Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

“We were just come to thank Mrs. Elton for the puzzles she sent to Hartfield,” Mrs. Knightley said. “We found them most diverting, particularly the charade.”

“But I never said I—”

“You sent our charade to Hartfield?” Mr. Elton turned his head towards Mrs. Knightley, but his incredulous gaze remained on his wife. “It was an innocent little ditty — meaningless — composed as a private amusement.” At last, he looked at Mrs. Knightley. “I entreat you to destroy it and forget it ever found its way into your hands.”

Though Mrs. Knightley affected indifference, Elizabeth knew she must feel vindicated. “Shall I destroy the second puzzle as well?”

“Second puzzle?” He turned back to his wife. “You wrote another?” Though restrained, his tone held an icy edge.

“No! Indeed, my caro sposo, I certainly did not! You know I do not profess to be a wit. I do not know what she is talking about.”

Both Mr. Elton and Mrs. Knightley appeared in doubt as to the truth of this statement. Elizabeth, too, was inclined to skepticism. But there was in Mrs. Elton’s tone and manner a note of desperation, a need to be believed by her husband, that rang more genuine than the falsetto performance she had given to Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley earlier. In any event, it was clear that Mr. Elton, at least, had been entirely ignorant of the second puzzle until Mrs. Knightley mentioned it.

The overstuffed parlor contracted with tension, but Mr. Elton was too conscious of himself and his audience to say more to his wife. “The other puzzle must have come from Mrs. Martin, then,” he said to Mrs. Knightley. “She is the only person besides ourselves who was there discussing charades.”

“Yes!” Mrs. Elton exclaimed. “The enigma must have been written by Harriet. It is she, after all, who finds such diversion in these silly little word games.”

The visit soon concluded, and yielded no more. Mrs. Knightley came away still convinced that Mrs. Elton had authored both messages. “She did not even ask what the second one said,” she offered as evidence to Elizabeth. “Who, after sending the first puzzle, would not express even the slightest curiosity about the one that followed? Someone who already knew its content.”

Elizabeth remained less certain, though she considered Mrs. Elton a far likelier author than Harriet Martin. She was more satisfied with the results of her own enquiry, and intended to seek directly the two village girls whose names Mrs. Wright had supplied.

The ladies walked down Vicarage Lane again, passing the same children still occupied by the same diversion. The crows, though nearly done with their feast, yet vied for the remaining morsels. Apparently, one had seized upon a particularly coveted tidbit, provoking the jealousy of its fellow diners. They cawed their outrage, flapping their wings and snapping their beaks in an attempt to steal the delicacy. The offender flew off into a nearby tree, where it continued to loudly boast its triumph — in the process, dropping its prize.

“Apparently, this part of the village attracts all manner of braggarts,” Elizabeth said. “Though I cannot say who is more obnoxious — the Eltons, or the crows.”

“Are they not one and the same? Mrs. Elton crows at every opportunity.”

“You truly dislike her.”

“I have no patience for her conceit and presumption. She believes herself superior, but in truth she is no better — in fact, altogether more vulgar — than many of those whom she purports to eclipse. She is like the bird that flew into the tree just now, so busy proclaiming her superiority that she fails to realize how ridiculous she appears when she proves herself merely one of the flock.”

They followed the lane to Broadway. Mrs. Wright had said one of the girls lived just past the Crown, and it was to her house that they headed. However, as they passed the inn, a different girl caught Elizabeth’s attention.

The last person in England who she expected to see casually strolling the streets of Highbury.

Miss Jones.

Elizabeth was all astonishment.

So was Miss Jones.

Elizabeth recovered herself first. She took a step toward the Crown Inn, whence the girl had just emerged. The movement, however, penetrated Miss Jones’s own shock, and she instantly fled down the lane.

“Stop, thief!”

Elizabeth’s cry drew the attention of several passers-by, including Hiram Deal, whose cart Miss Jones was running past. He intercepted her flight and turned her around to face Elizabeth.

“I believe the lady wishes to speak with you,” he said.

Miss Jones cast him a scathing look. By the time she turned back to her accuser, however, she wore an entirely different expression.

“Oh! Ma’am! I recognize you now. Mrs. Darcy, is it not? The very person I hoped to meet.”

“Indeed?” Elizabeth was amazed by her brazenness. “Whatever for?”

“Why, to beg your forgiveness, of course! For the incident the other evening — I cannot think upon it without regret.”

“Nor can I.” Elizabeth cast a sidelong glance at Mrs. Knightley. “This is the young woman Mr. Darcy and I encountered on the London road.” She nodded towards Miss Jones’s foot. “Apparently, your ankle has healed.”

“Oh, Mrs. Darcy! If you would but listen—” She wrenched against Mr. Deal’s grasp. He released her, but remained near. “I did not want to deceive you! Truly, I did not! They forced me to.”

“Who?”

“The gypsies!”

This declaration raised echoes in the gathered onlookers.

“Gypsies!”

“The gypsies have returned?”

“Someone send word to Mr. Knightley!”

A sturdy young boy dashed off toward Hartfield to report the news, unaware that the magistrate had been in possession of this intelligence for days. Meanwhile, the crowd’s exclamations drew still more villagers. Among the new arrivals was Mr. Elton, who must have left the vicarage almost the moment Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley had. He strode toward them with an air of self-importance.

Elizabeth had little desire to cause a scene. But she also would not allow Miss Jones to disappear a second time. “I saw no gypsies the other night,” she said to her. “Only you, imposing most shamefully on my husband and me.”

Mr. Elton reached them. “What is transpiring here?”

Though Elizabeth addressed the clergyman, she kept her gaze fixed on Miss Jones. “This woman stopped our carriage and robbed Mr. Darcy and me on the London road four nights ago.”

“That is not true!” Miss Jones turned to Mr. Elton with wide, tearful eyes. “Indeed, sir, she misunderstands. I would never do such a thing — not willingly!”

“I do not see how this young woman could act as you describe. Stop a carriage and overcome the driver and Mr. Darcy? That is improbable for any female, let alone one of such petite stature.”

“She had accomplices. They stole our belongings while she diverted our attention.”

“I did not!”

“Perhaps you have mistaken her for someone else?” Mr. Elton suggested. “What is your name, miss?”

“Loretta. Loretta…” The woman hesitated, staring at Elizabeth. “Jones,” she said finally. “Loretta Jones.”

“I would know ‘Miss Jones’ anywhere,” Elizabeth said. “Her voice is unmistakable.” The caterwaul yet resonated in her memory. “And she is wearing the same dress.”

With little else over it. The girl had acquired a lightweight shawl since Elizabeth had last seen her, but it held more colors than warmth, and on this blustery November day she must be freezing. She still wore no hat; her flight had caused several locks of hair to come loose from its ribbon. Miss Jones rubbed her arms and shivered, eliciting sympathetic looks from more than one observer. A man offered her the use of his coat, which she accepted with abundant expressions of gratitude for his kindness to a “poor, lost stranger.”