He selected a card from his hand and captured the trick, his third straight. Somehow, despite the dual impairment of his mental state and Lady Catherine’s conversation, he was managing to retain the lead.
“I did not mean to propose that the wedding should follow quite that hard upon,” Lady Catherine said.
“No, no — it is a capital idea. I am glad you suggested it.”
“Surely no one in Society would look askance at someone of your lordship’s years assuaging his sorrow with a bride. Perhaps it will not be long before you have a new heir to cheer you.”
Anne colored and occupied herself in rearranging her cards.
The viscount selected another lead from his hand. “Kindly remind me, Lady Catherine, when is Neville’s funeral?”
“Three days’ time.” Lady Catherine frowned as he captured another trick. “Mr. Sennex’s body is being transported to Buckinghamshire tomorrow morning. Your lordship planned to accompany it, with the rest of us making the journey the following day.”
“Ah, yes.” Lord Sennex became lost in thought so long that Elizabeth began to wonder whether he would ever return. At last, he played a card. “It will be a lonely journey home, I am afraid.” He turned to Anne. “I wonder whether you would consent to ride with me.”
“She would be delighted,” Lady Catherine declared.
Anne, her felicity apparently too great for expression, merely nodded her assent.
“Excellent. And would you, Mrs. Darcy, accompany us? After all, we must maintain decorum.”
Elizabeth agreed, far more for Anne’s sake than for the sake of propriety. She looked at Anne, willing her to assert herself. But Anne offered no objection to the travel arrangements or the marriage, only a low card already defeated by her mother’s and the viscount’s plays.
Lady Catherine was so satisfied with herself that she did not even scowl when the viscount captured his sixth trick, and the pool.
“It raises my spleen more than any thing, to have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing — whatever it be!”
— Tom Bertram, Mansfield Park
Anne walked slowly but confidently round the common with Elizabeth, her recovery all but complete. The two of them had sought a few minutes’ exercise before the journey to Buckinghamshire. The coach with Neville’s remains had already departed; his lordship’s carriage was presently being prepared and would depart soon.
Uncertain when to anticipate her husband’s return, Elizabeth had sent word to him at their London townhouse, and also left a note for him with Mr. Gower, explaining her removal to Buckinghamshire. She hoped it would not be long before he could meet her there. Or better still, before they could go home altogether. She missed Lily-Anne exceedingly. She was glad, however, that her child was safe at Pemberley, and not with her in Mansfield amid death and mayhem. She prayed Darcy had met with success on his errand so that the investigation he felt honor-bound to assist could come to a close.
Elizabeth had thought that getting Anne out of the inn for a while would do her good, and the prescription appeared to be having the desired effect. Not only was the exercise strengthening her body, but the distance from Lady Catherine was strengthening her spirit. Elizabeth regretted that they must now turn their steps back toward the inn.
“I expect the viscount is anxious to reach Hawthorn Manor.” Anne’s voice held little enthusiasm.
“You seem not quite eager to go there yourself.”
“An alliance with a feebleminded, elderly man is hardly the marriage most women dream about,” she said. “But then, neither is discovering that one’s dashing young husband is married to someone else.”
“You do not have to marry Lord Sennex, you know.”
An unseasonably cool breeze marshaled the air, an early reminder of the coming autumn. Anne shivered and crossed her arms. “I signed the betrothal agreement last night. I could not defy my mother a second time, and I have no superior prospects on the horizon.”
“Do not you?”
Anne looked at her sharply. “I am doubtful as to your meaning.”
“I am doubtful of it myself. But I did notice how your gaze followed a certain mutual acquaintance of ours when he left for Mansfield Park this morning to learn whether Sir Thomas had returned from Birmingham.”
She hesitated. “Nothing more than friendship shall ever come from that quarter.”
Apparently, Anne was unaware of the offer Colonel Fitzwilliam had made. “And if it did?”
A soft smile, meant only for herself, played upon her lips for the shortest of moments before fading. “It is impossible.”
“It is impossible only if you wed someone else.” Elizabeth stopped walking and faced her. “Do not make a decision about marriage to Lord Sennex based on what Colonel Fitzwilliam might feel, or what your mother wants, or what Society will say. Just know that, should you decide that you cannot honor your betrothal to the viscount while also honoring your responsibility to yourself and your own happiness, you will not find yourself friendless. In fact, I will stand directly beside you if you wish.”
Anne broke off eye contact and looked at the ground some distance away. “May I ask you something terribly… delicate?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know you were with child?”
Elizabeth studied her. A flush started at Anne’s neck and crept up to her cheeks. “Is this why you feel unable to resist the marriage to Lord Sennex?”
Anne raised her eyes and nodded.
Elizabeth responded frankly, and asked Anne some equally frank questions in return. She wished Mrs. Godwin, her midwife, were in Mansfield to consult, but she was able to offer Anne some reassurance: Though only time would reveal her state with certainty, none of what Anne told her corresponded to her own experience.
They had nearly reached the inn, and Anne looked toward the waiting carriage. The viscount, his cane in one hand, his chess case in the other, wandered about the courtyard. The once-proud figure was nearly swallowed by the loose folds of his greatcoat. He created an almost endearing image — but endearing in a grandfatherly, not matrimonial, way.
Anne turned to Elizabeth. “Will you come stand by me now?”
Darcy returned to Number 89 Fleet Street precisely on time. Yesterday, the younger H. W. Mortimer had identified the pistol as having been made a score or more years ago, and asked for a day to review his father’s older records. Darcy hoped the gunsmith had found what he sought. He was anxious to finish his errand and commence his journey north. He was also anxious to regain possession of the pistol, which he had felt uneasy leaving behind. If there were anybody in London, however, with whom he was comfortable leaving the weapon, it was the family of artisans who had crafted it.
Mr. Mortimer greeted him warmly. “I found the record. Though I was but a boy when my father made this set, I thought I remembered it, for it was an unusual one, but I wanted to be certain.” He showed Darcy the description. “My father made this pistol thirty years ago as part of a quad set of duelers — two primary pistols, and two second-sized pistols, all in a single case. This pistol is one of the smaller; the larger guns have eight-inch barrels. All four bear the rifling you enquired about, and all four have a rook image engraved into their locks, hammers, and escutcheons. The description also notes a rook on the case lid.”
“On the case lid?” Darcy repeated.
“Indeed — there is a small illustration.” The renowned gunsmith showed the record to Darcy, then pointed to the name of the purchaser. But he need not have bothered.
Darcy already knew.
“Lord Sennex?”
The viscount broke off from his reverie and offered them a gentle smile. “Mrs. Crawford! Mrs. Darcy! Are you ready to depart?”
“I hoped we might have a word with you first,” Anne said. “A private word?”
“Of course.” He drew his brows together. “But will we not have ample opportunity for conversation in the carriage?”
“I beg your indulgence. Shall we step over here?”