The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Read online

  After a moment’s pause, everyone returned to their prior conversations.

  “Do you not have three other sisters?” asked Withrow.

  “Two are attending the funeral party, and one was unable to travel at this time.”

  “Please, come speak to me,” said Mrs. Bennet loudly. “I would stand and greet you, were it not for my poor nerves. I am completely undone with my husband’s death. It is a miracle that I was even able to rise from my bed today.”

  Mary led Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow to her mother’s side.

  Mrs. Bennet clutched Lady Trafford’s hand. “It is so good of you to come. To what do we owe this visit?”

  “As Miss Bennet explained, I have come to pay my respects to your husband. I knew him only briefly in my youth, but I greatly admired him.”

  “He was a great man,” said Mrs. Bennet. “But now he is gone and due to the wretched entail, I am left with nothing. It has all gone to Mr. and Mrs. Collins. They are happy to leave me on the streets. Happy, I say.” At this she frowned at Charlotte Collins, who grimaced for only a moment, betraying that she had heard the words. Charlotte had made herself scarce since she had arrived and had spent the majority of her time overseeing the household staff.

  “It is not as dire as you say, Mother,” said Mary. “The Collinses are not forcing us to leave—that is your choice—and the rest of our family will take good care of us.”

  “Oh, but we are poor,” lamented Mrs. Bennet. “And when I die, Mary will be left even more poor and helpless. My fourth daughter, Kitty, may yet marry, but no one will ever ask for Mary’s hand. She cannot help that she is plain.”

  Mary felt herself go red in the face. She could not even bring herself to glance at Lady Trafford to see her reaction. Mrs. Bennet had said things like this before, spoken of Mary’s plainness and lack of marriage offers, but had done so less since Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia had married last year. While Mary normally did not place much importance in how others viewed her, she realized she desired Lady Trafford’s good opinion.

  “Mother, I think we…should speak of other—”

  Mrs. Bennet cut her off and continued her tirade about how she was being forced out of her own home. Mr. Bennet had often been able to stop Mrs. Bennet from embarrassing them, and Elizabeth and Jane could sometimes manage as well, but Mary had no such skill. Instead she looked at the floor, trying to block out the sound of her mother.

  At the sound of Lady Trafford’s voice, Mary raised her head.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” Lady Trafford was saying. “It appears that you have a beautiful family, and many wonderful friends in Meryton to offer you comfort in this time of great need. Would it be too much of an imposition if I borrowed Miss Bennet? I had hoped that she could help me become better acquainted with other members of your family.”

  “Of course, Lady Trafford,” said Mrs. Bennet. She looked around briefly before calling out, “My dear sister!” Mrs. Philips immediately came to her side.

  As she reflected on her mother’s behaviour, Mary’s face burned and her dress itched against her skin.

  “Do not feel bad, my dear,” said Lady Trafford once they reached the other side of the room. “Everyone mourns differently.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mr. Withrow was notably silent, his blank face a mask over whatever emotion or judgment he felt.

  They joined in conversation with Mrs. Gardiner and Lady Lucas about the different merits of the city and the country. Lady Trafford praised both, and Withrow used his skills at asking questions to encourage both women to give elaborate answers. Mary spoke very little, still embarrassed by the earlier conversation with her mother.

  After a while the funeral party returned, one or two people trickling into the room at a time. The room became fuller and fuller, louder and louder. The last people to enter were Kitty, Elizabeth, and Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy looked in their direction, nodded, and to Mary’s surprise, smiled.

  “Oh, I see Mr. Darcy,” said Lady Trafford. “I knew his parents well. I will have to speak to him later.”

  While Withrow had mentioned his connection to Mr. Darcy, it surprised Mary that Lady Trafford had not mentioned her own connection before.

  After a minute, Withrow asked, “Is that one of your sisters?” Kitty was headed in their direction, her hands clasped together, a smile on her face.

  “Yes,” said Mary. “That is Catherine. I can introduce you and your aunt.”

  “That would be most agreeable,” said Lady Trafford. “Thank you, Miss Bennet.”

  Kitty reached them and clasped Mary’s hands as if they were the dearest of friends. “Oh Mary, I am so glad I went. It was beautiful and solemn to attend the procession, and then Lizzy and I joined the funeral. It was the most lovely tribute to Father.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “And who are your friends?”

  “This is Lady Trafford, and her nephew Mr. Withrow. They are distant relations, come to visit us from Worthing, in Sussex.”

  “Then you have travelled a long way to see us. I have always wanted to visit Brighton. Do you live far from there?”

  “About fifteen miles,” said Withrow. “It is a trip I make regularly. But we have our own view of the ocean in Worthing. In fact, if the sky is clear, you can see it from the house.”

  “I have never seen the ocean before,” said Kitty. “Can you believe that?”

  Kitty engaged in a vibrant conversation with both Lady Trafford and Withrow. She drew people to her in a way that Mary never had.

  Suddenly, over all the voices in the room came that of Mrs. Bennet. “Why is the food not ready?”

  And then Mr. Collins. “It is Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s opinion that a company must always have the opportunity to converse prior to eating, so I instructed the staff to have the meal ready thirty minutes after we returned from the funeral.”

  Trapped in between them—and suffering the frustrations of both—was the poor housekeeper, Mrs. Hall. Quickly both Mrs. Collins and Elizabeth crossed the room and joined the fray in an attempt to appease both parties.

  Normally Mary could ignore this sort of debacle, but today she could not, maybe because of her lack of sleep or all the forced pleasantries. It was as if the unpleasantness floated up from the argument and over the room until it landed on Mary and enveloped her in its uncomfortable embrace.

  After a dismissive smirk in their mother’s direction, Kitty resumed her conversation. At a convenient pause, Mary said, “If you will excuse me, I need to step out for a moment.”

  “Are you feeling well?” asked Lady Trafford.

  “Quite well,” said Mary, though her statement did not sound convincing even to herself.

  “I hope you will still be dining with us.”

  “I will,” said Mary, and then before anyone could say another word, she slipped out of the conversation and up to her room. Or, to be more factual, to one of Mr. Collins’s rooms that she was borrowing.

  She lay on top of her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The room was stuffy and smelled faintly of damp fabric: the maids must not have dried the clothes out properly before putting them away several days before, causing them to slowly develop an odor.

  Mary had an urge to leave Longbourn, to go far from Meryton and leave all of this behind. To do something entirely new. She wanted the lessons; she wanted to learn. Yet at the same time she wanted things to stay as they had always been, though that was not possible. In her mind, she compiled a list of possible positive and negative consequences of accepting Lady Trafford’s offer.

  After a while, she thought it best to make her way back to the group, in case one of the maids forgot to fetch her for the meal. As she walked down the hall, she heard a faint noise from her parents’ room. She paused outside of it. The door was cracked open. She pushed it open a bit farther and peered inside. Someone stood at her father’s clothes press, lifting up his clothes and looking beneath them. The person was not one of the servants. S
he considered his coat, and the cut and shade of his hair. It was Mr. Withrow.

  Fear paralyzed Mary. She wanted to confront Mr. Withrow. She wanted to tell him it was not his place to handle her father’s things, and yet the thought of speaking to a man alone in a bedroom, even if it were not her own, seemed highly improper. It might be even less proper than whatever he was doing. Even if she were to speak to him, she would not know what to say or do. She had never been in a situation like this before.

  Mr. Withrow stilled, and then he turned towards the door. Mary fled back to her bedroom, heart pounding, unsure if Mr. Withrow had seen or recognized her.

  She waited next to her doorway, listening, but heard nothing from the hallway. There were no footsteps, and no one to accuse her of prying. After a minute, she left her room again and went back down the hallway, worried that Mr. Withrow would still be there, but determined to yell for a servant if he was.

  The door to her parents’ room was wide open, and no one stood inside. Nothing seemed to have been touched or disturbed. Her father’s clothing press had been closed, and she reopened it; while the clothes were a touch disheveled, nothing appeared to be missing, and she could not understand what Mr. Withrow had been looking for.

  Mary walked down the stairs to the crowd, trying to interpret Mr. Withrow’s behaviour. But the time had come for the meal, and with all the bustle, there was little room for thought. She was relieved to be seated between Lady Lucas and her daughter, Maria Blankenbeckler. She was even more relieved that while Lady Trafford was seated near her mother, she was not immediately next to her, and Mr. Withrow was on the opposite end of the table, in between Mr. Darcy and Kitty.

  Maria, the second daughter of the Lucas family, had wed six months prior and moved with her husband to Brighton. After the first course was served, she turned to Mary.

  “I have missed you,” said Maria. “There are no sensible women in Brighton, at least none near my age.”

  “But you do like it?”

  “Oh, I like it very much. You should come visit me.”

  “I would love to come stay with you in Brighton!” Staying with a friend would be much better than living with strangers.

  Maria’s face scrunched up in discomfort. “I think I misspoke. Unfortunately, I do not have the space to host anyone for any extended period of time. However, I would love if you came and visited for a day.”

  Mary set down her fork and pretended to laugh. “Of course that is what you meant. I apologize for misunderstanding your words.” This was not the first time this had happened between her and Maria.

  “Do not apologize! The fault is mine.” She patted Mary’s shoulder. “Someday you will leave home and have your own adventures.”

  “I do not know if I am much suited to adventures.” Mary took a slow drink and considered her food. None of it looked very appetizing.

  Maria put her hand on Mary’s. “You must be very sad about your father.”

  Mary nodded, but could not bring herself to say anything.

  “He was a good man. I am glad that I am visiting my parents, so I could be here today.”

  “Thank you,” said Mary. She had never felt extremely close to Maria, but she felt as close to her as anyone, and they had spent much time together as children. It was a comfort to be seated next to her.

  “I assume you are taking solace in the scriptures?” In her letters at least, Maria had become much more interested in the Bible since her marriage.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “One of my favorites is from Proverbs: ‘God is our refuge and strength.’”

  Mary tried to resist correcting her, but she could not. “That is actually a verse from the Psalms.”

  Maria laughed. “I always mix them up. You have a much better mind than I.”

  After that, their conversation stayed on pleasant topics. Yet it was not to be a peaceful meal. A few minutes later, Mrs. Bennet was heard, her voice carrying above everyone’s conversations and down the table.

  “I had my heart set on a night funeral.”

  The rest of the conversations silenced, so Jane’s much quieter, conciliatory response could be heard. “Night funerals are almost never held out of London, and even there, it is not the standard.”

  “No expense should have been spared,” insisted Mrs. Bennet. “You are not lacking, nor is Lizzy. Mr. Darcy is worth 10,000 pounds a year, and Mr. Bingley 5,000 pounds. Yet you mock me in my grief.”

  Mary pushed her food around her plate with her fork, not eating any of it. It was important to be able to control one’s speech and emotions and make them appropriate for the situation. It was one thing for Mrs. Bennet to make these sorts of comments in private; stating them in public was entirely uncalled for.

  The conversation resumed, perhaps to help cover everyone’s embarrassment, but a few minutes later Mrs. Bennet’s voice once again drifted down the table. “And the funeral only had one mute, when Mr. Bennet deserved at least two!”

  It was a good thing, indeed, that women did not normally attend funerals. If Mrs. Bennet had, she would have been hysterical, and detracted from the proper solemnity of the occasion.

  In fact, Mary suspected that Mrs. Bennet would be hysterical for months. Normally, Mary could tolerate, and even enjoy her mother’s presence, but not when she went on like this. If she could, Mary would travel by herself to stay with Jane or Elizabeth or the Gardiners. But no one had made her that offer. Everyone’s invitation was for Mrs. Bennet, and Kitty and Mary could come along as well. No one wanted her for herself. No one, except for Lady Trafford.

  She was silent for the remainder of the meal. As everyone stood, the men to gather in the parlor and the women in the drawing room, she stopped in front of Mr. Withrow.

  “Mr. Withrow.”

  “Yes, Miss Bennet?”

  She tried to gather up her courage to ask him her question. At least, now, it was not improper for her to speak to him. “I thought, a few minutes ago, that I saw you in my parents’ room, handling my father’s things.”

  He seemed genuinely confused. “I was not in your parents’ room. When did this occur?”

  “Immediately before the meal.”

  “I was speaking with your sister, Catherine, until it was time to be seated. However, I would love to be of assistance to find out who you actually saw.”

  He was smooth of speech and flawless in his denial. If Mary did not have confidence in herself and her perceptions, she would have doubted her memory of the event. Yet she knew what she had seen: it had been Mr. Withrow. Accepting his assistance to look for a supposed other person would not lead to any answers and would distract from the purpose of the occasion.

  “Thank you for your offer, but it will not be necessary.”

  He went on his way with the other men, and Mary found a quiet spot in the drawing room. Likely his lies covered some trivial transgression, but she disliked lies and wished she knew the truth of the matter. If she accepted Lady Trafford’s offer, it might put her in a position to find out. She felt some moral obligation to find and share truth, and yet, it was not her responsibility. What would her father recommend she do? She did not know.

  Mary rotated the mourning ring around her finger, thinking of the way her father spoke, the way he stood, the way he looked intently on something, trying to remember and memorize every detail. She was seated only a few feet away from where the pianoforte had stood. She wished she could play a song in her father’s memory, one of his favorites. Whose pianoforte would she borrow when they stayed with the Philipses? Perhaps they had a neighbour. Or surely Charlotte Collins would allow her to come back to Longbourn and use the new pianoforte, once it was installed. It would be a mile walk both directions, which was very manageable, but it also meant it was unlikely that she would be able to play every day.

  Mary looked around the room. Although Longbourn was filled with family and friends, she felt alone. She regretted not attending the funeral with Elizabeth and Kitty, for perhaps the words s
poken would have given her strength.

  All of her sisters seemed to be coping with their father’s death. Elizabeth sat with Charlotte Collins, conversing, Jane seemed a little strained, but continued to comfort Mrs. Bennet, and Kitty was engaged in an animated conversation with Lady Trafford. Mary was apart, and no one sought her out.

  The men rejoined the women in the drawing room. Kitty gracefully detached herself from Lady Trafford and met her nephew, Mr. Withrow, next to the fire. He acted as if everything were normal, as if he had not searched her father’s things and then spoken falsehoods.

  Kitty flirted with him, even touching his arm once, in a manner that made it appear as if it were accidental, though Mary knew it was not. Mr. Withrow was the sort of man who would like a girl like Kitty. Mary wondered what sort of man would like a girl like her. Of course, emotional sentiment had only a small part to play in marriage, so if Mary ever did marry, it did not matter whether the man she married liked her or not. And marriages always came with their own sets of problems and difficulties. She watched Mr. Collins and Charlotte. They seemed to tolerate each other well, but it was not a situation of ease. Her parents’ marriage had been much the same way. Most of the young ladies Mary knew sought for marriage as a way to complete or fulfill themselves. Yet that was not the purpose or effect of matrimony: one needed to find meaning elsewhere.

  If she stayed with her mother, marriage or relying on her sisters were her only possible paths, and she would not even know how to begin seeking for marriage. It would be better to focus on something she could obtain with certainty: a broader education. The thought of venturing out on her own frightened her a little, but today she had confronted a thief. Surely she could do this as well.

  Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth stood nearby, so Mary rose from her chair and joined them.

  After a minute or two of inconsequential conversation, Mary decided to broach her real purpose.

  “Mr. Darcy, how well do you know Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow?”

  “Lady Trafford and her late husband were friends with my parents. I saw quite a bit of her during my youth, and I spent ample time with her son. I know Withrow as well.”