I shall tell her directly.”

As she left him, she wondered whether Henry’s return would prove a blessing in the end. Perhaps Lady Catherine’s grand designs would at last crumble, and she would be forced to give them up and accept Anne’s wishes.

She reached the main floor in time to see Viscount Sennex coming in the front door with Mrs. Norris, of all people. Whatever had the two of them to do with each other?

“I thought you were conversing with Lady Catherine, my lord?”

“Indeed, yes. Then I stepped outside for a moment and became a bit turned around. This kind lady took pity on me and led me back.”

“He was returning from the necessary,” Mrs. Norris offered in a too-loud whisper. “You might want to keep a watch on him, lest he wander off and be unable to find his way back.” She tapped her head meaningfully. Fortunately, the viscount did not seem to notice her less-than-subtle reference to his mental state. He was busy shuffling back out the door.

“I shall bear that in mind, thank you.” She hastily excused herself from Mrs. Norris and caught up with the viscount just outside.

“My lord, I believe your room is this way — within the building?”

“What? Oh! Yes — yes, of course. I was merely on an errand”—he glanced in the direction of the necessary—“of a personal nature.”

Had he not just attended to such an errand? Pity entered her heart as she regarded the elderly man. He did not appear that feeble, but looks could be deceiving, as evidenced by his frequent trips to the privy. It was, she supposed, one of the indignities of old age. Poor Viscount Sennex.

Poor Anne!

“Do not you worry about me, young lady. I shall return to my chamber in a few minutes.”

Elizabeth forced a cheerful smile to her lips. “Of course.”

She felt, as she watched him walk off, that she ought to wait to ensure that he actually made it back to his room safely. He looked so frail — his posture stooped, his clothes hanging loosely on a frame that no longer filled them. But she did not want to subject the viscount to the embarrassment of being treated like a toddler whose nurse stood outside the privy door. Why was his valet not more attentive? Surely he had brought a personal servant, had he not? Come to think on it, she had not seen one with him — perhaps he and Neville had brought only one to attend them both, and Neville commanded more of his service.

She spotted Nat, the innkeeper’s son, and pressed a penny into his hand. Nodding toward the viscount, she asked Nat to discreetly help him back to his room if need be. “And here is a sixpence to remain watchful of the viscount’s future visits out of doors.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

By the time she returned to the parlor, Sir Thomas had arrived and heard Mr. Crawford’s tale. The magistrate addressed Darcy. “If Mr. Crawford is speaking truthfully, it would seem that you and Colonel Fitzwilliam were correct about the existence of a second pistol. Where is it now, Mr. Crawford?”

“I know not. I recall seeing only one when I awoke, and that I left behind. I was, however, extremely disoriented and could well have overlooked it, especially in the dismal light.”

“And you do not recall shooting Mr. Lautus with either pistol?”

“Not at all.”

With an air and expression of dissatisfaction, Sir Thomas rose from his seat. “That will do for now, I suppose. I shall repeat your story to the coroner. He might have additional questions for you, as might I whilst I verify what you have related and attempt to learn more about Mr. Lautus. Are you lodging here at the Bull?”

“I have no idea. I have not even considered the matter of tonight’s lodging. I suppose I shall indeed stay here, if there is a room.”

Mr. Gower was again summoned, and regretfully informed them that the Ox and Bull had not a single vacant chamber. Mr. Crawford’s former room had been assigned to Neville Sennex. Sir Thomas himself, however, struck upon a solution.

“Mr. Sennex is an acquaintance of my son’s,” he said. “I met him this afternoon — in fact, I believe he is yet at Mansfield Park. We shall simply invite him to stay with us. His lordship is welcome too, if the viscount is inclined.”

“The viscount is fatigued from the journey from Bucking-hamshire and has only just settled into his chamber here,” Elizabeth said. “Let us not uproot him at this hour.”

All was arranged. Neville Sennex returned to the inn long enough to supervise the transportation of his belongings and take cursory leave of the viscount. He then made continued use of Henry’s horse to hie himself to Mansfield Park, where he reveled in freedom from any care over his father’s happiness or comfort, while Henry Crawford took possession of his former chamber.

It was the last time either gentleman was seen alive.