The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 2

  The wagon stopped, and one of Mr. Collins’s men stepped down from it. He was one of the original eight. “What do you need, miss?”

  “I need to examine that chair.”

  The man removed the ropes and lifted down the chair. She ran her hands over the back and sides and noted that the cushion was slightly dislodged. Beneath it she found the black velvet case. She undid the latch, opened it, and saw that it still held the rings.

  By now her sisters had followed her outside. “I found it,” she called to them, holding up the case.

  Mr. Collins exited the house. “What is all this commotion?”

  “Someone tried to steal the mourning rings,” said Elizabeth.

  “Yes,” said Kitty. “It was one of the servants. He placed them in that chair.”

  Mr. Collins puffed up his chest. His hands closed tightly and then opened again, as if he was trying not to clench them. “How dare you accuse me of stealing the rings? I, who out of generosity and Christian benevolence, have allowed you to remain at Longbourn when I would have been justified in casting you out.”

  “We are not accusing you in any manner,” said Jane, her voice a little strained. She worked so hard to help everyone feel better when she herself was in mourning.

  “You accused one of the men I hired.” His eyes fell on Elizabeth.

  Before Elizabeth could reply with something scathing, Mary interrupted. “It was not, in fact, one of the men you hired. You brought eight men, and we saw them at the start. This man, while he tried to imitate their dress, did not quite match the others, and was an impostor.”

  Elizabeth and Jane spent several minutes reassuring Mr. Collins that he was at no fault, that he had been taken advantage of by the criminal, and that they placed no blame on him whatsoever. Finally, once he was properly appeased, they assembled all of Mr. Collins’s men and the household servants outside, underneath the warm, languid sun. Mary was the only one who was able to give a decent description of the man. But besides the four sisters, not a single person had seen the man who had moved the chair, and no one knew his identity.

  “This chair is not even one that I have sold,” declared Mr. Collins. “Return it to the house at once.”

  Eventually everyone was back in their places—Elizabeth, Kitty, and Jane carefully sorting and labeling the mourning rings, choosing which would go to which families, since their father had given only minimal details in his will. Mary tried to help them, but despite having solved the mystery, her heart continued to pound, and she could not focus on the rings. She returned to the funeral march on the pianoforte.

  “How did you infer what happened?” asked Kitty with wonder.

  “It seemed to be the only logical conclusion,” Mary replied. “First there was the servant I did not recognize, then a noise from outside which distracted us, and then he removed the chair, and not long after we noticed the mourning rings gone.” She felt warmth inside, a joy at being of assistance. Yet the fact that they had not found the thief troubled her. Where was he now? And what crime would he commit next?

  After a few minutes, Mr. Collins entered the room with four of the men. Mary was surprised when Mr. Collins spoke to her rather than her sisters.

  “Miss Bennet, I find it necessary to address you at this time.”

  She stopped playing and rested her hands on her lap. “You have my attention, Mr. Collins.”

  “It is quite unfortunate, especially in light of you clearing up the matter of the mourning rings, but I need to remove the pianoforte.”

  Mary stared at him, disbelief on her face. “But I…but I need it.”

  “However, I do not need it. The esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who has always been so generous to our family, recently gifted us with our own instrument. It is a much finer pianoforte and should arrive within a few weeks.”

  Mary did not move from the bench. Her hands instinctively reached out to the pianoforte, and she gripped the instrument as if holding on for dear life.

  “I have found someone willing to pay forty pounds for this pianoforte as it is rather old and does not have the best sound. But, as you are family, if you are willing to pay thirty-five pounds, you can keep it and take it with you.”

  Thirty-five pounds. The amount was impossible. At the moment, she had only a few pounds of her own. Mrs. Bennet’s remaining fortune was five thousand pounds, which, invested in the four per cents, gave them only two hundred pounds a year to live off of, a drastic decrease from the two thousand pounds a year provided by Mr. Bennet. When her mother died, Mary would only inherit one thousand pounds, which would give her only forty pounds a year with which to maintain herself. She could not possibly purchase the pianoforte, no matter how dear.

  “Let go of the instrument, Miss Mary,” directed Mr. Collins.

  Her fingers tightened further. She could not let go of this pianoforte that she played for hours every day—this instrument that made her life tolerable even in the hardest of times.

  “But Mr. Collins,” said Jane, “surely the pianoforte could wait two days to be taken.”

  “Lady Catherine de Bourgh told me that it was best to arrange all of my affairs as quickly as possible when I arrived, and I intend to do so.”

  “Can you not see that Mary is distraught?” said Elizabeth. “And you claim to be a gentleman.”

  “I suppose Miss Bennet’s unseemly behaviour may be excused due to the loss of Mr. Bennet. If it were possible, I would delay the removal of the pianoforte, but I have only hired the servants for today.”

  Mary pressed her lips firmly together, determined not to succumb to an outward display of emotion. The pianoforte was the only thing she had found in the past week to keep her sorrow in check. Yet she would find a way to move forward without it, even as Mr. Collins cast her out of Longbourn, adrift and without anchor, into the world.

  “I will do no more to embarrass you, cousin,” said Mary. She stood and collected the music sitting on the pianoforte, then sorted it into two piles, one large, one small.

  She handed Mr. Collins the larger pile. “This music belongs to the estate and is now yours.” She picked up the smaller pile. “But this music is mine, and I will bring it with me.”

  Ignoring her sisters’ attempts to comfort her, Mary turned and marched out of the room with whatever semblance of dignity she had left.

  Chapter Two

  “HERTFORDHSHIRE—A funeral will be held today for Mr. Bennet of Longbourn, in the town of Meryton.”

  –The Morning Post, London, August 4, 1813

  Mary set aside her book of sermons. She rubbed her fingers under her eyes, trying to keep herself awake. The clock read four in the morning, and the candles serving vigil around Mr. Bennet’s body grew low. The smell of decomposition made sitting here less than pleasant, but death was not pleasant, so she found it fitting.

  She considered trying to read again, but her eyes were too weary. This book belonged to her—not to Mr. Collins—and she would take it with her when they left to stay with her aunt and uncle, the Philipses. She only had a handful of personal books, and Mr. Philips’s library was not much to speak of. Without books and a pianoforte, she wondered how she would pass the time. Hopefully their mother would continue their membership at Meryton’s subscription library, but Mrs. Bennet might not see it as a necessary expense. Mary could not picture how she would occupy her life in the coming months, for she had no interest in endless days of needlework and gossip.

  Mary twisted the mourning ring around her index finger. Traditionally, the rings were not dispensed until the funeral. They were gifted to the men, who brought them home and gave them to their wives to wear. In his will, Mr. Bennet had specified that each of his children should receive a ring. For his married daughters, the matter was simple—give it to Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley, and if he were here, Mr. Wickham, and Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia would receive theirs. But for Kitty and Mary, who would it be given to? Mr. Collins? That was certainly not an ideal solution. Perhaps one of th
eir uncles, Mr. Philips or Mr. Gardner. But they would also receive rings for their own wives.

  Elizabeth and Jane had decided it made the most sense to give both Mary and Kitty their rings in advance, to ensure there would be no confusion or difficulties.

  Mary’s ring was more expensive than she thought necessary, but it had been too late to argue with her older sisters—the purchase had already been made. Yet despite the extravagance, she found herself liking the ring. In the bezel, encased under a thin layer of crystal, was a miniature painting of a broken column, shaded by a weeping willow. Written on the column in tiny black lettering were Mr. Bennet’s name and date of death.

  Mary removed the ring from her finger and twisted the bezel so it faced the inside of the ring, revealing another thin piece of crystal, this one with a small lock of her father’s hair underneath. She flipped the bezel around and around, revealing painting, hair, painting, hair, painting, hair, finally stopping on painting. She liked that she could keep her father’s hair next to her finger, that she could keep her longing and sorrow close, yet hidden from the world.

  Her eyes were a touch watery, so she blinked them rapidly, then gazed at her father’s body, lying on a table, surrounded by flowers. She had never learned any painting or drawing, but if she had, she would attempt to create a likeness of her father, with his profile in recline, surrounded by the room draped in black. Even in death, there was a certain lightness of spirit in his features.

  No one had expected his sudden illness or his passing only a fortnight later. Death was, as Mary’s sermons taught her, a natural part of life, but part of her had assumed she would always have her father.

  She had never been his favorite. That position, of course, belonged to Elizabeth. But he had encouraged Mary in her studies and listened to her philosophical discoveries. In the last year, with Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia gone, they had spent far more time together. Sometimes he had even shared his humor with her, and though she did not always understand it, she appreciated the gesture. Yet perhaps the additional time she had spent with him had not been enough; she should have asked his opinion more often, done something more—anything more—to demonstrate that she cared. She spun the mourning ring around her finger. At least she had been able to do some small service for him by finding the rings.

  A sudden noise startled Mary.

  She looked immediately to her father’s body. The flickering candlelight sometimes played tricks on her eyes, made it difficult to tell if she saw life or death, so she stood and walked slowly around her father’s body, laid out on the table. Nothing had changed. There was no movement, no life.

  The sound came again, several times in a row. Someone was knocking at the front door. How strange to have a visitor at this hour.

  “Sarah,” she called.

  The kitchen girl did not respond. She was supposed to be sitting right outside the room, in case Mary needed anything.

  Mr. Bennet’s body had been laid in the front parlor, directly off the main hallway. The room’s windows faced the front of the house. Mary pushed aside some of the black drapery and the curtains and peered into the night.

  She could make out the faint outline of a carriage and horses. At the door stood a servant or driver holding a large lantern. Behind him stood a regal-looking older woman with a younger man at her side. Their dress marked them as distinguished visitors. It almost looked like Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  If it was Lady Catherine de Bourgh, she best open the door immediately and then wake the others. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was Mr. Darcy’s aunt and a prominent individual. The one time Mary had met her, she had observed that Lady Catherine was not the type of person who liked to be left waiting. Besides, though the summer meant it was not cold, one still could catch a chill from exposure to the air in the middle of the night.

  There were more knocks at the door. Mary stepped out of the room into the main hall and found Sarah slumped on a chair, fast asleep. Mary nudged her on the shoulder. “Wake up, Sarah, we have visitors.”

  Sarah startled awake.

  “Someone is knocking,” said Mary. “Would you open the door and let them in?”

  Sarah nodded quickly. She almost tripped as she stood, and then righted herself and picked up a candle. She stepped to the front entryway. Her fingers fumbled on the locks and finally Mary helped her pull open the door.

  The visitor was not Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  The woman’s hair was a fierce grey, and even in the low light, her eyes were piercing. The man next to her was only slightly taller than the woman, and was young, probably in his twenties. He flashed a smile that would have caused Kitty and Lydia to giggle but did nothing to impress Mary.

  The woman cleared her throat and looked expectantly at Mary.

  A terror seized Mary: she did not know this person, who was obviously her superior, she could not speak to someone unless she was introduced, and there was no manner by which they could be introduced. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, would know exactly how to handle this situation, but Sarah did not and stood there as dumbfounded as Mary.

  The woman scrutinized her, and Mary self-consciously looked down at her dress. She owned several new black dresses for mourning, but she had chosen, tonight, to wear one of her older dresses. It had been taken apart at the seams, dyed black, then stitched back together by a servant.

  She swallowed and tried to curtsy. The woman raised her eyebrows. The man’s smile diminished.

  “You are a Miss Bennet, I presume?” asked the woman.

  Mary nodded.

  “I am Lady Trafford, and this is my nephew, Mr. Henry Withrow. I am a relative of your father, and I have come to pay my respects to him.” She leaned towards Mary, her chin jutting forward. “Well, are you going to stand here, or let me in?”

  Mary did not know the social protocol for accepting distant relatives in the middle of the night, but she supposed letting them in was a part of it. “You may come in.”

  As Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow stepped inside, their servant returned to the carriage. Mary closed the front door.

  “Sarah,” said Mary, “would you wake Jane? And…Mr. Collins?” Waking Mrs. Bennet at this hour would do no one any good, but since it was now Mr. Collins’s house, she supposed he must be woken.

  “That will not be necessary, Sarah,” said Lady Trafford. “There is no need to wake anyone else at this time of night. But it would be excellent if you could prepare tea for the three of us.”

  Sarah hurried down the hallway to obey Lady Trafford’s directions as if their visitor were the mistress of Longbourn.

  Unsure of what else to do, Mary led Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow to the sitting room. Mr. Withrow’s nose wrinkled and Lady Trafford raised her handkerchief to her mouth. Even after being away for only a moment, the smell was almost overpowering. Piles of flowers surrounded Mr. Bennet, and new ones had been added daily, but they did not mask the scent of death. It had been over a week since his death, and with each progressing day, the odor grew stronger.

  Mary walked around the room, lighting more candles to provide greater illumination. Lady Trafford stood at Mr. Bennet’s side and whispered a prayer. Mary could not hear the words, but the woman’s facial expressions testified of her sincerity. Once she finished with the candles, Mary waited, unsure whether to sit or stand. She glanced at Mr. Withrow. He nodded at her and said, “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Mary looked away, and again twisted the ring on her finger. After a few minutes, Lady Trafford stepped away from the body.

  “You are welcome to take a seat,” said Lady Trafford, as if this were her sitting room and Mary was the visitor.

  Mary sat in the middle of the room, facing her father. Lady Trafford sat in a chair to her right. Instead of sitting in one of the chairs next to his aunt, Mr. Withrow sat to Mary’s left.

  Unsure of the best way to start a conversation with the guests, Mary said the first thing that came to mind. “You should have come during
the day.” Elizabeth would have found a better way to say the same thing. Something like, we expected most of our visitors to come during the day. But Mary had already spoken, and it was too late to change her words.

  “I was passing by this way, and I had read about it in the paper, so I decided to stop. Unfortunately, we have business in another village and will not be able to attend the funeral, but we wanted to pay our respects.”

  Lady Trafford’s words did not make sense. To Mary’s knowledge, her father’s death had only been published locally and in one of the London papers, The Morning Post. In their announcement, The Morning Post had neglected to publish the information about the funeral, but they had promised to do so in today’s paper, which had not yet been distributed. Mary blinked her eyes and stifled a yawn. “In what paper did you read about his death?”

  “I do not remember. There are so many.”

  She supposed it did not matter how Lady Trafford had heard the news. It surprised her, though, that she had never heard of Lady Trafford before, given that she was a relation.

  Sarah came in with the tea and poured it for each of them, and then she left to sit in the hall. Mary hoped that Sarah did not fall asleep again, for doing so would embarrass their entire family in front of this great lady.

  Mary sipped her tea. It did not do much to help with her fatigue. She looked to the right, to Lady Trafford, then to the left, to Mr. Withrow, unsure where her attention should fall now that the conversation had gone silent. She decided to compromise by looking at her feet.

  After a few agonizing minutes in which Mary searched her mind for a suitable topic of conversation, Lady Trafford spoke again. “Now which daughter are you?”

  “I am the third daughter.”

  “And what is your given name?”

  “Mary.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Mr. Withrow smoothly. “The third daughter. How many sisters do you have?”