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 tete-a-tete.

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,

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