The Matters at Mansfield m&mdm-4

by Carrie Bebris

  “Their being in love is not a happy scenario if my aunt has her way with this marriage between Anne and Lord Sennex.”

  “Indeed not. And although Anne is of age, and cannot be forced to wed anybody, she is so remorseful about her elopement and the evil it has brought upon her that I do not think she has the confidence to resist her mother a second time. The first instance was difficult enough.” Her expression grew pensive. “Perhaps your aunt can be worked upon?”

  “And perhaps Mr. Crawford will rise from the dead.” He shook his head. “No, she is determined to effect an alliance with the Sennex family one way or another. I suppose we should simply give thanks that her sights have shifted from Mr. Sennex to the viscount himself. At least he is benign.”

  “Neville Sennex did not inherit his violent nature from his father?”

  “I have heard that his lordship was a bit of a hothead in his youth — he had a rather inflated sense of honor, and heaven help anyone who might challenge it. Time, however, has tempered him. He still prizes honor, but demonstrates it in a dignified manner. At least, with as much dignity as the weaknesses of advancing age allow him.”

  “Then I suppose Anne is indeed better off wed to him than to his son. Though I am somewhat surprised that Lady Catherine relinquished her designs on Mr. Sennex so easily. I rather imagined she had aspirations of a future grandson of hers inheriting the viscountcy.”

  Darcy was silent for a moment. A vague feeling of dread had been hovering at the edges of his consciousness since the meeting with Lady Catherine, and it had been aggravated by an exchange he had overheard afterward. “I begin to wonder whether my aunt may yet harbor such aspirations.”

  “How can she? Neville Sennex is the viscount’s eldest son. Anne could bear his lordship a dozen boys and it would make no difference — the title will pass to Neville, and to his son afterward.”

  “Unless Neville never has a son.” He lowered his voice, disliking the thought of articulating his apprehension, even to Elizabeth. “While securing this chaise for our use, I encountered Neville Sennex. He was wanting to hire a horse to pay a call at Mansfield Park — apparently Sir Thomas’s eldest son is an acquaintance of his from one of the London clubs — Boodle’s, I believe. Lady Catherine, who had followed me to the livery to continue a conversation begun inside, overheard Mr. Sennex’s request and offered him the use of Charleybane.”

  “That was exceedingly generous of her, considering the mare is not hers to lend.”

  “Mr. Sennex is Charleybane’s previous owner. But in view of how offended my aunt was by Neville’s rejection of Anne, I was entirely taken aback by her having made the offer at all. I attributed it to her wanting to maintain favorable relations with Lord Sennex, who was wandering about the courtyard. But then Mrs. Garrick happened by, which brought to mind Lady Catherine’s having hired her a horse the evening of Mr. Crawford’s disappearance.”

  “When she was hoping Meg might come to harm.”

  “Charleybane is skittish and unpredictable. And, I suspect, not fond of the former master who abused her.”

  “Now, Darcy, not one day ago you utterly dismissed my hypothesis about the involvement of your aunt’s solicitor in Henry Crawford’s death, and now here you have Lady Catherine plotting an assassination with a skittish horse as the murder weapon.”

  “I merely say that I begin to have misgivings about my aunt’s motives in a number of transactions since her arrival in Mansfield.”

  “And what will you do if those misgivings take root and blossom into full-grown convictions? If you find evidence that she was involved in Mr. Crawford’s death, will you bring it to Sir Thomas? She is your aunt, after all, and I know your sense of family loyalty to be as strong as your veneration for justice.”

  Darcy had been wrestling with that very dilemma. He quite honestly did not know what he would do, and was almost tempted to abandon his investigative efforts so that he would not have to face that decision. “Let us hope that I need not make that choice.”

  The carriage slowed. Darcy glanced out the window. They had not reached the village yet, but neared a crossroads. A man on horseback approached from another direction and hailed their driver.

  Darcy studied the rider as well as he could from this distance. Highwaymen were a constant concern for travelers, and one should always be on his guard. The gentleman in question, however, appeared harmless. In fact, he appeared familiar.

  Darcy leaned forward and peered more intently. Elizabeth, too, now looked out the window. And gasped.

  “Darcy, is that truly…?”

  It could not be. Yet it was.

  Henry Crawford.

  Twenty-Four

  “There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences.”

  — Fanny Price, Mansfield Park

  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.”