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.
Twenty-One
“When my aunt has got a fancy in her head, nothing can stop her.”
— Tom Bertram, Mansfield Park
“Consider, Darcy, how much Lady Catherine stands to gain from Mr. Crawford’s death.” Elizabeth lifted the hem of her skirt and picked her way through a particularly muddy patch of road as they walked down the lane past the village green. Overnight rain had made for a damp, slow walk to Mrs. Norris’s house, where they hoped to find Maria Rushworth at home following her previous day’s journey to Sotherton. “As she said, she now can pass off Anne as a widow. Provided Meg does not draw attention to herself, no one in society need ever know that Anne’s first marriage was invalid, whereas if Mr. Crawford were still alive, the scandal would have inevitably been exposed. Even if she fails to complete the alliance with the Sennex family, Anne’s reputation is partially preserved. In fact, she looks like a romantic heroine — her windswept courtship and elopement brought to a premature, tragic end by her groom’s sudden death. She will be a figure of sympathy, not scorn.”
“His death is a fortunate coincidence for my aunt, nothing more.”
“Are you entirely certain? Mr. Archer went off in pursuit of Mr. Crawford that night. And, I recall the following morning, observing a streak of golden residue on the lower leg of his trousers. Perhaps it was pollen from some plant in the grove.”
“Or anywhere in the village. The rain has been so abundant that the weeds are, as well.”
“Why are you so quick to eliminate him as a suspect?”
“Mr. Archer is a highly reputable London solicitor. He deals exclusively with the aristocracy, and charges fees that render him immune to the temptation of increasing his coffers by dirtying his hands with anything so tawdry — not to mention risky — as murder.”
“Could he not have hired a third party to complete the business?”
Darcy released an exasperated sigh. “I suppose he could have. But there are other individuals who are far more likely to have committed the deed.” They had arrived at the gate of White House. “Including a certain discarded mistress who lives here.”
They passed through the gate to the front door, which appeared to have recently been worked upon. Elizabeth noted that a second lock had been installed.
“Have you the earrings?” Darcy asked. The jewelry formed the pretext of their call.
“In my reticule.” She glanced at him archly. “In the absence of a muff pistol.”
They knocked on the door and were greeted by the maid, who bade them wait in the entry while she announced them. Voices carried from the morning room.
“Well, you simply must try again.” The tones belonged unmistakably to Mrs. Norris.
“Perhaps I do not want to try again.” Petulance. Definitely Maria.
“Do not be ridiculous. Anything is better than divorce, and now that Mr. Crawford is dead, it will be easier to persuade Mr. Rushworth to reconcile. You should have tried harder yesterday. Why did you not?”
“Because he was as stupid and dull as ever, and the whole visit only reminded me of why I left him for Mr. Crawford in the first place. Also, his mother was in the room the entire time, standing watch — the old dragon. We could not have a private word. Even could I tolerate living with Mr. Rushworth again, she would never allow it. I do not think he uses the necessary without her permission.”
“Next time I shall come with you to divert her. I ought to have gone yesterday and never should have let you persuade me otherwise.”
“There will be no next time.”
“Maria, I managed matters once with Mr. Rushworth; I will manage them again.”
A break in their conversation suggested that the maid had at last won Mrs. Norris’s attention. Darcy and Elizabeth heard their names announced; they were the next minute ushered into the morning room.
Maria picked indifferently at a piece of needlework as Mrs. Norris greeted them. After the requisite exchange of empty pleasantries, Elizabeth addressed Mrs. Rushworth.
“We are happy to find you at home,” she said. “I do wish this were merely a social call, but I am afraid my husband and I must beg your assistance. As Mrs. Norris has no doubt told you, Mr. Crawford was discovered dead yesterday. His injuries were such that his remains were identified by his personal effects — among them, these earrings.” She withdrew the baubles from her reticule and held them toward Maria. “Mr. Darcy and I are fairly certain these are the ear-bobs you returned to Mr. Crawford on the day of his disappearance, but we hope you will confirm our identification. As you surely understand, this is too important a matter to risk error.”
Maria set aside her needlework to take the ear-bobs from Elizabeth’s hand. She outlined one of the pendant gems with her forefinger, her expression impassive. “Yes, these are the earrings.”
“We are trying to trace Mr. Crawford’s movements that day. Did you happen to see him again after you left the inn?”
“No. I came back to White House and did not go out again.”
“I can vouch for her on that account,” said Mrs. Norris.
“But you left here for a time to visit my mother.”
Mrs. Norris regarded Maria with annoyance. Elizabeth wondered whether she had been trying to reinforce her niece’s alibi out of suspicion — or knowledge — that she had not in fact been where she claimed.
“So I did,” Mrs. Norris said. “But you were in your chamber when I departed, and still there when I returned.”
“I have nowhere else to go in this deplorable village. As if I care whether anybody in Mansfield receives me.” She closed her hand around the earrings and reached out to return them to Elizabeth. “Here. I have answered your questions.”
Mrs. Norris intercepted. “Allow me to see those, Maria.”
Mrs. Rushworth surrendered them to her aunt, who held them up to catch the light. Sunlight glinted off the sapphires. “You ought to keep these. Mr. Crawford no longer has any use for them.”
“Neither do I.”
“Well — I shall retain them lest you change your mind.”
Before Elizabeth could issue a startled protest, Mrs. Norris deposited the earrings in her own workbag. Elizabeth decided to let the presumptuousness go for now, as she and Darcy had yet more information they hoped to obtain.
“Mrs. Rushworth, I realize that speaking of Mr. Crawford might cause you distress, but may I ask you to indulge me in a few more queries?”
“It depends upon what they are.”
“Another item was found with Mr. Crawford’s remains — a pistol. Do you recall his having possessed one?”
“Not whilst we were in London. I have never seen Everingham, however, and so do not know what possessions he might keep there.”
The sound of a carriage drew their attention to the window. A chaise had come up the lane and stopped in front of White House. Elizabeth recognized the livery.
“Mr. Rushworth has come to call!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed. “See, Maria — it is not too late. Matters between you might yet be patched up.” She crossed to the window t
o obtain a better view. “He has just alighted. Smooth your hair, child — remind him why he married you.”
“But I—”
“Oh, why did she have to accompany him?” Mrs. Norris scowled as Mr. Rushworth handed his mother out of the carriage. “Well, no matter. I will manage her, as I said I would. Do not you fret, Maria — your Aunt Norris will have you living back at Sotherton Court within a fortnight.”
Maria stood and stomped. “You are not listening! I—”
“Maria, I am the only remaining friend you have. Who but your Aunt Norris stepped forward to take you in when your own father would not? You must heed my counsel. Divorce is an evil to be avoided at all costs. Mr. Rushworth may be thick-witted, but he is the only chance you have at salvaging your respectability.” Mrs. Norris turned from the window and glanced at the Darcys with an almost startled expression. Apparently in her exultation over Mr. Rushworth’s arrival, she had forgotten their presence. “If you will excuse us, we have done speaking about Mr. Crawford.”
“We were just about to take leave,” Darcy said. They rose.
A knock on the door was quickly followed by the maid’s announcing the Rushworths’ arrival. Mother and son entered, the dowager responding to the Darcys’ presence with disdain.
“You are Mr. Crawford’s friend, are you not?”
Darcy offered his name and acknowledged the association. “Mr. Crawford was a recent acquaintance, a relation by marriage.” Elizabeth supposed that was as accurate a description of their connection as ought to be attempted. Darcy then introduced Elizabeth, who received a cool nod. Mr. Rushworth bowed, his expression warmer, though not by much.
“Maria, there is a matter of business we need to discuss,” said Mr. Rushworth. “Is there another room in which we could—”
“No, no!” Mrs. Norris interjected. “Stay right here. The Darcys were just departing.”
She instructed the maid to show them out, and dismissed them with scarcely a glance. “Now, Mrs. Rushworth, let us move to the drawing room while your son and my niece converse. May I offer you some tea? Cook prepared Bath cakes this morning, and I have a very fine wild gooseberry jam — my only remaining jar from last year, as I have not yet had time to put up any this season. I know a spot with superior berries—”
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