The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 3

  “I have four.”

  “It must have been wonderful, to always have so many companions,” he said with sincerity.

  “I…suppose so.”

  “You suppose?” he asked with such attention that she felt obligated to give a more detailed response.

  “Well, my two elder sisters are such dear friends, as are my two younger, and I have always felt a little…” She trailed off, not wanting to express how it sometimes made her feel alone.

  “It is always a challenge to be in between groups of people,” said Mr. Withrow. “Who are your elder sisters?”

  “My eldest sister is Mrs. Bingley,” said Mary, grateful to move away from a discussion of her emotions. “She lives in Derbyshire with her husband. They recently purchased an estate there. The next eldest, Mrs. Darcy, lives near there as well.”

  “I know Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Withrow. “He is a good man. What about your younger sisters? Are they still at home?”

  “My sister Kitty—Catherine—is at home still, but my youngest sister, Mrs. Wickham, lives with her husband and his regiment.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Withrow. “You mentioned a Mr. Collins to your servant. Is he a relation?”

  Mary was beginning to find it unusual for someone to ask so many questions of her, but she supposed Mr. Withrow was simply trying to make conversation. Yet she had no obligation to divulge her entire life story. “He is a cousin.”

  “A cousin?” he prodded.

  She nodded.

  “Has he come for the funeral?”

  “Because of my father’s death, he has inherited Longbourn.” It seemed Withrow would pry out whatever information he wanted.

  Concern filled his face. “And what will happen to you? To your mother? And your sister?”

  “For now, we will stay with my uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Philips, in Meryton.”

  “And then where will you go?”

  “Why does it matter to you?”

  “As a relation, I am naturally concerned about the well-being of you and your mother.”

  She felt guilty for acting so resistant to his questions. “We can always stay with my aunt and uncle in London, or with one of my sisters in Derbyshire.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Withrow. Then suddenly, all his concern seemed to disappear, and his voice became critical, almost cold. “You give a lot of personal information to people whom you know so little.”

  “Thoroughness is typically seen as a virtue,” said Mary. “And you asked a great many questions.” She knew her statement could be seen as impertinent, especially to someone above her station, but she was bothered by Withrow’s behaviour and the way in which he pretended to care about her family and then withdrew all sympathy. She turned towards Lady Trafford just quickly enough to catch what might have been a brief smile, though it was difficult to tell in the candlelight.

  Lady Trafford leaned towards her. “I am sorry if my nephew gave offense. We genuinely care about your well-being.”

  The woman looked at Mr. Bennet’s body, and only when the silence felt full and heavy and uncomfortable to Mary did Lady Trafford speak again. “If Longbourn goes to Mr. Collins, then would I be correct in assuming that, in addition to the good will of family, you, your mother, and your sister must rely entirely on your mother’s fortune? Is it three or four hundred pounds a year for the three of you?”

  Mary looked down at her lap. “Not nearly that, Lady Trafford.” She found herself heeding Mr. Withrow’s advice and not revealing everything. Their family had been living off of two thousand pounds a year, which, admittedly, included the running of the farm and the estate, but two hundred pounds was a pittance in comparison. Mary suspected Lydia and Wickham would still demand a portion; Mr. Bennet had promised them one hundred pounds a year. Even if Mrs. Bennet lowered the amount given to Lydia to fifty, Mrs. Bennet, Kitty, and Mary would truly be at the mercy of others for their very sustenance.

  “Have you considered making something of yourself?” asked Lady Trafford.

  Mary shook her head.

  “There are things a woman of your standing can do to make herself independent. For instance, you could become a governess.”

  Mary had not considered that possibility. Mrs. Bennet had always placed her entire focus on marrying her daughters.

  “It would bring me great satisfaction to assist you,” said Lady Trafford. “I could provide you with tutors and additional training, which would make you more qualified for future opportunities.”

  Mary sniffed. It had been said, several times, that she was the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood. “I have applied myself sufficiently to all of my studies. If I were to become a governess, I would not require any additional training.”

  “You think rather highly of yourself,” observed Mr. Withrow.

  “There is no virtue in false modesty,” asserted Mary. “I know my strengths.”

  “I see,” said Lady Trafford. “How familiar are you with the classics? Are you well versed in Milton, Shakespeare, Donne, Alexander Pope, and Samuel Johnson?”

  Mr. Withrow stood and began to pace the room, yet he managed to keep Mary always within his line of sight.

  Mary gave her attention back to Lady Trafford. While it was common for visitors of the deceased to make conversation with their hosts, this was an unusual subject of discussion for the occasion. “I know Milton and Shakespeare, and a little Pope.”

  “And the others?”

  “I found Donne rather objectionable when I read the commentaries on his work. I have no interest in Samuel Johnson.”

  “It is the duty of the governess to teach more than just the texts she likes the most. Do you speak French?”

  “Only a little, Lady Trafford, but I can read it fluently.”

  “You can read it but not speak it—however is that possible? What sort of French teacher would teach you only how to read French?”

  “I had no teacher. I taught myself.”

  Lady Trafford reached her hand out towards Mr. Withrow. “Pass me that book you were reading earlier.”

  He stopped next to her, removed a small book from his pocket, and handed it to her. The words on the cover were too small for Mary to make out.

  Lady Trafford opened the book, took a minute to choose a page, and passed it to Mary. “Read this for me.”

  Mary could feel the pressure of the woman’s eyes, as if she were being evaluated for some grand, mysterious purpose and found lacking.

  She forced her eyes to the page. It was difficult to read in the candlelight, and her eyes were tired, but she would do it. She did not attempt to read the text aloud, for she knew her pronunciation would not stand up to any scrutiny, but she read a few lines to herself and attempted to translate.

  “It is a political text which argues that the people who make laws should not be the ones to carry them out. Yet the normal person should not carry them out either. And there is the risk of corruption, by people letting their own interests influence public ones, and—”

  “That is enough, child. Have you read this text before?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “It is Rousseau’s Du contrat social; ou, Principes du droit politique.”

  Mary tried not to betray the fact that she had not understood a word of Lady Trafford’s French.

  “You truly cannot speak French,” said Lady Trafford. “The text is called, in English, On the Social Contract; or, Principles of Political Rights.”

  “I am not familiar with it,” said Mary, self-conscious about her lack of knowledge on the subject.

  “I see,” said Lady Trafford. “But your translation was adequate. French is such a useful language in these dreadful, dreadful times. What are your feelings on Bonaparte?”

  Mary pressed her lips together. She glanced at Mr. Withrow and then back at Lady Trafford. It appeared to be a serious question.

  “Your father read pamphlets, and the papers, I presume. How do you feel about Napoleon Bonaparte?”
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  She had never met a woman who spoke like this. Normally, politics was not seen as an issue for women, though it was often spoken of by men, behind closed doors, when the women were elsewhere.

  “I oppose him, of course,” managed Mary. She took a large gulp of tea.

  “Why?”

  Lady Trafford’s question hung in the air while Mary attempted to prepare a suitable response.

  “Is it not the duty of an Englishwoman to do so?”

  Lady Trafford waited, as if to ask for more. Mary turned her head to see if Mr. Withrow’s eyes were also on her, but he was examining his pocket watch, so she turned back to her questioner. She had read some of her father’s pamphlets, but people typically did not ask for Mary’s opinion on matters such as this. She was both gratified and overwhelmed by the request for her thoughts, so it took her a moment to formulate a better answer.

  “Bonaparte would have us all be French. He would take the whole world. But more than that, he seems to, he wants to…” Mary paused, having lost the force of expression that she had intended. Finally, it came back to her and she spoke quickly. “He seems to threaten the British way of life.” She breathed deeply, pleased with her answer and the way it had come out.

  “You are well-spoken, and clearly an intelligent woman,” said Lady Trafford. “With training in a few areas, you would be quite prepared to be a governess.”

  Somehow Lady Trafford managed to compliment her and point out her inadequacies in the same breath. Mary looked down at her hands and twisted the mourning ring around her finger. She liked the idea of being useful and independent, of solving problems, and being able to direct her own fate. Yet this woman had barged into her home—actually, Mr. Collins’s home—in the middle of the night and planned out a future for Mary without even consulting her.

  “As a relative, I feel it my duty to provide you with some assistance. You could come to my house and I could train you for several months, provide you with tutors and such, and then help you find a place in a good household.”

  Mary sat up a little more stiffly and looked at her father, laid on the table. He appeared dignified, even in death. Did Lady Trafford really think so little of her and her own resources?

  “I do not need your charity.”

  Both Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow looked affronted. Maybe she should have phrased it differently, more like Elizabeth would have. Elizabeth, her father’s favorite daughter. She pictured her sister in her mind, then knew the words to say.

  “I mean no disrespect, but I would not impinge on your generosity in such a manner.”

  “But you would rely on the generosity of your other family members?” asked Lady Trafford.

  “That is different,” said Mary.

  “How?” asked Lady Trafford.

  Mary tried to answer, but words seemed inadequate for her sentiments. They would be completely reliant on the goodwill of the Philipses and the Gardiners, the Bingleys and the Darcys. Already, she did not like knowing that her entire future depended on them, though it was their familial obligation to support her, Kitty, and their mother. Deep down, though, it felt wrong to take the assistance of a complete stranger—even if a relation—who had found her so lacking, so inadequate for even the position of a governess. She could not consider such a proposition. Furthermore, for Lady Trafford to ask Mary such a thing, without consulting Mrs. Bennet, seemed illogical.

  “I have no desire or need to become a governess.”

  “I see,” said Lady Trafford, setting down her cup of tea. “If you change your mind, please send me a letter. I live at Castle Durrington, near Worthing, in Sussex.”

  Mary did not deign to respond. She had no reason to change her mind once she had made it up.

  Lady Trafford turned to her nephew, who stood, emotionless. “As much as I would love to stay longer, it is best we leave now. We have much travel left before our business in the morning.”

  He helped her to her feet.

  “Thank you for allowing us to interrupt your vigil,” said Lady Trafford. “Your father was a good man, and I respected him.”

  Mary nodded, unsure how to respond to the compliment. At this time of night, it was difficult to remember all the proper courtesies, and the conversation had taken such strange paths that she felt a bit lost.

  Lady Trafford placed her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “I can tell that you loved your father very much.”

  Mary looked away. She could not respond to this statement either, not when it brought her own feelings of inadequacy so close to the surface.

  Lady Trafford removed her hand.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet.” Mr. Withrow’s charm from earlier had returned, as if it was a habit he could not shake.

  Mary was not certain the visit had been pleasurable for anyone involved, so she did not return the approbation, but she did have something else prepared for this sort of statement. “Making new acquaintances is always a worthwhile activity.”

  Withrow cocked his head and his brows pinched together.

  Mary led them out of the room. Sarah had indeed fallen back asleep, and to make matters worse, she was snoring. Mary wanted to shake her awake, but that would be improper, so she pretended not to see Sarah and opened the front door herself. Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow entered their carriage and drove off into the night. That was by far the strangest visit she had ever received. With the now-empty road, it was almost as if they had never been here.

  She returned to the room with her father and sat, watching his body, for several minutes. She felt very alone and unsure of her future. She removed the mourning ring from her finger and rotated the bezel so the side with her father’s hair faced out. She walked to her father’s body and placed her hand on top of his dead hand, now dry and cold.

  Mr. Bennet had passed on a night like this. His breath had grown labored and weak, and he reached his hand out to Mrs. Bennet. “You have been a good companion, my dear. And so have your nerves.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  Then he had turned to Jane. “You are so good, and so kind.”

  His eyes met Kitty’s. “I hope you remain silly, and keep all your vigor.”

  He looked at Mary. She swallowed, wondering what he would say to her.

  Mr. Bennet coughed horribly, a deep, rattling, wheezing sound.

  And then his hand had reached out to Elizabeth. “I will miss you. I will miss you ever so much.”

  He breathed in, once, twice, three more times. He gazed up at the ceiling and his body went still. He was dead. He was dead, and Mary was the only one he had not spoken to.

  That thought had crept through her mind again and again in the last week. Maybe he had nothing he needed to say to her. Maybe they did not have the sort of relationship that merited a final statement.

  Logically, Mary knew that her self-pitying reflections were selfish. The cough had stolen whatever he had planned to say, and at least he had managed to say something to almost everyone before dying. Yet still she was filled with guilt and regret for what she did not have with her father, and for what she now could never have.

  She forced her mind to the present, here, in this parlor, holding vigil for a corpse, for memories tied to the remains of flesh. She withdrew her hand from her father’s, but she did not sit down.

  “I miss you,” she whispered into the night, and she stood in that position in a sort of trance until morning when she was relieved of her duty.

  Chapter Three

  “During the last week, the French fleet have been observed to venture farther out to sea than they have ever been in the habit of doing before; but as soon as the English fleet stands in towards them, a few of their ships lie-to, until we arrive within gunshot and a half of them.”

  –Extract from a letter about the fleet off Toulon, in The Times, London, August 4, 1813

  Despite her exhaustion, Mary attempted to be an example of dignified mourning. She sat, back straight and head high in her chair, focusing on needle
work. The key was to regulate her emotions, to consider her actions before taking them. She would not disrespect her father by having an outburst. She would not feel sorry for herself. Restraint was essential.

  On the other hand, her mother did not rein in her emotions at all. She sat in the finest seat in the room, somehow looking as if she would collapse even though she was not standing. At the moment she was focused on berating Elizabeth. “You must not be allowed to attend the funeral. How could I have such a daughter? If your father were here, I would make him stop you. And Kitty, why must you go along with her? Why will you not stay home, like Jane and Mary?”

  “I feel I must go, Mother, to do my duty to him,” said Elizabeth.

  Kitty looked conflicted, so Mary thought it appropriate to add her opinion. “The best way to honor your parents is to follow their advice in all things.”

  “Why must you always be so certain that your way is the only right way?” asked Kitty as she glared at Mary. “I am going with Lizzy.”

  Mrs. Bennet let out a sound that rather resembled a wail. “Mary is the only one with sympathy for my poor nerves.”

  “I am sorry, Mother,” said Elizabeth, “but I will bring honor to both of my parents by attending the funeral today.”

  The discussion was cut short; the time had come for the funeral procession. The family moved to the parlor, still draped in black, and watched as Mr. Bennet’s coffin was closed. Mary strained her neck to the side in order to see one last glimpse of her father’s face, but there were too many people in front of her, and all she saw was the case as it closed with an irreverent thud.

  The coffin was carried outside, followed by the family. Mary pushed ahead so that in this, at least, she would have a better view. The six bearers, dressed in black, placed the coffin in the long black carriage designed for such a load. Everything was black and solemn as it should be. In addition to the coffin bearers, they had hired a man who was a mute and six page boys, all dressed in black. Even the horses were black; on their heads had been placed tall, glossy ostrich plumes, dyed a deep black and lending the group an extra measure of dignity.