“I give you my word, sir, I am not Mr. Crawford, but John Garrick.”
“John Garrick is a fiction you invented.”
“My wife would tell you otherwise, were she here. Now if you will excuse me, I have a great distance to travel before reaching home. I am sorry I am not the person you believe me to be — though if he is dead, I am not that sorry.” He signaled his horse to trot.
“Is your wife’s name Meg?” Elizabeth called after him.
He brought the bay to a halt and turned around. “How did you know that?”
“She is in Mansfield. She has been looking for you.”
“Meg is here in Northamptonshire? How did she get here?”
“You know perfectly well how she came to be here.” Darcy clipped his words. “You saw her arrive.”
“When?”
“A se’nnight ago.”
“A se’nnight ago I was—” He abruptly stopped speaking.
“You were what?”
“A se’nnight ago I was injured,” he said. “I have no memory of events leading up to that night.”
“How very convenient.”
“It was a head injury — a wound along my temple.” He dismounted and removed his hat. “See — it has not fully healed.”
Elizabeth and Darcy both looked at the side of his head. The gentleman indeed sported a stripe of damaged flesh above his ear. The wound garnered no sympathy from Darcy. His tone did not soften in the least as he asked what had caused the injury.
“I…” Mr. Crawford turned away from the impassive Darcy and instead addressed Elizabeth. “I need to see my wife.”
“Which one?” Darcy asked.
Mr. Crawford regarded him with confusion, then turned back to Elizabeth. “Please — you said you know where Meg is. Will you take me to her?”
Elizabeth could not determine what Mr. Crawford was about. “Do you also wish to see Anne?”
“Who is Anne?”
At that, Darcy’s ire flared. “We will take you to see Meg, but only if you answer some questions first.”
Mr. Crawford glanced between them, as if trying to determine whether they could be trusted. How absurd — considering that he was the one with a record of betrayal.
“I… I believe a bullet caused my injury,” he told Elizabeth.
“Whence did this bullet come?” Darcy asked.
“As I told you, I do not recall what happened. I woke up Thursday morning to the sensation of rain falling upon me. I was lying in a grove. It was dawn, or shortly thereafter — I could not be sure, clouds so darkened the sky. I had no idea where I was or how I came to be there. My head ached beyond anything, and I had trouble holding a thought. The side of my face was sticky with my own blood. It was agony to lift my head from the ground but I managed to push myself into a sitting position. That is when I noticed a pistol lying beside me.”
“And when did you notice the body?” Darcy asked.
Mr. Crawford started. “How do you know about the body?”
“It was still there days later, when it was mistaken for you. Whose body is it, Mr. Crawford, and why did you kill him?”
“I do not know!” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I do not know what happened, or who he was. I left the pistol where it lay — I wanted no part of it — and stumbled over to him, but he was past any assistance this world could offer. My mind was so cloudy that I could scarcely stand. A whinny drew my attention to a cluster of trees. This horse was tied there. I know not whether it was his horse or mine. I untied her, somehow managed to climb into the saddle, and nudged her forward.
“I must have lost consciousness again shortly afterward, for I remember nothing else until I woke up again in a crofter’s cottage. The farmer told me he had seen the horse pass his home with me slumped over her neck, and so had stopped the animal and brought me inside. His daughter nursed me until today, when I at last felt myself strong enough to attempt getting home to Meg. But you tell me she is near. I have revealed all I know — will you take me to her now?”
Elizabeth looked to Darcy. He was clearly unconvinced by Mr. Crawford’s story, but he assented. Their driver turned the chaise around and they headed back to Mansfield with Mr. Crawford accompanying on horseback.
“Just when one thinks Henry Crawford’s affairs could not become more knotty…” Elizabeth shook her head in amazement. “You are quite certain this gentleman is indeed Mr. Crawford?”
“Yes. Are not you?”
“Almost certain. He looks like Henry Crawford, but we have been mistaken in the past about the true identities of other individuals. And if this gentleman is indeed Mr. Crawford, that means you erred in identifying the corpse discovered in Mansfield Wood.”
“I am well aware of that,” he said tersely.
The defensive response took her aback. “I did not mean that as a criticism of you, only a statement of fact. Sir Thomas and the coroner also bear responsibility. I wonder who the unfortunate gentleman is, if not Mr. Crawford?”
“I cannot speculate. Whoever the deceased might be, Henry Crawford’s reappearance absolves us of any interest in the matter. From the sound of things, Mr. Crawford himself is most likely responsible for the man’s death, and even if he is not, I happily relinquish to Sir Thomas the charge of determining what occurred.”
“Our lives have indeed become simpler this half hour. Though Anne’s life, however, has not. I wonder what Lady Catherine will do when she catches sight of Mr. Crawford? Anne cannot marry the viscount now without first fully disclosing the details of her first marriage. As it is, he might not live long enough for the courts to sort out the matter.”
“My aunt will be most seriously displeased.”
“Poor Mr. Crawford — to return from the dead, only to have all his acquaintance wish he would go back.” She looked out the window at the gentleman in question riding beside them. “Do you suppose he truly believes himself to be Mr. Garrick?”
“The man has either lost the ability to distinguish his real existence from playacting, or he hopes to somehow use the ruse to win pardon for his crimes. I speculate the latter.”
“Do you think his head injury might have muddled his memory?”
“We shall see how he behaves in the presence of his wife.”
“Which wife?”
“Both of them.”
When they neared the village, Darcy suggested to Mr. Crawford that he ride in the chaise and allow his mount to follow. “Everyone in the village believes you dead. It will not do to have you parade through the streets. The shock would cause ladies to swoon.”
Mr. Crawford readily complied. As they rode the remaining mile, he spoke little of himself, providing no new information about his present circumstances. From the time the farmer found him until the present morning, he claimed, he had been confined to the cottage as he recovered and come into contact with no one save the crofter and his daughter. At last today he had believed himself restored enough to attempt the journey home.
He made repeated inquiries about Meg. Elizabeth and Darcy volunteered few details.
“When did you last see your wife?” Elizabeth asked.
“I cannot recall. I am a merchant marine, and thus do not enjoy opportunities enough to spend time at home with her.”
Darcy regarded him with impatience. “If you are a marine, why do you not speak more like a sailor?”
“I…” Mr. Crawford appeared confused and lapsed into contemplative silence.
Upon reaching the inn, they ushered Mr. Crawford into the small parlor as quickly as they could. His arrival, however, was noted by several patrons in the dining room, who then swallowed the remainder of their meals at an indigestion-courting rate so as to be the first to circulate the news abroad.
Mr. Crawford’s arrival was also noticed by Meg, who nearly dropped a tray full of food in her shock. Her struggle to keep its entire contents from tumbling to the floor drew his attention.
