and pursue them on horseback, perhaps I can overtake them before they reach Scotland.”
“I will accompany you,” Colonel Fitzwilliam offered.
Darcy nodded. “Let us find Mr. Crawford’s uncle and Admiral Davidson, if they are still here at Riveton. If we can confirm what time the couple departed and their means of conveyance, we can seek them more effectively.”
“The two admirals have already gone home,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “I saw them leave as we searched for Anne. Should we stop at Admiral Davidson’s house on our way?”
Darcy glanced toward the window. Black had shifted to dark grey. “I hesitate to take the time. Dawn will break soon, and with the daylight their carriage can increase its pace. You are familiar with Mr. Crawford’s appearance, and so can provide a description when we enquire after him along the road?”
“I can.”
“Then let us not lose another minute. Tell a servant to ready our horses. I will meet you in the stables, so that our own departure will be less apparent to the other guests.” He turned to Lady Catherine. “What would you have me do when I find them?”
“Wed or unwed, bring them both back here directly. I will deal with Mr. Crawford myself.”
“I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions.”
Darcy rapped on the battered chamber door. The wood appeared to have suffered a great deal of abuse over time, forced open by countless outraged fathers and others who, like Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, had pursued eloping couples to this inn and arrived too late. The border village of Gretna Green, with its lax Scottish marriage laws, did such a considerable business in hasty weddings that several local inns offered one-stop convenience to expedite the process. Within minutes of their arrival, English couples could wed and bed at a single location, heading straight from the marriage room to an adjacent bedroom, thus thwarting the efforts of anyone who might arrive too late to insist upon a more prudent approach to matrimony.
Whatever had his cousin been thinking, to consent to such vulgar nuptials? Anne had not even been wed by a proper clergyman, but the innkeeper himself — unfortunately, a perfectly legal union under Scottish law. Darcy dreaded having to report to Lady Catherine that her daughter had been married by one of the village’s infamous “anvil priests,” with the innkeeper’s wife and an ostler as witnesses. At least the couple had not wed at the blacksmith’s shop itself; the cottage at the village’s main crossroads was the first building travelers encountered, and as such, Gretna Green’s most notorious wedding venue.
A second knock elicited sounds of movement from within the chamber.
“Who calls?” asked a male voice.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
His answer received no immediate response, making Darcy grateful that Colonel Fitzwilliam stood sentinel outside the window, ready to detain Mr. Crawford if the scoundrel attempted to avoid them. Darcy was glad his cousin had accompanied him — not only for the companionship on what had been a long, hard ride, but also for his impressive regimental uniform that had elicited ready cooperation from all they questioned as they traced the couple’s route. If Mr. Crawford tried anything underhanded, Colonel Fitzwilliam could manage him.
A minute later the door opened, and a short, dark gentleman greeted him with a smile far too self-assured for the circumstances.
“Mr. Darcy! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. We have been expecting you, or some emissary of Anne’s family, since the wedding.”
“Is Miss de Bourgh within?”
“No, but Mrs. Crawford is.”
“I would speak with her.”
“By all means.”
Mr. Crawford opened the door wider and stepped aside. Anne sat perched on the edge of the bed, but upon Darcy’s entrance stood and drew her dressing gown more closely around her. Darcy noted the self-conscious gesture and averted his gaze, which, as there was little else to behold in the tiny room, landed first on the rumpled coverings of the hastily made bed and then bounced back to Mr. Crawford, whose own limited attire comprised breeches and an untucked shirt. When he looked at Anne once more, her face was scarlet.
Any hope he had harbored of having reached Anne before the couple consummated their marriage evaporated. There was no undoing the union now; all that remained was repairing as much damage as possible.
With obvious effort, she raised her eyes to meet his and regarded him anxiously. “Is my mother with you?”
“No.”
Her expression relaxed ever so slightly.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, waits outside.”
She flushed again and looked away.
“And here, Anne, you worried about how news of our nuptials would be received by your relations. Why, we have nearly enough guests to host a wedding breakfast. Do invite the good colonel in, Mr. Darcy. It looks about to rain again.”
Mr. Crawford’s lightness sounded forced; perhaps the bridegroom was not so confident after all. Regardless, Darcy had little patience for levity at present, particularly from that quarter. He was weary and sore from days of travel, and frustrated by his failure to prevent the marriage.
He crossed to the window and signaled Colonel Fitzwilliam to join them, not because Mr. Crawford had suggested it, or because of the cursed rain that had delayed them just enough to thwart their mission, but for motives of his own.
Anne pulled her dressing gown so tightly about her that she strained the fabric. “Darcy, I would rather our cousin not see me in this state.”
“He need not.” Darcy felt awkward enough witnessing her dishabille, and he was a married man. Colonel Fitzwilliam was a bachelor. “He can keep your new husband company while you and I converse in private.”
“Keep me company, or be my keeper? Come, Mr. Darcy. Surely you do not think I would abandon my bride after going to such lengths to secure her?”
Darcy leveled the groom with an impassive stare. “I do not know what to think of you, Mr. Crawford, for I do not know what kind of gentleman prevails upon a lady to abandon her family, her principles, her caution, and her duty to enter into an irrevocable union in a manner that can only engender sorrow and ill will amongst all who know her, and gossip amongst those who do not.”
Actually, Darcy knew exactly what kind of man would do so. His brother-in-law Mr. Wickham was such a man. Several years ago, the fortune hunter had nearly enticed Darcy’s sister into eloping, but Georgiana’s conscience had compelled her to confess their plan to Darcy before it could be enacted. Wickham later succeeded in seducing Elizabeth’s youngest sister, Lydia, a girl of lesser fortune and, regrettably, fewer scruples.
Yes, Darcy indeed had experience with men who allowed selfishness to govern their matrimonial tactics. Mr. Crawford, however, was by Elizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s accounts wealthy enough to have courted Anne honorably, which made his motives more difficult to comprehend. So, too, were Anne’s. Georgiana and Lydia had each been but fifteen when Wickham preyed upon them, and in Georgiana’s instance her would-be seducer was a man she had known all her life, as much a part of the landscape of Pemberley as its woods. Anne de Bourgh was nearly twice that age, more mature, more cognizant of the consequences of elopement. And far less familiar with her suitor.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s tread signaled his approach. Darcy greeted him at the door, closing it behind him to shield Anne from view. He spoke in a low tone. “It is as we feared. We are too late.”
