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

By 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.”