her dinner in the dining room.”
She laughed.
“What is so amusing?”
“That assistance will require a bit of hand-holding and other contact, I warrant.”
“Of what are you accusing Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“Not a thing. I have no doubt of his behaving as a perfect gentleman, and she a perfect lady, and nothing untoward occurring between them.” She deliberately looked out the window once more. “At least, not on the staircase.”
“Elizabeth!”
She laughed again. “I do not even accuse either of them of being ardently in love — not yet. Whatever one or both of them might be feeling, I think is undeclared even within their own hearts, let alone to each other. And perhaps I am seeing what does not exist. But I have my suspicions, and I would much rather entertain happy ones involving your cousins than the more grave suspicions we have lately contemplated regarding Mr. Crawford’s murder.”
“Their being in love is not a happy scenario if my aunt has her way with this marriage between Anne and Lord Sennex.”
“Indeed not. And although Anne is of age, and cannot be forced to wed anybody, she is so remorseful about her elopement and the evil it has brought upon her that I do not think she has the confidence to resist her mother a second time. The first instance was difficult enough.” Her expression grew pensive. “Perhaps your aunt can be worked upon?”
“And perhaps Mr. Crawford will rise from the dead.” He shook his head. “No, she is determined to effect an alliance with the Sennex family one way or another. I suppose we should simply give thanks that her sights have shifted from Mr. Sennex to the viscount himself. At least he is benign.”
“Neville Sennex did not inherit his violent nature from his father?”
“I have heard that his lordship was a bit of a hothead in his youth — he had a rather inflated sense of honor, and heaven help anyone who might challenge it. Time, however, has tempered him. He still prizes honor, but demonstrates it in a dignified manner. At least, with as much dignity as the weaknesses of advancing age allow him.”
“Then I suppose Anne is indeed better off wed to him than to his son. Though I am somewhat surprised that Lady Catherine relinquished her designs on Mr. Sennex so easily. I rather imagined she had aspirations of a future grandson of hers inheriting the viscountcy.”
Darcy was silent for a moment. A vague feeling of dread had been hovering at the edges of his consciousness since the meeting with Lady Catherine, and it had been aggravated by an exchange he had overheard afterward. “I begin to wonder whether my aunt may yet harbor such aspirations.”
“How can she? Neville Sennex is the viscount’s eldest son. Anne could bear his lordship a dozen boys and it would make no difference — the title will pass to Neville, and to his son afterward.”
“Unless Neville never has a son.” He lowered his voice, disliking the thought of articulating his apprehension, even to Elizabeth. “While securing this chaise for our use, I encountered Neville Sennex. He was wanting to hire a horse to pay a call at Mansfield Park — apparently Sir Thomas’s eldest son is an acquaintance of his from one of the London clubs — Boodle’s, I believe. Lady Catherine, who had followed me to the livery to continue a conversation begun inside, overheard Mr. Sennex’s request and offered him the use of Charleybane.”
“That was exceedingly generous of her, considering the mare is not hers to lend.”
“Mr. Sennex is Charleybane’s previous owner. But in view of how offended my aunt was by Neville’s rejection of Anne, I was entirely taken aback by her having made the offer at all. I attributed it to her wanting to maintain favorable relations with Lord Sennex, who was wandering about the courtyard. But then Mrs. Garrick happened by, which brought to mind Lady Catherine’s having hired her a horse the evening of Mr. Crawford’s disappearance.”
“When she was hoping Meg might come to harm.”
“Charleybane is skittish and unpredictable. And, I suspect, not fond of the former master who abused her.”
“Now, Darcy, not one day ago you utterly dismissed my hypothesis about the involvement of your aunt’s solicitor in Henry Crawford’s death, and now here you have Lady Catherine plotting an assassination with a skittish horse as the murder weapon.”
“I merely say that I begin to have misgivings about my aunt’s motives in a number of transactions since her arrival in Mansfield.”
“And what will you do if those misgivings take root and blossom into full-grown convictions? If you find evidence that she was involved in Mr. Crawford’s death, will you bring it to Sir Thomas? She is your aunt, after all, and I know your sense of family loyalty to be as strong as your veneration for justice.”
Darcy had been wrestling with that very dilemma. He quite honestly did not know what he would do, and was almost tempted to abandon his investigative efforts so that he would not have to face that decision. “Let us hope that I need not make that choice.”
The carriage slowed. Darcy glanced out the window. They had not reached the village yet, but neared a crossroads. A man on horseback approached from another direction and hailed their driver.
Darcy studied the rider as well as he could from this distance. Highwaymen were a constant concern for travelers, and one should always be on his guard. The gentleman in question, however, appeared harmless. In fact, he appeared familiar.
Darcy leaned forward and peered more intently. Elizabeth, too, now looked out the window. And gasped.
“Darcy, is that truly…?”
It could not be. Yet it was.
Henry Crawford.
“There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences.”
Elizabeth could not believe her eyes. “How?”
“I cannot explain it.” Darcy instructed the driver to stop. They alighted just as Mr. Crawford reached the chaise.
“Pardon me — I did not mean to trouble you so far as to leave your carriage. I merely sought confirmation that this is the London road, as I am not familiar with the area and there is no signpost.”
Elizabeth was the first to recover herself. “Mr. Crawford, how ever did you come to be here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We believed you dead.”
“Madam, I happily offer my assurance that you are mistaken on that point. As you can see, I am quite alive. But as I am not the Mr. Crawford for whom you apparently take me, perhaps that gentleman is indeed less fortunate.”
“You most certainly
“I am not, sir. My name is John Garrick.”
Now Elizabeth could not believe her ears. Not only was Mr. Crawford alive, but insistent upon continuing the fraud he had perpetrated against Meg. What could he possibly hope to accomplish by behaving so?
Darcy had adopted a stance so rigid that Elizabeth had seen it only a few times before — on occasions when he was beyond incensed. “Mr. Crawford, kindly spare us the insult of subjecting us to this charade any longer.”
