The Matters at Mansfield

“Meg!” Happy expectation, coupled with relief, overcame his countenance.

Her breath caught in her throat. She turned to Elizabeth, her wide eyes begging an explanation.

Elizabeth took the tray from her hands, set it down, and led her toward the parlor. “We are as astonished as you are. Come, he has been asking for you.”

They shut the parlor door against intrusive eyes. Darcy stood in one corner, arms folded across his chest. Mr. Crawford took a step toward Meg.

“Meg, why do you regard me so? It is as if you do not recognize me. It is I — John.”

“John?” The name prodded Meg from her disbelieving daze. “John! How dare you use that name?”

“What do you mean? That is my name. What other am I supposed to use?”

“Henry Crawford — the name you revealed to me before you disappeared. We thought you were dead, you know.”

“Who is this Henry Crawford fellow? I heard his name whispered even as we entered.”

Meg looked as if she wanted to strike him, but restrained herself. “Where have you been this past week?”

“I suffered an injury and have been recovering at a farm several miles hence. A crofter and his daughter took me in.”

“A crofter with a daughter? And you’ve been there a week. Have you married her yet?”

“I do not understand you.”

“I do not understand you! After everything you did to me, now you come back here calling yourself John Garrick? What do you want from me?”

He took another step toward her. “I want my wife.”

“Do not come near me!” She kicked him in the shin.

“Ouch!” He doubled over and reached for his leg. Suddenly, he shifted his hands to his head. “I am dizzy.”

He hobbled to a chair and sat down. He shut his eyes tightly for a minute, then opened them and regarded Meg in wonderment. “You have done that before.”

“I have done what?”

“Kicked me that way.”

“Yes. Once.”

“Here, at this inn. Outside.”

“Yes.”

“I am remembering… We argued — I do not recall the subject — but we argued… and afterward I went to my chamber. I found a note there — an unsigned note. Its author invited me to meet at the grove in Mansfield Wood, there to discuss a matter of honor that could not be forgiven.”

He rubbed his brow and turned to Darcy. “I kept the appointment. When I arrived, I was met by a man with a pistol. I recognized him as another guest at this inn — he had the room next to mine. He said I had behaved dishonorably, and that he had been hired to punish my conduct. I said, would he kindly name his employer? He refused, just handed me a pistol that matched his own and ordered me to walk fifteen paces. He took his shot as I was yet turning around. A searing pain seized my temple, and I fell to the ground, believing myself dying.”

“What occurred afterward?” Darcy asked.

“It is as I told you earlier. I recollect nothing more. Except…”

“Except what?”

“The body. When I awoke, the body that was lying nearby — it was his.”

Darcy opened the door and summoned Mr. Gower. Though surely he had heard the news of Mr. Crawford’s return as it circulated the inn, their host nevertheless regarded Henry in amazement upon entering.

“What can you tell us about the gentleman who occupied the room next to Mr. Crawford’s?”

“Mr. Lautus? He arrived just after you did; gave an address in Birmingham when he signed the register. Settled his account in full each day and kept to himself, mostly. I last saw him the day your wife and all the others arrived. He said he would be moving on soon, though at the time I did not understand him to mean that day. But Mrs. Garrick’s coach arrived while we were speaking and in the confusion I must have mistook him.”

“Mr. Crawford has information pertaining to him that will be of interest to the magistrate. Kindly send someone for Sir Thomas.”

No sooner had Mr. Gower left the parlor than Lady Catherine entered it. Upon sighting Mr. Crawford in the chair, her expression turned stony.

“So, the report is true. You are yet among the living.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Is there no end to the damage you wreak? Your very existence causes me tribulation and grief.”

Henry turned to Elizabeth. “Do I know her?”

“She is your mother-in-law.”

“You are mistaken. She is not Meg’s mother.”

“Henry Crawford’s mother-in-law.”

“Oh. Perhaps he is happier dead.”

“What is this you are saying?” Lady Catherine snapped. “What is this pretense? You are Henry Crawford! And because of you, my plans for Anne’s future have once more come undone.”

“What? What do you say about Anne?” Viscount Sennex shuffled into the room. “Oh, here you are, Lady Catherine. I have been looking for you this hour. I have questions about the agreement we discussed—”

“I am afraid we must discuss it further, my lord, before it can be finalized.”

“Further? Very well. But what has this gentleman to do with my bride?”

“Nothing, my lord. Nothing that need trouble you. He is only — only a Mr. Garrick.”

He blinked and scratched his head. “But I thought I heard you call him Henry Crawford.”

“You did. I should not have addressed him so.”

“Well, is he Mr. Crawford or Mr. Garrick?”

“The matter is complicated.”

The viscount rubbed his chin, which appeared in need of shaving. “If he is Mr. Crawford, is he Miss de Bourgh’s Mr. Crawford?”

“Anne no longer has a Mr. Crawford.”

The elderly gentleman appeared so confused that he looked as if he could not at once absorb Lady Catherine’s words and remain standing. He leaned heavily on his cane. “This is all most perplexing…”

“Indeed, it is, my lord. Allow me to escort you back to your chamber whilst I explain everything you need to know.” With a final glare at Mr. Crawford, Lady Catherine led the viscount from the room.

Elizabeth wondered just how Lady Catherine planned to “explain” the present situation in a way that would enable her plan to proceed. As sorry as Elizabeth felt for Anne, she experienced equal sympathy for Lord Sennex. It vexed her to witness Lady Catherine taking advantage of his age and mental frailty to advance her own selfish interests.

She excused herself from the parlor temporarily. To her knowledge, no one had yet informed Anne or Colonel Fitzwilliam of Mr. Crawford’s return from the dead, an omission she undertook to rectify. She was stopped on her way to the staircase by Mrs. Norris, who apparently had come to the inn solely for the purpose of being among the first in the village to obtain particulars about Mr. Crawford’s miraculous resurrection.

“Mrs. Darcy, is it true? Is Henry Crawford indeed alive?”

Elizabeth lacked the patience to deal with the busybody at present. The day would soon turn to evening, yet there seemed to be no end of it in sight.

“Yes, he is. Would you care to join the queue of persons who have business with him?”

Her eyes widened. “No — no, indeed! I merely wanted to know — for Maria’s sake. I have no wish to see that scoundrel.”

Now that Henry Crawford was alive once more, he was again a scoundrel. So much for Christian forgiveness.