The Matters at Mansfield

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!”