Carrie Bebris - The Matters at Mansfield

“Since your arrival they already talk about nothing but you — you and your wife .” She choked out the final word.

“Maria—” He stepped toward her and said something in a voice too low for others to hear. She regarded him with fresh scorn and shook her head. He spoke again.

She responded with a slap to his face.

“You stay away from her, Mr. Crawford!” cried a lady hurrying down the lane. She had apparently been summoned by the woman who had raced off to the white house and who now trotted in her wake. “Stay away from my poor niece!”

“Mrs. Norris.” Henry rubbed his cheek. “How delightful to see you again.”

“You despicable rake! Have you not caused my dear Maria enough grief?”

“Indeed, madam, I—”

“How dare you show your face in this village? How dare you flaunt your new wife before Maria, before us all — a family who treated you so well? Maria was content with Mr. Rushworth until you led her astray. And now that she has been cast from her father’s home, with no one in the world but me to treat her kindly, you arrive in Mansfield with your bridal entourage to humiliate her further.”

“I assure you, that is not my purpose in—”

“Sir Thomas knows you are here. Your presence is an insult not only to Maria, but to all her family, especially her father. And to me, who took her in, thinking nothing of myself or my own reputation. I performed my duty as a Christian and as an aunt, despite the burden of supporting us both on a poor widow’s income. And whilst I sacrifice and Maria suffers, you blithely parade through the village with no conscience or shame. I have never seen the like in all my days…”

She excoriated him in this manner for several minutes more. Henry Crawford was a rogue, a knave, a scoundrel, a libertine. He was evil incarnate, and apparently entirely to blame for the falls of Maria, someone named Julia, and the Holy Roman Empire.

“She left out Adam and Eve,” Elizabeth said to Darcy.

“I think she simply has not gotten to them yet.” Darcy closed the window against the sound of Mrs. Norris’s voice rising to another fevered pitch. Overhearing the scene below caused him greater discomfort than the temperature in the room. Though the actors insisted on a public performance, observing it nonetheless felt like eavesdropping. He moved away from the window, no easy feat in the tiny chamber.

Elizabeth, too, turned her back on the display. “Do you suppose we ought to rescue him?”

“Mr. Crawford is responsible for himself and must make whatever amends he can with the people he has wronged.”

Mrs. Norris’s euphonic tones carried through the glass. Darcy winced.

“But perhaps we can contain the spectacle.”

By the time Elizabeth and Darcy reached the courtyard, another gentleman had ventured into the fracas. He was a tall, serious-looking man perhaps a year or two younger than Darcy, and wore the black coat of a clergyman. Despite his sober mien, he had a kind face, though Elizabeth privately admitted that her assessment might be influenced by the fact that he had somehow induced Mrs. Norris to stop talking — a kindness to them all.

He was speaking to Maria’s champion as they approached.

“Aunt Norris, if Mr. Crawford is capable of contrition, I am sure he feels it now. Let us leave him to the reflections of his own conscience.”

Mr. Crawford cleared his throat. “Edmund, I—”

He stopped at a look from Edmund. It was the clergyman whose expression seemed to hold the most regret.

“We are no longer on such intimate terms of friendship. You may address me as Mr. Bertram.”

“Of course.” A look of remorse indeed seemed to overcome him. “Mr. Bertram, I am sorry for my part in the events of last year.”

Mr. Bertram regarded him in silence for a long minute. “Maria, this man is not worth your anguish. Return home with our aunt.”

“One moment.” She removed her ear-bobs, large sapphires that had set off her eyes to advantage. “Here,” she said, holding them out to Henry.

He shook his head. “Keep them. They were a gift.”

“I no longer want them.” When he did not take them, she overturned her hand and let them fall onto the ground. “Give them to your wife, bury them right there in the dirt — it matters not to me, so long as they are forever gone from my sight. As I wish you to be.”

As she and Mrs. Norris departed, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds. Henry bent to retrieve the earrings. Anne appeared in the doorway of the inn, supported by Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“Henry?”

“Anne? Good heavens! What are you doing out of bed?” Henry hastily shoved the ear-bobs into his coat pocket as she took tentative steps forward to meet him. When they were reunited, Anne traded her cousin’s arm for her husband’s. He glared at Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I cannot believe you brought her down here!”

“I agree entirely — she ought not to have left her bed. She heard the uproar and insisted on coming to see you,” the colonel explained. “I attempted to dissuade her, but she threatened to descend the stairs by herself if I would not aid her. And her mother—”

“Heard the disturbance as well,” Lady Catherine announced from behind them. She shouldered her way through. “I expected you to possess enough consciousness of basic propriety to avoid so public an exhibition. I suggest you assist your wife back to your chamber.” Her eyes swept the assembled villagers. “And I suggest all of you return to your own business.”

Her command, coupled with the arrival of a coach, dispersed the idle onlookers. The first passenger to alight caused Lady Catherine’s countenance to reflect the closest thing to satisfaction that Elizabeth had seen on it since the ball.

“Mr. Archer,” her ladyship greeted him.

Elizabeth recognized the name of Lady Catherine’s solicitor. His lean frame nearly bent in half, so deep was the bow he offered his employer. His fob chain caught the afternoon sunlight and gleamed against his black suit. When he uprighted himself, large eyes set in a thin, unsmiling face rapidly assessed his environs.

Before approaching Lady Catherine, Mr. Archer paused to assist a female passenger emerging from the coach. Henry wheeled Anne toward the door of the inn.

“Your mother is absolutely correct,” he said in a low voice. “You should be resting inside.”

“But—”

“Do not protest.”

He guided her forward, but she moved with such excruciating slowness that witnessing her struggle made Elizabeth’s own leg hurt.

“Mr. Crawford,” said Lady Catherine, “Mr. Archer will want to see you later this afternoon.”

Henry nodded without turning around.

Mr. Archer, meanwhile, had dispatched his chivalrous duty for the day. The moment his fellow passenger was safely on the ground, he abandoned her to glide over to Lady Catherine.

The young woman he had assisted looked around, absorbing her new surroundings. She was a slip of a girl, possessing one of those faces and figures that might pass for sixteen or six-and-twenty with equal credibility. She wore a simple calico gown that had seen better days, a similarly exhausted bonnet, and no gloves. Her sole adornment was an amber cross on a gold chain that hung round her neck. A lock of red hair had come loose from her bonnet and hung behind her like a fox’s brush. She clutched in her hands a small card.

For all her waiflike appearance, her eyes reflected intelligence and purpose as she scanned the retreating spectators. Her gaze lit on a dark-haired gentleman in a brown coat who was walking toward the livery.