“That, Mrs. Darcy, illustrates the difference between us. You are accustomed to accepting inferiority. I am not. When I want something, I do not settle for less.”
The tea arrived. Fortunately for the serving girl, Meg entered from the outside door just as she started to pour, thus drawing Lady Catherine’s derisive gaze to a new target.
“Humph,” Lady Catherine said under her breath. “I see the common dining room just became more common.”
Meg regarded their party uncertainly, though she did not appear to have overheard Lady Catherine’s snub. She went to an empty table in the corner. The sky outside had completely darkened, and the maid brought out another candle for Meg. In the flickering light, she looked lonely sitting there by herself, watching the flame as if she were not sure where else to direct her attention.
Elizabeth called over to her. “Mrs. Garrick, we have nearly finished our own breakfast, but you are welcome to join our table.”
Lady Catherine’s teacup clanked onto its saucer as a fit of coughing seized her.
Meg jumped up. “Oh, dear!” She hurried over to Lady Catherine and delivered three sharp blows to her back. As she prepared to offer a fourth, Lady Catherine seized her wrist.
“Stop assaulting me!” she sputtered.
“You were choking.”
“I merely downed my tea incorrectly, you featherbrain!” She issued a final, deep cough, then drained her teacup to clear her throat. She straightened her spine in an attempt to recapture her dignity.
Meg gave Lady Catherine’s back a final, gentle pat. “There, there. My mother had trouble feeding herself too, toward the end. Try eating more slowly.”
“The end? The end of what?”
Meg met Elizabeth’s gaze and shook her head sympathetically. “They become so irritable when they begin to lose their independence.”
A clap of thunder sounded, followed by the fall of rain. It came heavily, sluicing both the ground and Elizabeth’s spirits, for it trapped her inside with Lady Catherine.
In the courtyard, the trot of a horse signaled the arrival of a traveler. The animal emitted an unhappy neigh. It was not a traveler, however, but the ostler who hurried in a few moments later. His gaze swept the company, lighting at last on Darcy.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, for disturbin’ your breakfast, but Mr. Crawford’s horse is here.”
Lady Catherine’s teacup clattered a second time. “The scoundrel has returned? Impossible.”
“No, ma’am, not him. Just his horse. The saddle’s empty.”
Lady Catherine scoffed. “Then how do you know the mount is Mr. Crawford’s?”
“There’s no mistaking the animal, ma’am. Not with a scar like that.”
Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam left the ladies inside and subjected themselves to the deluge to see the horse for themselves. By the time they reached the stable, a boy had already unsaddled the mount and was rubbing her down. The horse was disfigured as Anne had described. It was indeed Charleybane.
Darcy inspected the saddle but noted nothing of interest. “Where are Mr. Crawford’s saddlebags?” he asked the stable boy.
“The horse didn’t return with none, sir.”
He exchanged a glance with his cousin. Mr. Crawford had left behind his valise and other luggage, but Darcy assumed he had fled the inn with something more than the clothes on his back. “Did he depart with saddlebags?”
“Don’t recollect, sir.” The boy finished grooming and moved to another part of the stable.
Colonel Fitzwilliam reached out to stroke the hunter’s nose, but the mare shied from his hand. “A noble animal scarred by circumstance,” he said. “Does Mr. Crawford spoil everything he touches? I wonder how she came by her injury.”
“Anne says Mr. Crawford recently acquired the Thoroughbred from Mr. Sennex as payment for a debt.”
“The mare belonged to Neville Sennex? Do not tell me so, for that means I must now consider the horse better off in Mr. Crawford’s care, which I find difficult to believe of any feeling creature.”
“Including Anne?”
“Especially Anne.” Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “What cruel fortune, to escape marriage to a man who is constantly brutal only to wed one who is brutally inconstant. She deserves a happier fate than either Mr. Sennex or Mr. Crawford could ever give her.”
“I do not know how she will find one now. Her legal mire is thicker than the mud on my boots.”
“Crawford’s death would clean up matters quite a bit.”
Despite the warm, humid air congesting the stable, the colonel’s words chilled Darcy. His cousin was no coward, but he was also no hothead. He had entered the army out of necessity — as a second son, unlikely to inherit unless misfortune struck his elder brother, he had needed a profession, and in his youth had been drawn to the military because it appeared to offer a more stimulating life than would the church or the law. In his years of service he had seen his share of battles and acquitted himself well, earning a reputation as a strong commander undaunted in combat. But his had always been an impersonal aggression, directed at a faceless, collective enemy. Until Henry Crawford crossed his path.
“You expressed a similar sentiment last night,” Darcy observed.
“Ease your mind — I have not acted upon it. I merely state a fact: Anne would be far better off with Crawford dead than missing. She would be free to marry whomever she wished while the courts sort out whether her first marriage was valid or not.”
“Even could she — or her mother — find a man who is interested, I cannot imagine Anne herself wishes to wed anyone at present. Hymen has not treated her well thus far.”
“She may yet find happiness. But before that can happen, we must ascertain Mr. Crawford’s fate. Did he abandon his mount voluntarily, or did an accident befall him?”
Darcy had been pondering that very question. “She is a distinctive horse. Mr. Crawford himself presents an average appearance that would not excite notice among strangers, but the animal’s scar draws attention and would linger in the memory of anyone he encounters. He might have parted with her in order to travel more inconspicuously. That would help explain why we were all unsuccessful in locating him during our search yesterday evening.”
“Surely if he chose to set the mare loose, he did so near a place where he could hire another mount or board a coach. Is there anything distinctive about her shoes? Perhaps we can trace the hoofprints to determine where she became separated from Mr. Crawford.”
An enormous crack of thunder satisfied that query. Even if they could have discerned Charleybane’s marks from all the others on the road, rain had obliterated them by now. As if to reinforce the point, the shower intensified.
They could not seek Henry Crawford today. The only question remaining was whether they would ever locate him at all.
Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long.
— Mansfield Park
Darcy turned his head away from the appalling spectacle, grateful that he had come alone despite Elizabeth’s offer to accompany him. The servant who had summoned him upon the unfortunate discovery had communicated few details, but something in his manner had forewarned Darcy that the true news lay in what had gone unsaid.
Sir Thomas Bertram muttered something resembling condolences. “You can imagine how surprised I was to learn that Mr. Crawford had been found on my own grounds,” he added. “We were still more shocked by his condition. I am sorry to have summoned you so early, but you can see why I do not want him left any longer in his present state.”
Sir Thomas’s servant had escorted Darcy through the woods of Mansfield Park to a small clearing some distance from the road. It was Darcy’s second meeting with Sir Thomas, the first having occurred when the family reported Mr. Crawford’s disappearance following the return of his horse. The coroner, a gentleman Sir Thomas had introduced as “my old friend Mr. Stover,” was also present, as was Sir Thomas’s gamekeeper, who had first come upon the body.
Darcy fought down the bile rising in his throat. As unconscionable as Mr. Crawford’s transgressions had been in life, no person deserved to endure such degradation in death as to be reduced to an inhuman mound of torn flesh. Rain had washed away most of the blood, but the body was in an advanced state of decomposition, and prolonged exposure to hungry wildlife and hot, humid weather had rendered what was left of him, particularly his countenance, unrecognizable. Were it not for the dark hair and general build of the remains, Darcy could not have believed it possible that this was a man he knew, let alone had spoken to less than a se’nnight previous. “Are you certain it is Mr. Crawford?”
“That is what we hope you will confirm,” said Mr. Stover.