The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet
A Secret Life of Mary Bennet Mystery
Katherine Cowley
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet
Copyright© 2021 Katherine Cowley
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Publication by Tule Publishing 2021
Cover design by Patrick Knowles
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-953647-10-8
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Praise for The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet
“Beautifully written, masterfully plotted, meet a Mary Bennet every bit as fascinating and twice as daring as her more famous sisters.”
—Gretchen Archer, USA Today bestselling author of the Davis Way Crime Capers
“Cowley’s creative continuation of the story of one of literature’s famous forgotten sisters into a world she could never have dreamed possible, broadens her horizons and ours. Following the pedantic Mary Bennet in her adventures after the conclusion of Pride and Prejudice was a delight that Jane Austen and mystery fans will embrace and cheer.”
—Laurel Ann Nattress, editor of Jane Austen Made Me Do It, and Austenprose.com.
“In The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet, Katherine Cowley takes the least interesting sister from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and turns her into the heroine of her own story. It’s very fun to watch Mary transform into a competent spy, but the true delight is how Cowley masterfully keeps Mary true to her pedantic, socially awkward self from Austen’s original while making her a whole person we can root for.”
—Molly Greeley, author of The Clergyman’s Wife: A Pride and Prejudice Novel
“A delightfully fresh take on Miss Mary Bennet. A story I didn’t even realize I was waiting for until I read it.”
—Jess Heileman, author of A Well-Trained Lady
“An intriguing historical mystery that fans of Pride and Prejudice will find compelling.”
—Tina Kashian, author of the Kebab Kitchen Mysteries
Dedication
to my mother
for giving me a love of words
and helping me achieve my dreams
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Historical Note and Acknowledgements
The Secret Life of Mary Bennet series
About the Author
Chapter One
“Bonaparte is still flying from [region to region], reviewing his troops, fortifying his positions, improving his garrisons, collecting provisions, and, in short, doing everything that can give him a permanent hold upon Germany.”
–The Times, London, August 3, 1813
Miss Mary Bennet could do nothing to stop her life from shattering to pieces, so she played the pianoforte.
Her cousin, Mr. Collins, had arrived to take possession of Longbourn before her father, Mr. Bennet, was even in the grave. As Mr. Collins and the men he had hired swept through the house, removing items he had sold, Mary attempted to drown out the commotion by playing faster and faster, louder and louder, until her younger sister, Kitty, exclaimed, “Can you please stop, Mary!”
Mary pulled her fingers off the keys and sniffed.
Their eldest sister, Jane—known as Mrs. Bingley since her marriage not quite a year before—cleared her throat. “What I think Kitty means to say is it might be more appropriate to play that funeral march with a little more solemnity.”
Mary tried not to take offense. It was she, of all her sisters, who had applied herself most to the pianoforte over the years. Should she not be able to choose the manner in which she played?
A sticky summer scent blew in through the open window, and the breeze disturbed Mary’s music. She carefully rearranged the pages.
Kitty, Jane, and Elizabeth were seated at a nearby table assisting with the funeral preparations. They answered letters of condolence and sorted the black gloves for the funeral guests. In a few minutes they would organize the mourning rings. Mary had assisted them for a while, but she was more inclined to pass the time on the pianoforte. However, if they would not appreciate her playing—
“Oh, here is a letter from Lydia,” said Elizabeth.
Lydia was their youngest sister and had been the first to marry, to a Mr. Wickham. Elizabeth’s husband, Mr. Darcy, had purchased him a new commission, and his regiment was currently training so they could travel to the continent and fight against Napoleon Bonaparte.
Mary did not leave the pianoforte, but she did lean forward to better hear the contents of the letter.
Dearest Mother and Sisters,
I am devastated by the death of Father, and I have not stopped shedding tears since I heard the news. While I would love to return to Longbourn, my dear Wickham must remain here, and I find myself unable to part from him for even a few days. Surely you understand what it is to be newly married and in love.
I have used the money that you sent to purchase clothes of mourning. Have you seen the advertisements? In London some women are wearing burgundy for mourning instead of black. I went to the dressmaker and chose out a fine fabric. I intend to be the envy of all the mourners.
I will be thinking of each of you with fondness. Know that you and Father are in my heart.
With love and tears,
Lydia
The four sisters sat in shocked silence.
After a moment of reflection, Mary felt prepared to speak. “A duty to one’s spouse is paramount, but in this case, a duty to one’s parents should take precedence. To spend the money meant for travelling costs on expensive mourning clothing instead—that speaks of focusing on matters of little worth. Hannah More wrote, ‘A life devoted to trifles not only takes away the inclination, but the capacity for higher pursuits.’”
“Thank you, Mary,” said Jane.
“How could she write such a letter at a time like this, with such disregard for our father?” said Elizabeth. Elizabeth was often the most rational of Mary’s sis
ters, which was an admirable trait, and she generally managed to express her sentiments in a concise yet compelling manner, a skill which Mary wished she could imitate.
“Even if I were married to a man like Wickham,” said Kitty, “I would come for a funeral.”
Jane reached across the table and took the letter. She would probably say something altogether too kind, and more forgiving than Lydia deserved.
“Oh, surely she is prevented for some reason from coming and is using this excuse as a mask for her emotions. See this line, ‘I have not stopped shedding tears since I heard the news.’ Do you not hear the real sadness there?”
Mary did not sense any sadness on Lydia’s part. Of course, she had never understood her youngest sister. She tried to withhold judgment, for various sermons said it was not man’s role to judge, yet she often found herself condemning Lydia’s follies. Jane and Elizabeth had come when their father had taken ill; all his daughters had been there with him in the moment he took his last breath. All except Lydia. And now she chose not to attend his funeral.
A man entered the room without the courtesy of a knock or warning, and they silenced and turned back to their work. It was best not to discuss overly personal matters in front of servants, and this seemed especially true for the men hired by Mr. Collins.
Due to the entailment, which was unalterable, as each of the daughters tried to explain to Mrs. Bennet time and time again, the estate and most of its possessions went not to any of Mr. Bennet’s daughters, but rather to his closest male relative, Mr. Collins.
Mr. Collins had been serving as a clergyman, but upon Mr. Bennet’s death a week before, had decided to renounce the living and devote himself to the running of Longbourn. After his arrival, his first task was to follow the advice of his esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and to immediately, without any delay, make the estate match his personal expectations of taste and comfort. Mr. and Mrs. Collins intended to use some of the existing furniture at Longbourn, but they also planned to bring some of their own pieces, and so Mr. Collins had arranged to sell the excess. Mary wondered how a mismatched collection of furniture would serve them, but it was his furniture, and he could do with it as he liked.
He had stated that Mrs. Bennet could remain at Longbourn until she chose a permanent place. In the meantime, she could even maintain possession of her bedroom, which he admitted was the best in the house and would be within his rights to occupy (though of course his sense of duty to Mrs. Bennet would not allow him to take it from her). All of Mr. Collins’s actions and words seemed, on the surface, very rational to Mary, yet somehow his mannerisms left her feeling that he should be doing more to accommodate their family.
Despite Mr. Collins’s insistence that his goal was to make the situation agreeable to everyone, Mrs. Bennet had declared that she would not be a guest in her own home. She had wanted to vacate the premises immediately, but Mary and Kitty had convinced her that they should not leave until several days after the funeral. Mary could not abandon her father’s body to the care of Mr. Collins; she and her sisters would watch over it. Meanwhile, Mr. Collins’s haste in selling the existing furniture did make living here during the funeral preparations more difficult. She could not even play a funeral march uninterrupted.
The hired man passed rather closely to where Jane, Kitty, and Elizabeth were seated. A loud noise, perhaps some sort of bird, came from outside; it was louder than a typical bird, and not the sort of sound one normally heard in these parts. They all turned to look, but there was nothing to be seen, so after a moment they returned to their tasks. The hired man was examining an upholstered chair. He paused and looked briefly at Mary with the sort of focused attention that disconcerted her. His eyes then turned to Kitty before returning to the chair.
“Will you be sitting with Father tonight, Mary?” asked Jane.
“Yes, I am prepared to do my duty.” She considered saying more, but she was distracted as the man lifted the chair.
As he passed her on the way out of the room, Mary could not help but notice that his clothes seemed a bit crisper than those of the other hired men, and his cravat was a slightly different shade of brown. She did not recognize his face, though it was a very normal face, with no distinguishing characteristics. He must have arrived later than the other men, or maybe he had been sitting with the wagons until now, but still, something about him unsettled her.
“Did anyone notice something strange about that servant?”
Elizabeth and Jane shook their heads, quizzical expressions on their faces.
Kitty leaned forward and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “Did he do something untoward?”
“Of course not,” said Mary. “But I was certain Mr. Collins only brought eight men, and he was not one of them.” Not only had she sensed that he did not belong, but she felt like he had been evaluating her.
Kitty gave a brief, derisive laugh. “You counted the men he brought?”
Mary looked down at the pianoforte’s keys. Kitty had spent a lot of time mocking her lately. Mary ignored it with practiced indifference, but still it grated on her.
For the most part, she had liked it better when all four of her sisters had been at home. But of course, it was impossible for things to always stay the same. She had lost Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia to marriage. Elizabeth lived at Pemberley, Lydia with Wickham’s regiment, and Jane and Mr. Bingley had recently given up Netherfield Hall and bought their own property near Pemberley. With her father’s death, she had only her mother and Kitty to look forward to for constant company. It still had not been decided where they would live permanently after the funeral, but once they vacated Longbourn, they would live, for a time, with Mrs. Bennet’s sister, Mrs. Philips, in Meryton. Mrs. Bennet had been bedridden since Mr. Bennet had taken ill, and they could not possibly travel farther until Mrs. Bennet’s health improved.
If only Mary were married to Mr. Collins. When Elizabeth had rejected Mr. Collins’s offer of marriage, Mary had hoped that he would propose to her. But he had not, instead wedding their friend Charlotte Lucas. Mary still looked on the incident with some regret: Mr. Collins was a religious man, full of profound statements and insights, and if she had married him, the Bennets would not be losing their home and possessions.
Mary breathed deeply, then set her fingers back onto the keys. She resumed the funeral march from where she had left off, this time playing so solemnly and slowly that no one could possibly complain. If she were of a more curious nature, perhaps she would make further inquiries after the servant, but it was a matter of little import.
“I have a mind to join the funeral procession,” said Elizabeth.
Mary paused, and Jane and Kitty looked up. What a strange idea. Of course, there was nothing that prohibited a woman from joining the funeral procession, or even the service in the church if she desired, but it defied tradition and was not part of a woman’s duty.
Mary resumed her music but paid close attention to the words of her sisters.
“Are you sure?” asked Jane. “You will be the talk of the region.”
“What does it matter to me what the people of Meryton think?”
“That is easy for you to say,” said Kitty, “with ten thousand pounds a year.”
“If I do not attend the procession, the closest blood relation to father will be Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot imagine our father wanting that.”
“If you go,” said Kitty, “I will accompany you.” Every morning since their father’s death, Kitty’s cheeks had been raw and tear stained. Her outward expressions of grief seemed, for her, a necessary demonstration of her love for their father. Mary tried to keep her sentiments—which were just as strong—more contained within herself.
“What about you, Jane?” asked Elizabeth.
“I had best stay with Mama. She will need my support.” Jane’s voice sounded tired.
“And you, Mary?”
“It is not part of a daughter’s duty,” said Mary stiffly. Sh
e continued to play as she spoke, unwilling to stop, and unwilling to admit that the idea of joining the funeral procession had a certain appeal. “And besides, between the two nights I have already spent and tonight, I will have passed three nights watching his body. That is enough.”
“I think, in this situation, any of our choices are justified,” said Jane. She stood. “Now where were those mourning rings?”
The mourning rings needed to be sorted so they could be distributed as part of the funeral, one to each family member and friend who attended. It was a small token of appreciation, and something they could wear in remembrance of him.
“I put the case next to the gloves,” said Kitty. She and Elizabeth also stood. They lifted gloves, shifted letters, and examined every nearby surface.
“Did we leave them in the downstairs parlor?” asked Elizabeth.
“I know I carried them up,” insisted Kitty. “Mrs. Hill must have moved them.” The housekeeper had been in the room not long before.
But Mary suspected that Mrs. Hill would not know. She re-examined the last few minutes in her mind: the servant entering the room, the strange sound, the removal of the chair, and now the missing mourning rings. It was too much of a coincidence. Yes, they could find Mrs. Hill or Mr. Collins and assemble the hired men, but that would take time. And why require someone else to solve a problem when you could solve it yourself?
Without a word to her sisters, Mary stood and exited the room. The men would be taking the unneeded furniture out the back of the house and loading it into wagons, and so she headed that direction, in a manner that was a bit faster than was normally appropriate for young ladies (though she took care not to run). She rushed down a staircase and out the door. Her heart pounded and her lungs felt short of air.
The chair was strapped to the back of the first wagon. The wagon’s wheels began to turn.
Mary stepped onto the gravel. She hesitated, for it was never ladylike to raise one’s voice. But this was an urgent matter. “Stop! Wait!” she cried, waving her arms.