The Matters at Mansfield: (Or, the Crawford Affair) (Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (9 page)

“I think she simply has not gotten to them yet.” Darcy closed the window against the sound of Mrs. Norris’s voice rising to another fevered pitch. Overhearing the scene below caused him greater discomfort than the temperature in the room. Though the actors insisted on a public performance, observing it nonetheless felt like eavesdropping. He moved away from the window, no easy feat in the tiny chamber.

Elizabeth, too, turned her back on the display. “Do you suppose we ought to rescue him?”

“Mr. Crawford is responsible for himself and must make whatever amends he can with the people he has wronged.”

Mrs. Norris’s euphonic tones carried through the glass. Darcy winced.

“But perhaps we can contain the spectacle.”

Twelve

“I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman’s feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of.”

—
Fanny Price
, Mansfield Park

B
y the time Elizabeth and Darcy reached the courtyard, another gentleman had ventured into the fracas. He was a tall, serious-looking man perhaps a year or two younger than Darcy, and wore the black coat of a clergyman. Despite his sober mien, he had a kind face, though Elizabeth privately admitted that her assessment might be influenced by the fact that he had somehow induced Mrs. Norris to stop talking—a kindness to them all.

He was speaking to Maria’s champion as they approached.

“Aunt Norris, if Mr. Crawford is capable of contrition, I am sure he feels it now. Let us leave him to the reflections of his own conscience.”

Mr. Crawford cleared his throat. “Edmund, I—”

He stopped at a look from Edmund. It was the clergyman whose expression seemed to hold the most regret.

“We are no longer on such intimate terms of friendship. You may address me as Mr. Bertram.”

“Of course.” A look of remorse indeed seemed to overcome him. “Mr. Bertram, I
am
sorry for my part in the events of last year.”

Mr. Bertram regarded him in silence for a long minute. “Maria, this man is not worth your anguish. Return home with our aunt.”

“One moment.” She removed her ear-bobs, large sapphires that had set off her eyes to advantage. “Here,” she said, holding them out to Henry.

He shook his head. “Keep them. They were a gift.”

“I no longer want them.” When he did not take them, she overturned her hand and let them fall onto the ground. “Give them to your wife, bury them right there in the dirt—it matters not to me, so long as they are forever gone from my sight. As I wish you to be.”

As she and Mrs. Norris departed, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds. Henry bent to retrieve the earrings. Anne appeared in the doorway of the inn, supported by Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Henry?”

“Anne? Good heavens! What are you doing out of bed?” Henry hastily shoved the ear-bobs into his coat pocket as she took tentative steps forward to meet him. When they were reunited, Anne traded her cousin’s arm for her husband’s. He glared at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I cannot believe you brought her down here!”

“I agree entirely—she ought not to have left her bed. She heard the uproar and insisted on coming to see you,” the colonel explained. “I attempted to dissuade her, but she threatened to descend the stairs by herself if I would not aid her. And her mother—”

“Heard the disturbance as well,” Lady Catherine announced from behind them. She shouldered her way through. “I expected you to possess enough consciousness of basic propriety to avoid so public an exhibition. I suggest you assist your wife back to your chamber.” Her eyes swept the assembled villagers. “And I suggest all of you return to your own business.”

Her command, coupled with the arrival of a coach, dispersed the idle onlookers. The first passenger to alight caused Lady Catherine’s countenance to reflect the closest thing to satisfaction that Elizabeth had seen on it since the ball.

“Mr. Archer,” her ladyship greeted him.

Elizabeth recognized the name of Lady Catherine’s solicitor. His lean frame nearly bent in half, so deep was the bow he offered his employer. His fob chain caught the afternoon sunlight and gleamed against his black suit. When he uprighted himself, large eyes set in a thin, unsmiling face rapidly assessed his environs.

Before approaching Lady Catherine, Mr. Archer paused to assist a female passenger emerging from the coach. Henry wheeled Anne toward the door of the inn.

“Your mother is absolutely correct,” he said in a low voice. “You should be resting inside.”

“But—”

“Do not protest.”

He guided her forward, but she moved with such excruciating slowness that witnessing her struggle made Elizabeth’s own leg hurt.

“Mr. Crawford,” said Lady Catherine, “Mr. Archer will want to see you later this afternoon.”

Henry nodded without turning around.

Mr. Archer, meanwhile, had dispatched his chivalrous duty for the day. The moment his fellow passenger was safely on the ground, he abandoned her to glide over to Lady Catherine.

The young woman he had assisted looked around, absorbing her new surroundings. She was a slip of a girl, possessing one of those faces and figures that might pass for sixteen or six-and-twenty with equal credibility. She wore a simple calico gown that had seen better days, a similarly exhausted bonnet, and no gloves. Her sole adornment was an amber cross on a gold chain that hung round her neck. A lock of red hair had come loose from her bonnet and hung behind her like a fox’s brush. She clutched in her hands a small card.

For all her waiflike appearance, her eyes reflected intelligence and purpose as she scanned the retreating spectators. Her gaze lit on a dark-haired gentleman in a brown coat who was walking toward the livery.

“John!”

The gentleman, his back to her, apparently did not hear her call and continued walking. She ran toward him and stopped him with a hand on his arm. “John!”

When he turned around to face her, the woman’s own countenance fell. “You are not John.”

“No, madam. I am sorry to disappoint you.”

The woman released his arm and he continued toward the livery. Meanwhile, the woman turned toward Elizabeth and the others. “I’m looking for a man named John Garrick. Do any of you know him?”

No one acknowledged familiarity. She turned a hopeful face to Elizabeth, who shrugged sympathetically and shook her head.

The woman addressed Edmund. “A handsome man, he is. Dark, though not very tall. A merchant marine. He might not be in Mansfield presently, but I believe he has family here, or has at least visited. Have you ever seen such a man here, Reverend?”

“All sorts of travelers pass through on the coach, but no seamen have lingered here in recent memory,” Edmund said. “Being so far from any port, Mansfield does not often host sailors.” He cast a confirming glance at the innkeeper. “Correct me if I am in error, Mr. Gower. You see far more visitors than do I.”

“Last sailor I recall in Mansfield was your wife’s brother, when Mr. Price came for your wedding.”

The woman’s expression deflated. “Are you certain? Do none of you know him, or anyone named Garrick?” She fingered her necklace, looking as if she might break into tears. “I need to find him. I’ve come so far, and I’ve nothing to return to.”

“Perhaps you have not traveled quite far enough,” Darcy said. “There is a larger Mansfield in Nottinghamshire. Might you have mistaken his direction?”

She shook her head. “He gave me no direction at all. I came here because of this.” She held out the card in her hand. It was a trade card from Hardwick’s shop, advertising its address and selection of goods for sale. “John gave me this necklace the last time I saw him. I assumed he bought it during his travels, but after he left again, I discovered this card under the lining of the box. He sometimes spoke of a sister, used to visit her now and again, but never said where she lived. I hoped maybe his family came from Mansfield, and he found the chain while visiting her.”

Elizabeth pitied the woman and wished she could do something to help her. Mr. Crawford knew numerous sailors through his uncle. Was it possible he had at some time met this John Garrick? Such a coincidence was improbable, but not impossible. However, Mr. Crawford, concentrating on Anne’s progress toward the inn, had not so much as looked over his shoulder in response to the woman’s entreaties.

“Mr. Crawford,” Elizabeth called.

He murmured something to Anne and kept moving toward the door.

“Mr. Crawford,” she repeated more loudly. “Do stay a moment. Perhaps you can aid this woman.”

The hail caught not only his attention, but that of the woman. “Oh! Can you, sir?” She went over, coming round his side to stand before him. And gasped as a look of pure joy overtook her countenance.

“John!”

Mr. Crawford stiffened and halted his advance.

“Daft girl!” Lady Catherine growled. “That is Mr. Crawford. Mr. Henry Crawford of Everingham—a gentleman, not some vagabond marine.”

Her ladyship’s less-than-gracious introduction seemed to go unheard. The woman had ears, and eyes, only for Henry. “John, thank heavens I’ve found you! Mama’s gone—so is the house—there was a fire. I didn’t know how soon your ship would return or where else to go, so I thought I’d try to find your sister—”

Henry regarded her wordlessly.

“Are you deaf?” Lady Catherine bellowed. “This man is not John Garrick!”

The woman stared at Lady Catherine in confusion.

“John Garrick, indeed!” her ladyship continued, so agitated that one of her facial muscles twitched. “Crawford! His name is Crawford!”

The woman blinked. Then her countenance suddenly cleared. “Ah! I understand.” She leaned toward Henry and spoke in a muted voice. “She’s a little touched, isn’t she? Like old Mrs. Carter.” She nodded knowingly, then addressed Lady Catherine.

“It’s . . . all . . . right . . . ma’am.” She pronounced each word slowly and deliberately, as if addressing a young child. “I know his name.”

She then turned her attention back to Henry. “I must say, John, you do look the gentleman in those fancy clothes. That is a fine brown coat—as nice as that other gentleman’s.” She regarded Anne with curiosity. “Is this your sister?”

“No!” Lady Catherine thundered. “She is his wife!”

The woman smiled at Lady Catherine indulgently. “Of course she is.”

“Do not adopt that tone with me, you baggage!”

“Oh, dear,” she said to Henry. “Just like Mrs. Carter. They become so cross in old age.”

“I am not old!”

“I believe she needs a cordial.”

Lady Catherine pounded her walking stick with vehemence. “What I
need
is for you, Mr. Crawford, to properly identify yourself to this deluded chit so that we can attend to business of far greater consequence.”

The woman gently patted Lady Catherine’s hand. Her ladyship regarded her skin as if an insect had landed on it.

“I am not deluded, ma’am. Though I haven’t seen him for two years, I should think I know my own husband.”

“Husband? I should think not!”

Anne, who had been listening in bewilderment, now addressed Mr. Crawford with impatience. “Henry, why do you not speak?” She leaned heavily on his arm. Her injury was clearly troubling her, the laudanum was not helping, and the desperate Mrs. Garrick’s determination to see her husband’s face in every stranger, though pitiable, exacerbated Anne’s suffering.

“John, why
are
you so silent?” The happiness that had illuminated the woman’s face since first spotting Henry faded as doubt began to manifest. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“This is not to be borne,” Lady Catherine declared. “Tell her, Mr. Crawford! Tell her that you have no idea who she is—that you have never laid eyes on her until this moment.”

Henry glanced from his indignant mother-in-law, to his distressed wife, to the apprehensive stranger. His own expression was inscrutable.

“My name is indeed Henry Crawford.”

Lady Catherine chortled in triumph. Henry ignored her, his gaze entirely on the crestfallen Mrs. Garrick.

“Forgive me, Meg.”

Thirteen

Henry Crawford . . . longed to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. . . . The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

—Mansfield Park

I
—I don’t understand,” Mrs. Garrick said.

“Nor do I,” said Anne. “Henry, you truly
know
this woman?”

“I met Meg while I was a student at Cambridge. She knows me as John Garrick.”

“She claims to be your wife.”

“The particulars of the situation are . . . complicated.”

“I
am
his wife! We married five years ago—in my parish church, before witnesses!”

Anne dropped Henry’s arm like a thing diseased. She swayed, but when he reached for her she rejected him. Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward to steady her.

“Mr. Crawford, explain this outrageous assertion,” Lady Catherine hissed. “Who is John Garrick?”

“It is a name I invented.”

“And you married this—this Meg person—under that name?”

“I did.”

Anne fainted.

Henry tried to prevent her from falling, but Colonel Fitzwilliam caught her. Henry reached for her. “Allow me to—”

“Do not touch her. Not ever again.”

Darcy had never seen such cold fury in his cousin. At that moment, he looked every inch the military officer facing a sworn enemy on the battlefield. “Would that I could have saved her from your grasp before today,” the colonel said. He lifted Anne into his arms and carried her into the inn, away from the faithless Mr. Crawford.

A hand on Darcy’s own arm drew his attention to Elizabeth. The briefest look between them communicated her intention to follow and offer Anne whatever succor she could. He watched her go, grateful for the constancy of his own spouse.

There remained the minister, Mr. Crawford, Meg, Darcy, Lady Catherine, and Mr. Archer.

Meg gestured toward the entrance through which Colonel Fitzwilliam had whisked Anne. “Will anybody tell me who that lady was?”

“That is Mr. Crawford’s other wife,” Darcy said.

“His
what
?”

Darcy fixed Mr. Crawford with a glare. “I cannot comprehend such deceit, let alone any possible justification for it. Do you think yourself the Prince of Wales?”

“His dishonesty does not end with these two ladies,” said Edmund. “What were you about, making an offer to Miss Price last spring?”

Meg kicked Henry’s shin. “You snake! You married me with a false name and then roamed England making love to other women while I waited for you at home? How many wives do you have?”

“Only two.”

She kicked his other shin. “That’s one too many!”

Henry doubled over, rubbing one of his injured limbs. Darcy was of the opinion that Mr. Crawford deserved to be kicked elsewhere; he judged from Mr. Bertram’s expression that even the clergyman concurred.

“Actually, Mr. Crawford has but one legal wife,” declared Mr. Archer.

“The question is,” Darcy said, “which one?” The woman he had married first, or the woman he had married under his legal name? Darcy himself did not know the answer.

“If he married under a false name, that constitutes fraud. The marriage is voidable,” Mr. Archer said.

“Unless it is a name under which he is commonly known,” Mr. Bertram responded, “in which case the ecclesiastical court may rule in favor of preserving the marriage.”

“Everyone in my village knew him as John Garrick!” Meg said.

“Everyone in London, Bath, and a host of other cities knows him as Henry Crawford—his legal name,” Mr. Archer replied.

“The courts will have to sort this out,” Darcy said. Unfortunately, no matter which way they ruled, the scandal would disastrously compromise Anne’s position in society—if it left her with any at all. “Who is the local magistrate?” he asked the minister.

“My father, Sir Thomas Bertram. I would suggest moving this discussion to his home, but given Mr. Crawford’s previous association with my family, my father could not tolerate the man’s presence at Mansfield Park even for the satisfaction of committing him to gaol.”

“Gaol?” Mr. Crawford appeared stunned by the very notion.

“Bigamy is a capital offense.”

“But surely, as I am a gentleman, he would release me on my own recognizance pending trial?”

“Perhaps he might do so for another gentleman,” said Edmund, “but as you have proven yourself no gentleman in any meaningful sense of the word, I doubt your plight will engage his sympathy. I shall summon my father here directly.”

“No.” Lady Catherine, who to this point had been in a state of contemplation, pronounced the word with such force that it held the weight of a full speech. “Postpone that summons, Reverend, if you would. Prior to Mr. Crawford’s appearance before the magistrate, I wish to confer with my solicitor to ensure that my daughter’s interest in the case is properly represented.”

“Once Mr. Crawford enters custody, you will have ample time to engage a barrister and otherwise prepare for the trial.”

“Even so, I wish to be present at Mr. Archer’s initial interview with Mr. Crawford, and I would not subject myself to the indignity, or the noisomeness, of entering a gaol to speak with him.”

“Very well. He can remain here until you have had enough of him. As it happens, my father conducts much of his magisterial business at the inn. When you have done with Mr. Crawford, simply send word to Mansfield Park that you have need of Sir Thomas.”

“I shall. In the meantime, Mr. Bertram, I request that you hold the subject of Mr. Crawford’s alleged marriage to Mrs. Garrick in strict confidence. This is a delicate matter, and I would not have it become a topic of public discourse. Nor, I expect, would you, given not only your sister’s circumstances, but the Miss Price you mentioned. Doubtless, you wish to protect her reputation from association with this affair.”

“She is now my wife, so indeed, yes—I assure you of my discretion.”

Mr. Crawford turned to the bewildered Mrs. Garrick. “Meg—”

“Don’t even speak to me, John. Or whatever your name is.”

“Meg, I understand you are angry, but—”

“Angry?
Angry
?” She laughed maniacally. “Do I have something to be angry about?”

“Meg—”

“Did I ever mean anything to you? Or was it all playacting? When my mother died and the fire took our cottage, the one thing that helped me survive was the belief that I still had you. And now I learn that I never had you at all. I might not even be married! Where am I to go, John? I cannot go back to the village and resume my life as ‘Mrs. Garrick.’ Mrs. Garrick doesn’t exist. And I have no money to go anywhere else.”

“For now, go inside and take a room. Explain to Mr. Gower that I will pay for it.”

“You have a great deal to pay for.”

“Meg—”

She turned her back on him and went within. Lady Catherine and Mr. Archer followed, withdrawing for their tête-à-tête.

Henry stared at the door through which Meg had passed. Then he turned to face Darcy’s glare.

“It began as playacting.” He seemed to be speaking as much for his own benefit as for Darcy’s or Edmund’s. “One spring I was a guest at a house party where endless rain confined us indoors, and we entertained ourselves by engaging in impromptu theatricals. My friends were particularly diverted by my portrayal of a seafarer named John Garrick, a character I created from stories I recalled hearing from my uncle and his fellow naval officers. While traveling back to Cambridge, washed-out roads detained me in a small village for several days, and I amused myself by continuing the role among the simple folk I encountered there. For the duration of my stay, I was John Garrick, merchant marine, regaling the villagers with my adventures on the high seas.

“It was there that I met Meg,” he continued. “She worked at the inn, and would often draw near as I told my tales. When the weather cleared and I prepared to leave, I knew from her crestfallen countenance that I had won her. ‘She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d, and I lov’d her that she did pity them.’ ”

“All the world’s a stage with you, is it?” Edmund said bitterly.

“No. When I returned after Easter and Michaelmas terms solely to see her again, that was genuine.”

“I do not believe you know the meaning of that word.” Edmund shook his head in disgust and turned to Darcy. “I cannot listen to more. Should you have need of me, I can be found at my father’s house or the parsonage in Thornton Lacey.” He departed.

Henry watched Edmund walk off, then turned to Darcy. “I am not a cad. When Meg’s father suddenly died, leaving her and her bedridden mother destitute, my desire to rescue her was also genuine. So I married her.”

“Under false pretenses,” Darcy said. “How very noble of you.”

“I was overtaken by the romance of it. I did not dwell upon the consequences.”

“That appears to be a theme of your courtships.”

“I realize I have acted badly, but if my attempt to explain is going to elicit naught but hostility I must beg leave to postpone further discussion of the matter. This has already been a day of vituperation from so many quarters that I cannot begin to absorb it all.” He started to enter the inn.

Darcy was not finished with him. “Why did you never confess your true identity to Mrs. Garrick and install her at Everingham?”

“A former servant as mistress of a large estate? You know as well as I do that she would have been ostracized by the entire neighborhood. Still worse would have been her reception in London. She would have been isolated, lonely, and miserable. Meg was better off in her native village, among her own people.”

There was a degree of truth in Mr. Crawford’s assertion. The social gulf between Meg’s world and the Polite World was indeed great—so great that it would have acutely restricted Mr. Crawford’s own connections. Usually it was bridegrooms who dropped the acquaintance of inappropriate associates from their bachelor days, not the other way round, but Mr. Crawford’s visiting card tray would have accumulated naught but dust in the weeks following Meg’s introduction. His wife would have been a social liability, and Henry Crawford craved society.

“So you relegated your wife to a cottage with her crippled mother while you enjoyed a carefree gentleman’s life in London and Bath?”

“I provided well for Meg—she wanted for nothing. She no longer needed to work at the inn. She had a household servant and a nurse to help with her mother.”

“On a merchant marine’s pay?”

Henry shrugged. “John Garrick sailed on profitable ships.”

“And what of my cousin Miss de Bourgh? How can you justify your treatment of her?”

“I rescued Anne as well—from bondage to the deplorable Neville Sennex. But whereas my marriage to Meg was unequal, a youthful indiscretion regretted in hindsight, Anne is a lady of my own station, worthy to assume the role of Everingham’s mistress and mother to my heirs. Had I more time, I would have extricated myself from Meg before wedding Anne—it would have been far tidier—but eloping to Scotland was the decision of a moment, necessitated by Anne’s imminent betrothal. Even so, I had contrived a plan to terminate my obligation to Meg. Had she not traveled here, she would this week have received a letter informing her that John Garrick had died at sea. She would have inherited a sum large enough to attract a decent husband if she chose to remarry, or to maintain her comfortably for the rest of her life if she did not. Anne and I would have lived happily ever after, and no one would have suffered any injury.”

“No one but the grieving widow, the deceived wife, and anyone who values honesty in the world.”

“I can see you are unmoved. Very well. I am grown quite parched from all this talk and am going inside in search of a draught that will quench my thirst and fortify me for the forthcoming interviews with Lady Catherine and Sir Thomas that I anticipate with so much pleasure. You may join me if you like; otherwise, should anyone else materialize to condemn me for a past wrong, tell him to return within a few hours, at which time he may abuse me at his leisure. By then my ears should be able to accommodate fresh rancor.”

Darcy was so thoroughly sick of Mr. Crawford—his smoothness, his excuses—that it was with relief that he watched the door close behind him. He wandered out of the courtyard to the village green, where a stone bench offered a view of the inn’s entrance. From here he could remain alert to Mr. Crawford’s movements while achieving deliverance from the rake’s proximity.

Shortly, Elizabeth emerged. A minute’s scan revealed his position to her, and she joined him on the bench.

“I saw Mr. Crawford as I passed through the dining room. You have done with him?”

“For the present. How is Mrs.—” He had been about to call his cousin “Mrs. Crawford,” an appellation which now elicited such feelings of abhorrence that he shuddered to pronounce it even in his own mind. “How is Anne?”

“Conscious, though I do not know how long she will maintain that state. The apothecary administered more laudanum. She was quite agitated by today’s revelations, as anyone would expect. Colonel Fitzwilliam remains with her. In his own mind he stands guard against any attempt Mr. Crawford might make to gain admittance, but I believe he also provides Anne a calming influence. His presence when she regained her senses seemed to offer steadiness on a day on which her life has been utterly upended.”

“Where is my aunt?”

“Closeted with Mr. Archer.”

“That conference will likely continue through the evening.” Lady Catherine must be desperate to mitigate the damage Mr. Crawford had wrought upon Anne, and was fortunate that Mr. Archer had arrived when he did. The solicitor was his aunt’s most trusted advisor—or henchman, depending upon one’s perspective. Whatever Lady Catherine bade, Mr. Archer undertook with alacrity. He obviated difficulties and made problems go away. Whether a matter was titanic or trifling, her ladyship had only to say, “Mr. Archer will handle it,” and whatever “it” was, was done.