The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 6

  “I see,” said Mary. “Lady Trafford has offered that I could come stay with her and take lessons in French and drawing.”

  Darcy raised his eyebrows. “That is very generous of her.”

  “Before I accept, I wanted to ask your opinion on Lady Trafford’s character. As well as Mr. Withrow’s.”

  “No harm would befall you at Castle Durrington. They are trustworthy and reputable in all their dealings.” He paused. “She can be a bit unusual at times, but she is a good woman. If you want to go, I can see no reason why you should not.”

  “Thank you,” said Mary, reassured by his words. “What about Mr. Withrow?”

  “He is a respectable gentleman, and a good man.”

  She thought of mentioning that Mr. Withrow had been in her parents’ room, but she did not know what he had been doing, and she had no proof beyond her word, so she decided against it.

  Mrs. Bennet gestured to Mary from across the room, where she reclined in a large comfortable chair and spoke with Lady Trafford. “Come here, Mary,” said Mrs. Bennet loudly. “We are speaking of you.”

  Lady Trafford gave Mary a knowing smile. Mary excused herself from the Darcys and joined her mother and Lady Trafford.

  “I have told Mrs. Bennet of my offer to train you.”

  “You should have informed me at once,” said Mrs. Bennet. “And to think, you could stay at a castle!”

  “I was still trying to make my decision. I do not desire to be an inconvenience to Lady Trafford.”

  “It will be no inconvenience at all, Miss Bennet.”

  “Surely it is owed to us, Mary, for you to have such an opportunity. Especially as you are not beautiful like your sisters, and you have had no suitors.”

  “I have already made up my mind, Mother.”

  “You cannot possibly think to turn down Lady Trafford’s offer! What an inconsiderate child you are.”

  “I did not say how I had made up my mind.”

  “What do you say, Miss Bennet? Will you join me at Castle Durrington?”

  “How big is your library?” asked Mary. “And do you have a pianoforte?”

  Chapter Five

  “[Bonaparte] did not think it prudent to attempt any pursuit [of the enemy army]. ‘The rain fell in torrents—never was the French army assailed by such bad weather.’ Bonaparte always [blames] the weather [for] any disaster he meets with.”

  –The Courier, London, September 8, 1813

  Mary despised carriages, especially public ones. She had spent a full day in travel from Meryton to London surrounded by tedious strangers, young and old. This had been followed by two days with the Gardiners in London, enjoying the company of her young cousins, which unfortunately was only a brief respite before another miserable day in a public carriage with an old woman who had no sense of proper morals or manners, and a constant rain pounding on the roof. The inn in Horsham had left much to be desired, and then she had taken yet another public carriage for the thirteen miles to Washington.

  Now she waited on a bench, still miles from Worthing, with her luggage piled on the ground behind her. She removed Lady Trafford’s letter of instructions.

  At the carriage station in Washington you will be met by one of my servants, either Thomas Parker or Joseph Tubbs. He will drive you the remaining seven miles to Castle Durrington, where I will be pleased to greet you and welcome you for your stay.

  The letter’s wording implied that the servant should have arrived in Washington first, so she would not have to wait. But there had been no carriage waiting for her, and those at the station had seen neither Mr. Parker nor Mr. Tubbs. She supposed she could hire her own carriage to take her to the castle, but she had never hired a carriage before, so she hoped it did not come to that. She tried to sit tall and be an example of long-suffering for the men at the carriage station.

  After a few minutes, a shiny black carriage approached and stopped in front of her. The driver, a jovial man with peppered hair, spoke to her. “Are you Miss Bennet? I am Mr. Tubbs. I work for Lady Trafford.”

  “Yes, I am Miss Bennet. I have been waiting for at least half an hour. I thought Lady Trafford had a brown carriage, not a black one.”

  “She has two carriages, miss. I am sorry that I forced you to wait. The carriage from Horsham must have been fast today. Normally it is late.” He laughed. “You can never predict these things.”

  Once they had exited Washington, Mr. Tubbs took the horses at a trot. The countryside did not appear markedly different than what she had already seen, so Mary leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the bumps in the road.

  Before this, she had only left Hertfordshire a handful of times in her life, and that had been as a child. Travelling seemed overrated, with endless inconveniences and only small benefits.

  But at least she would be able to use a pianoforte and a library when she arrived. The past month at the Philipses’ home had been tedious without either. She raised her hands as if she were seated at a pianoforte and played the beginning of a song in the air, hearing the melody in her mind.

  She let out a sigh and set down her hands. She could wait a few more minutes.

  It occurred to her that it would be proper, as a guest, to express her gratitude to Lady Trafford upon her arrival. She composed a short speech in her mind, making sure her phrases were crafted to her satisfaction.

  After a little over an hour, the carriage slowed, and Mr. Tubbs tapped on the wall. “We are here, miss.”

  All thoughts of her speech disappeared as she saw Castle Durrington for the first time. She had not expected something nearly as grand or magnificent as this. It looked like an illustration in one of the books she had read to her cousins in London, about King Arthur’s castle.

  The central mass of the castle consisted of grand, square stone towers, topped by parapets. The right section of the castle was edged by rounded stone towers with parapets, and the left section, while it did not have true towers, had a two-storied tracery window, which she could confidently say, based on her architectural readings, had been constructed in the Gothic style. Though the edges of the grey stones looked sharp and new, she could picture medieval soldiers standing behind the parapets and shooting arrows at an attacking foe.

  She leaned forward in anticipation as the carriage came to a stop in front of the main doorway. Outside stood five servants waiting for her arrival, but there was no sign of Lady Trafford.

  As Mr. Tubbs helped Mary out, one of the servants stepped inside and returned but not with Lady Trafford. He led Mr. Withrow. Yet the letter had clearly stated that Lady Trafford would be here.

  Withrow stepped forward and gave a practiced bow. “Lady Trafford sends her regards. I apologize that she is not here to greet you. While she had every plan to be here today, she was called to Brighton for urgent business and will not return until tomorrow or the following day.”

  What type of business was so urgent that it could not wait a single day? How peculiar. And what sort of business would preclude sending her nephew or a trusted servant instead? It was very peculiar indeed.

  Mary twisted her hands together, unsure of how she should act until the mistress of the house returned. Admittedly, she felt less welcome here with only Mr. Withrow. From their brief interactions, he did not seem as approachable as Lady Trafford, and there was the matter of him searching her father’s things and then lying about it.

  “Are you going to respond to what I said?” asked Withrow. “Or have you gone mute?”

  She opened her mouth and out came the words she had prepared to deliver to Lady Trafford. “It is a great honor for me to be invited to stay at Castle Durrington. My gratitude stems from both my commitment to my education and my willingness to expand my spheres of interaction. I feel that during my stay—”

  “Your gratitude is appreciated,” interrupted Mr. Withrow, making it impossible for her to finish the speech. “Would you care for a brief refreshment? This is Mrs. Boughton, our indomitable housekeepe
r. After we have tea, she will provide you with a tour. I have obligations to the estate today and will be unable to join you, but you can trust that you will be in very capable hands.”

  Clearly, he did not want her company. She had no particular need for his either. “I do not need any refreshment,” said Mary. “I feel refreshed already. You may return to your work so I can immediately begin the tour.”

  “Very well,” said Mr. Withrow. “I will see you at dinner.” He seemed relieved that she did not demand his attention and stepped into the castle.

  Mary pressed her lips firmly together. This was not the welcome she had envisioned. She had prepared for Lady Trafford, she had not been able to give her speech, and she did not particularly want to be thrust into the care of a housekeeper, no matter how capable. She was a little thirsty and hungry, but she had no desire to drink tea and chat with Withrow.

  Mrs. Boughton curtsied to Mary. She was a tall, greying women, with sharp edges to her facial features, and to her elbows. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennet. Throughout your stay, please let me know if there is any way I can be of assistance to you.”

  “I am sure my stay will be quite suitable, thank you. Before the tour, I would like to see my trunks up to my room.”

  “No need to worry yourself over that, Miss Bennet. The footmen will bring them up.” Mrs. Boughton nodded at several of the servants.

  Mary watched with consternation as they removed her trunks from the carriage. She was accustomed to servants handling her things, but she did not personally know these servants and did not know what care they would give her belongings. Her entire life was in those cases: almost all of her worldly possessions, her books and her music, her black mourning clothes, and her normal ones, too, as she did not know how long she would be a visitor here. She watched the men as they carried the case into the house, memorizing their faces, their heights, their builds.

  “Now shall we begin?” asked Mrs. Boughton.

  “Yes. I have never toured a castle before.”

  Mrs. Boughton smiled. “Which raises the first point of interest. Castle Durrington is not, by strict definitions, a castle. Construction began twenty-three years ago, in 1790, by the late Sir George Trafford. While this north side does use a Gothic, castellated style, its fortifications are visual only, and not designed to withstand an assault. I pray every night that fortifications never become necessary, especially because we would need them on the south side, not on this one. Should Bonaparte cross the channel, he could choose to land in Sussex. We would be overrun by French soldiers before we had time to flee.”

  Mary’s visions of the castle withstanding an attack disappeared like morning mist. She hoped she never saw Bonaparte, or any of his troops. He had not yet dared to land on the British Isles, but there was always speculation as to when or where he might attack, if the British forces did not do well enough in battle.

  Yet despite Mrs. Boughton’s purported fear of invasion, she seemed quite able to forget her concerns and redirect her attention to the tour. She pointed to the right section of the castle. “That section, with the rounded towers, is the stables, and there, on the left, is the kitchen and dairy and servants’ quarters. As there is a cool breeze today, we best go inside.”

  The last remaining servant opened the door, and Mrs. Boughton gestured for Mary to enter first. Mary stepped inside and immediately stopped. Despite herself, she found herself impressed by the grandeur.

  The entry hall was a round room, and at its centre was a grand staircase that seemed as if it was suspended in the air. The stairs had a slight curve and drew her eyes upwards, to a glass dome far above their heads.

  Mrs. Boughton cleared her throat, and Mary stepped forward so the door could be closed.

  “The entirety of Castle Durrington was designed by the architect John Biagio Rebecca. It is said that this dome is the only of its kind in a private residence in Britain.” As Mrs. Boughton pointed out the different kinds of pillars used in the entry hall, Mary could not help but conclude that this was a rather pompous display of wealth. Not only was there a grand staircase in this main entry area, but a smaller spiral staircase as well.

  Mrs. Boughton led Mary through the rooms on the main floor which were off of the entry hall—first two dining rooms, then two parlors. She pointed out a final door. “And this is the library.” She put her finger to her lips to indicate that silence was needed, then gently twisted the door handle. It was locked. “Mr. Withrow must not be able to spare time for an interruption, so you will be shown the library later.”

  Mary swallowed her disappointment. The library was one of the rooms she most wanted to see. Withrow had known Mrs. Boughton was giving her a tour, he had known that Mary loved books, and yet he had locked the door.

  They left the main floor behind, ascending the grand staircase to the first floor and to what Mrs. Boughton called “the rotunda, or domed balcony room.” It was a large, circular room directly below the dome. It contained a series of different alcoves. Some were covered by curtains; of these, some were simply decorative, covering blank paneled walls, and one hid the small spiral staircase which led both downstairs to the main floor and upstairs to the second floor. The other alcoves contained doors with hallways to the rest of the rooms.

  Mary wanted to sit and rest, but she did not say anything. Fortitude was a virtue to be prized in the face of great odds. She lagged half a dozen steps behind as Mrs. Boughton showed her a long gallery filled with paintings that could be used as a ballroom, and four grand drawing rooms. One hallway led to Lady Trafford’s and Mr. Withrow’s rooms, but they did not visit them. The housekeeper kept pointing out the way different architectural styles had been combined. But Mary was not here to learn about architecture. If she wanted to learn about it, she would read a book.

  Many of the rooms faced the back, south side of the house, and featured large windows, from which you could see the ocean, a faint blue line on the horizon. As they stepped into another drawing room, which also had a view of the ocean, her attention was drawn instead to the pianoforte.

  “May I play this instrument?” she asked.

  “Lady Trafford enjoys music, and I am certain she will encourage you to increase your skills.”

  Mary sat down at the bench and rubbed her hands together.

  “Perhaps it would be better if you played after the tour. There should be time before dinner.”

  “I have not had the opportunity to play these past five weeks. I should not neglect it now.”

  Mary did not have many pieces memorized, but she had been working on one before her father’s death. She set her hands on the keys and relaxed in a way that she had not been able to at any point during her long journey here. This pianoforte had a different sound than she was used to, a little deeper. The first few measures brought her pleasure, but after five or six she stumbled to a halt. She could not remember what came next. She started anew, hoping it would come to her, and she managed an extra measure, but the notes after that were jumbled and dissonant.

  Mary took her hands from the keys and stood up promptly. “I need to see my music.”

  “There will be plenty of time for that later,” said Mrs. Boughton, as if Mary’s desires should be remedied and corrected. Elizabeth would take such a tone with her at times, as would her father, when alive. They said these sorts of things politely, but it always seemed that Mary was getting in the way of their plans, the way they envisioned the world best working.

  “Very well,” said Mary stiffly.

  “And now,” said Mrs. Boughton, “for my favorite part of the tour: the south terrace and the lawns.”

  Mary did not want to continue the tour with Mrs. Boughton, but she knew it would be impolite to refuse. People like Elizabeth always managed to do things that were impolite, yet in a way that did not give others offense. Perhaps Mary would try it. She pictured her older sister in her mind and decided on the proper phrasing.

  “I would truly love to s
ee the terrace, but I am feeling great fatigue from my long journey. Perhaps we can continue it another day.”

  “It is well worth seeing the back of the house. I can make it a short excursion.”

  Mary had seen plenty of backs of houses. They were typically a duller version of the front.

  “I need to lie down,” Mary said flatly.

  Mrs. Boughton looked like she was about to protest but then thought better of it. As the grand staircase did not lead to the second floor (it was covered by a dome) they went up the smaller spiral staircase. Even though Mrs. Boughton had agreed to continue the tour another day, she would not stop talking. There were over a dozen rooms, with one section reserved for visiting relatives. Mrs. Boughton pointed out her own room (“it is close to yours, and I will act as a chaperone until Lady Trafford returns”), and the nursery (“should Mr. Withrow ever choose to marry and produce heirs”), and then she finally brought Mary to the room that would be hers during her stay. Her room was on the north side of the house, the side from which the carriage had approached. From her windows, besides the clearing in front of the house and a glimpse of the road, all Mary could see were trees, some with a few leaves turning their fall colours.

  After Mrs. Boughton verified that all of Mary’s cases had been brought up, she left so Mary could rest.

  As soon as the door was closed, Mary opened the case with her music and found her error. It was an easy part—how could she have completely forgotten the opening movement? She wanted to return to the pianoforte but stopped herself short of the door. She had used the excuse that she was tired to free herself from the rest of the tour, but now that prohibited her from using the pianoforte. Next time, she should come up with a different polite reason. And next time, she would not decline refreshment after travelling.

  Mary lay down on the bed, holding her music to her chest. This castle—no, house—was grander even than Netherfield, where Mr. Bingley had lived for a time. And compared to the residence of the Philipses—well, she should not compare her aunt’s house to this place. Perhaps she should have stayed there, in a place that was familiar, with people who were familiar. At least there she knew her place in the world. Here, more seemed possible, yet it also made her future feel more uncertain. But there was no use in looking back. Her decision had been made, and she would make the best of it.