“Mrs. Rushworth, you mean. When she gave up the name Bertram, Mr. Crawford should have given up her. No gentleman has any business running off with another man’s wife.”
“No proper lady, married or not, would have gone.”
Darcy signaled the serving girl to bring the men another round.
“Well, don’t let Mrs. Norris hear you saying such about her niece, or she’ll make your ears burn.”
“Let her rail. What does anyone care about that old busybody’s opinion? Even Sir Thomas doesn’t. Won’t receive his own daughter, and I say good riddance. If my Nellie ever brought such shame on my house, I’d cast her out — and castrate the dog she ran off with.”
“I’d leave that satisfaction to her cuckolded husband.”
“Rushworth is outraged enough to do it. He won’t take her back, and I hear he’s actually going to divorce her.”
“Put her and Mr. Crawford on trial?”
Just then the apothecary descended the staircase. Though Darcy regretted his timing — he wanted to learn more about Mr. Crawford — anxiety for Anne propelled him away from Hobson’s conversation.
“Mrs. Crawford is fortunate,” said Mr. Dawson. “Though her leg is terribly bruised and swollen, it appears to be unbroken. I believe the recent rain softened the ground enough that her limb sank into the earth when the carriage wheel rolled over it. She is in a great deal of pain, however, and I recommend she not travel for at least a fortnight.”
Darcy added the essentials of Mr. Dawson’s report to his letter and arranged for it to be dispatched to Riveton posthaste. By the time he completed his task, Hobson and his comrades had disbanded, taking their elucidating discussion with them.
He went upstairs. Mr. Crawford answered his knock and admitted him. Mrs. Gower had departed, leaving Henry alone with Anne, who lay sleeping. Someone had helped her out of her muddy clothes and into a nightdress, barely visible beneath the quilt tucked around her. Darcy could not see the injured leg at all.
“Mr. Dawson gave her laudanum.” Mr. Crawford pushed a stray lock of hair away from Anne’s eyes. “Her sleep was fitful at first, but I believe she rests more comfortably now.”
“I have sent word to Riveton of the accident.”
“Thank you. That was a duty to which I did not look forward.”
“Do not thank me yet. While I composed the letter, several other patrons in the dining room engaged in a most intriguing conversation. Do you care to speculate as to its subject?”
Mr. Crawford had the decency to appear uncomfortable. “Henry Crawford?”
“Indeed. And one Mrs. Rushworth.”
“There are many other villages in which I would rather find myself.”
“Anne confided to me that you had recently ended an affair with a married lady. I now presume she referred to Mrs. Rushworth — unless you maintain a succession of mistresses?”
“No, only the one. Though lately I have contemplated starting a harem.”
Darcy’s lack of amusement eradicated Mr. Crawford’s attempt at wit. His grin faded.
“Trust me, one such as Maria Rushworth is enough,” Mr. Crawford said more soberly. “She is willful and vain and selfish, and I believe I felt more regret at her disloyalty toward her husband than she did. Believe it or not, it was
“I am to understand that
“Ironic, is it not? That a relationship born in deception should end with the belated emergence of integrity? But so it did. I am a reformed man, Mr. Darcy. From this day forward, the only wives I seduce will be my own.”
With Anne asleep, Mr. Crawford went downstairs to face Mr. Gower. He either ignored or was oblivious to the innkeeper’s ill will as he signed the register, his right hand sweeping across the page as he formed a flourish at the end of his name. His autograph dominated the folio, nearly eclipsing the more restrained signature of a Mr. Lautus whose name appeared above.
Mr. Crawford seemed to move through the world with a dramatic flair that spilled out onto everything he touched. Darcy hoped for Anne’s sake it would not overrun her.
“You can be at no loss… to understand the reason of my journey hither. .. you ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with.”
In the space of four-and-twenty hours, the Ox and Bull shrank. Somehow the inn that had lounged on the village green spreading its cobbled-together wings in lazy imitation of more formal guesthouses now seemed to stand at attention, its walls constricting as it labored to contain the company within.
It was the wind, some said. A summer gale had ruffled the village the full length of that unseasonably stormy day. By dusk, it had blown in a force of nature stronger than any Mansfield had previously known.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Her ladyship came accompanied by Elizabeth, who nearly tumbled out of the chaise in her haste to escape after the longest ride of her life — measured not by distance, but by the perceived movement of time. Though Lady Catherine had ordered a grueling pace, so fractious had been the atmosphere within the carriage that Elizabeth felt no horses in the world could convey them to Mansfield quickly enough. Her ladyship’s indignation over the elopement, now nursed for more than a se’nnight, teamed with anxiety for Anne’s health and conviction of Mr. Crawford’s negligence to render Darcy’s aunt the most cross passenger with whom Elizabeth had ever had the misfortune of being trapped in an enclosed vehicle.
Directly they arrived, her ladyship strode into the inn, cast an appraising look about her that pronounced the surroundings altogether inferior, and demanded the whereabouts of Mr. and Mrs. Crawford.
“They are in their room, ma’am,” said the innkeeper. “If you give me your name, I will send one of the girls to announce you.”
“I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mrs. Crawford’s mother. Merely identify which chamber is theirs — on this occasion, I prefer to announce myself.”
The innkeeper complied. Lady Catherine marched up the stairs while Elizabeth lingered behind.
“My husband, Mr. Darcy, has also taken lodging here. Where might I find him?”
“I believe he, too, is presently in his room, across the hall from the Crawfords. Will you be staying?”
“Yes.” She hoped their stay would not prove long. She had sent Lily-Anne home to Pemberley with Mrs. Flaherty and Georgiana, and did not want to be separated from her daughter for an extended period.
He glanced up the staircase. “And her ladyship?”
“She requires accommodations as well — the best available. Have you enough rooms for us all?”
“Certainly. We have only one other guest, a single gentleman, besides your party.”
Elizabeth was pleased to hear that with the exception of a lone gentleman, they had the inn to themselves. Though surely Lady Catherine would exercise discretion in her dealings with Mr. Crawford, the general mood of all their party was not sociable.
She went in search of Darcy and found him standing in the hall, along with Mr. Crawford and Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Lady Catherine desires a few minutes’ private conversation with her daughter,” Darcy explained. “She also suggested that you see to her room arrangements.”
Elizabeth released a heavy sigh, but it was inadequate to expel the week’s worth of vexation that threatened
