The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 7

  She set her music to the side and tried falling asleep, but too much afternoon light shone through the window. She rose and walked to the window; instead of closing the curtain, she gazed outside at the walk and the trees. She removed her mourning ring. She read her father’s name and date of death, then flipped the bezel to reveal the clip of hair. She pressed the translucent stone to her lips. Change was inevitable, and death, as the philosophers liked to say, was but a natural part of life. While she would suffer through it with resolve, that did not mean she had to relish her suffering.

  A movement—or perhaps a light—caught Mary’s attention. She peered out her window. There, in the trees, a red light flashed, two more times. A minute later the light flashed again, three times. What even made a red light, strong enough to be seen through trees in the daytime?

  She waited, but the light did not flash again. Yet a minute or two later, someone walked away from Castle Durrington, towards the light. She recognized his clothes and hair. It was Mr. Withrow.

  She tightened her fingers around the fabric of the curtain. Withrow could be engaged in business for the estate, but then why the mysterious red light? It seemed like a signal, a secret signal that most people were not meant to understand.

  What he did was none of her concern, yet she could not stifle her curiosity. This was the man who had searched her parents’ room, after all, and she still did not know why he had done so. She might never learn why, but at least she could discover what occupied him now. If Mrs. Boughton questioned her leaving her room, she would simply state that she had received sufficient rest.

  Mary took the small spiral staircase down two flights, all the way to the main floor. A servant stood at attention in the front entryway.

  “Would you please open the door?” she asked.

  He did so, asking, “Where are you going, miss?”

  “I need a bit of fresh air,” said Mary. She should not need to justify her movements to Lady Trafford’s servants.

  “Are you in need of any assistance?”

  “No. I am quite independently minded.”

  As she stepped away from the castle, she realized that the servant might report to Withrow that she had left the house. She did not want the servant to know that she was following his master, so she veered to the left, as if she was headed to the side of the house. After a minute she turned back, towards the place in the trees where she had seen the light.

  As she neared the trees she slowed. She stepped over branches and around fallen logs, keeping as quiet as possible. She heard voices, not truly audible, and as she neared them, she crouched down into some shrubbery.

  She pushed aside a branch and peered at the two figures who stood a bit farther forward. One was unmistakable: it was Withrow. The other took her a moment to place, in part because his presence was so unexpected. The man had a mustache and a beard, which changed the look of his facial structure, and his hair was now a darker colour, but despite these changes, Mary recognized him.

  Mr. Withrow was meeting with the man who had attempted to steal her family’s mourning rings.

  Chapter Six

  An extract from a letter from a British officer in Spain, to his friend in Glasgow, written after a British victory: “There was a great deal of plunder taken, and a considerable number of prisoners, among whom, as I went along, I observed two French officers, as I thought, a young one who was wounded, and a middle-aged man, unhurt, with his arm round the young one’s neck, and comforting him the best way he could. The soldiers observed that they must be brothers; but it turned out that they were husband and wife—the woman dressed in men’s clothes.”

  –The Courier, London, September 8, 1813

  Mary had always felt that thoughts were like feet: a lady should keep them at a steady, controlled pace. But now Mary’s thoughts were running in all directions, and she could do nothing to stop them.

  Mr. Withrow was talking to the thief. Did he know the man was a thief? He must. It would be too great a coincidence for the thief to be here at Castle Durrington and back at Longbourn. He clearly knew the man, and he must know of his business.

  The thief was quite animated in his discussion, and Mr. Withrow laughed, loud enough that it carried to Mary. She could not hear their conversation, but it was clear that they were comrades.

  Mary’s breath sounded loud in her ears, and she feared that at any moment they would notice her. This man was a criminal, and who knew what bodily harm he would do to her if she were discovered? She had read several descriptions in the newspapers of evil men forcing their way into dwellings, dragging women off, and, though the papers never actually stated it in words, raping the women. Mary shuddered at the thought of that awful word. She did not know that the thief was that type of evil man, but he did look strong, and there were plenty of other descriptions in the papers of highway robbers and men causing physical injuries to their victims, breaking bones and the like. She tried to breathe quietly and slowly, and to keep her body from shaking, but it was difficult to do.

  Perhaps only Withrow knew the thief, and Lady Trafford was ignorant of the whole affair. Mary found herself disappointed in him. Withrow knew Darcy, and Darcy respected Withrow. Their acquaintance should have prevented something such as this.

  When Mary had caught the thief in Meryton, fiddling with Lady Trafford’s cases, she had assumed he was trying to steal them. She reconsidered the events of that day, drawing up the details in her mind. He must have been helping them with their cases. But when Mary had called him a thief, Withrow had chased him. Of course, Withrow could have chased him for the show of it, to maintain a facade. During their conversation in the carriage after, neither Withrow nor Lady Trafford had made mention that he was their acquaintance or servant. They must have already known that he had stolen the mourning rings, and perhaps even tasked him with it. They would not have expected Mary to walk to Meryton at that moment.

  Mary’s legs began to cramp. She watched impatiently as Withrow and the thief traded letters. The thief wrote something in a small notebook, and then placed it in his jacket pocket. Withrow said something, the thief responded harshly, and for a minute, Withrow gesticulated angrily. But then their faces and their mannerisms became cordial again.

  She looked down at the mourning ring on her hand, considering how abruptly Withrow and his aunt had come into her life. While the theft of the mourning rings could have been orchestrated by Withrow alone, the middle of the night visit was clearly led by Lady Trafford, and she had put a great amount of effort into persuading Mary to come to Castle Durrington for lessons.

  But what benefit would Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow gain from stolen mourning rings? They would not be able to use them, and they certainly did not need the money that could be made by selling them. Had she foiled their plan by finding the rings? Or had she performed the exact part they had hoped she would play?

  Mary’s thoughts led her in endless, futile directions until Withrow and the thief finished their conversation, embraced, and left the trees in opposite directions, Withrow towards the castle, and the thief towards the main road. There was a brief moment of panic as Withrow paused not far from her hiding place, but then he was gone.

  *

  Mary returned to her room, collapsed into her bed, and fell into a restless, uneasy sleep. A knock on the door jolted Mary awake. The door was pushed open a crack, and a voice came from outside. “Excuse me, miss, but Mrs. Boughton has sent me to help you prepare for dinner.”

  “I do not need someone to wait on me.” Mary never needed the help of maids to dress, not even for a ball.

  The door pushed opened the rest of the way, revealing a pretty girl with dark skin and a smiling face.

  “Don’t worry,” said the maid. “You are not my only task. But this is a big house with many expectations, and you are rather short on time, and it’s no trouble at all.”

  Mary tried to come up with some way to stop the maid but could not find the words.

  The maid w
as opening all of Mary’s cases, examining the clothes. “I’m Fanny, by the way. Fanny Cramer.” She settled on the nicest black gown, the one Mary had worn on the day of the funeral. “Now this one will be just right, unless you want to leave mourning behind and put on some colour for tonight.”

  “I am not one of those young ladies who is in mourning for only a week or two. I plan to wear black for my father for at least three months.”

  “Whatever suits your fancy,” said Fanny. “It is a bit unusual though. I have never heard of anyone wearing it for more than a month or two.”

  Before Mary knew it, Fanny had disrobed her and put on the new gown. She was efficient and friendly, keeping up a constant chatter, and fortunately, did not seem to expect Mary to respond.

  “Do you need help going down?”

  “I was given a tour of the castle.”

  “It will be the smaller dining room tonight, the one on the left. While you’re there, I will put away the rest of your things for you.”

  Normally, Mary did this sort of thing herself, but she was tired, and Fanny seemed the sort who would do it even if told not to. She owned nothing overly private that Fanny could not see.

  “Be careful with the music. And with the family names chart. I spent a long time copying everything down and would not like to see it wrinkled.”

  “I always treat everything with care,” said Fanny. “Don’t you worry over it.” She squeezed Mary’s arm in a manner that felt rather familiar for having just met. “Now go and eat. It will help you feel better.”

  Mary was feeling quite well and had not said anything that would have indicated otherwise, so she wondered at Fanny’s statement. But she was hungry, so she went down the two flights on the small spiral staircase and entered the smaller dining room.

  Mr. Withrow was already seated, but he stood when she entered.

  “Good evening,” said Mr. Withrow.

  “Good evening,” said Mary.

  The servants brought out the food, course by course, and Mrs. Boughton stood on the side, a watchful chaperone. Mr. Withrow appeared to be thoroughly engaged in his food and did not speak. Mary wondered if he disliked her so intensely after such a short acquaintance, if he simply found her so far beneath his notice, or if he was treating her this way because of her previous accusation.

  “What business called Lady Trafford to Brighton?” asked Mary.

  “One of the charities she is involved in, I believe.”

  “Oh really?” asked Mary, trying to draw out more details. “What did they need her for?”

  “I am not aware of the particulars.”

  She wondered if he did not know, or if he was simply being evasive. If a family member of hers went off on urgent business, she would have found out the particulars before they left.

  “Does Lady Trafford do a lot of charity work?”

  “A reasonable amount. She does what she can and never feels she has done enough.” He took a very large bite of food, apparently not wanting to elaborate.

  “I think that is very commendable. A soul that is turned towards others does some of the most important work.”

  He nodded but did not respond.

  “What charities does she assist?”

  “A large number, both in Worthing and other nearby locations. I cannot keep track of all their names.”

  He really did not want to give her any information. “I would like to do work for the benefit of the poor and the needy as well. Is there any society that might be able to use my skills?”

  He sighed. “I am not personally involved in any of them, so the best thing to do would be to wait and ask my aunt when she returns.”

  There were other things Mary wanted to ask, such as how exactly their families were related, how often she might expect to visit Worthing, and most especially, Withrow’s connection to the thief, but Mary suspected he would deflect her questions, so she did not verbalize them. They sat in silence for a few minutes until Mary asked, “May I use the library?” Mrs. Boughton had already implied permission to use the pianoforte but had not been clear about the library.

  “Lady Trafford will, without doubt, grant you a full run of the house.”

  It was an indirect permission, but she would take it.

  Then he added, “When I am working or reading in the library, you are welcome to procure a text, but I prefer not to be disturbed.”

  Her father had been much the same way. He preferred if the library was kept a place of quiet contemplation. “I will not disturb you.”

  They finished their food in silence. Mary stood to leave.

  Withrow raised his hand to stop her. “Tomorrow the servants will serve you breakfast in this room at nine thirty. Unfortunately, I have other commitments and will not be able to join you. Your lessons will begin at eleven in the parlor next to the library. You will have drawing for an hour and a half, followed by an hour and a half of French. Hopefully my aunt will have returned by that point.”

  Mary nodded. She hoped so as well, for she was certain Lady Trafford’s company and conversation would offer a great improvement over Withrow’s.

  *

  With dinner complete, Mary went directly to the library. She turned the door handle, which was unlocked, and stepped inside. She paused for a moment at the entrance, taking in the smell of paper and leather binding, and smiled.

  The walls of the room were covered with bookshelves of beautiful dark brown wood. She let her fingers trail along the well-polished surface as she explored. In addition to the shelves on the walls, there were several additional rows of shelves, of half the height, in the middle of the room. Based on her mental calculations, Lady Trafford owned at least twice as many books as had been in her father’s library, if not three times as many.

  Ladders were spread throughout the room. She tried sliding one, but it did not slide. She noted a ledge at the top of the shelves that the ladders seemed to hook onto. She lifted one of the ladders, shifted it, and placed it in another position on the shelves.

  Every single book had high-quality bindings, even a novel she found. Lady Trafford must have a proficient craftsman who bound all of her books. Mary removed a few books at random but could find no rhyme or reason to their organization. Surely a library of this size must have a logic to it, but if it did, she could not find it.

  Mr. Bennet’s library—now Mr. Collins’s—had four general categories: religion, natural history, politics and world history, and other. Within these categories the books were organized by a combination of size, colour, and purchase date. Mr. Bennet had created a catalogue which recorded all of his books and assisted in finding them. He also knew his books well, so if Mary had a question, she simply had to ask him. Her father would sit for a moment, thinking, then stand and go directly to the book Mary sought.

  Mary searched for a catalogue of books but did not find one. She supposed she could ask Mr. Withrow or Mrs. Boughton, but she did not want their help; she preferred to explore places on her own, at her own speed.

  One section of the library had no shelves, but rather paneled walls of various materials and textures, a very fine desk, and other seating—several chairs and sofas. The desk was covered with papers, and one of the pages caught her eye. She did not mean to read it, but once her eyes fell upon the words, she could not unsee the meaning of them. It was a list titled “Tasks for September eighth.” It appeared to be items Mr. Withrow had hoped to accomplish today. “Greet M. Bennet, give apologies” was crossed out, along with five other items: “Update ledgers,” “Check harvest,” “Trade letter D. Ray,” “Newspapers,” “Check on mine investment.” There were fourteen other items on the list that he had not completed.

  Withrow must be very busy indeed. It seemed to her almost futile to create a list of that length; it was better to keep one’s life simple and meaningful than to fill it with endless tasks. She had never had more than one or two things she needed to do on a given day, and some days she did not have any.

  The
re was a large detailed map of the region, and she studied it for a moment. Then she turned back to the books, looking for something she might borrow. Finally she found a book of sermons. Next to it on the shelves were other sermons and religious histories. Even if she could not get a sense of the library’s organization as a whole, at least the religious books were all grouped together. She chose two collections of sermons and one history of the Anglican church, then found a small piece of paper on Mr. Withrow’s desk and wrote herself directions on where to replace the books once she was finished. She wrote another note listing the books she was borrowing, which she set on the desk, then sat down in one of the chairs with her new reading.

  Halfway through the first chapter of the Anglican church history book, Mary paused. Lady Trafford must have a family Bible which included the family records. Mary could figure out their direct relationship on her own, even before Lady Trafford returned.

  On the shelf of religious books, she found commentaries on many of the books within the Bible, but no Bible. Puzzled, she stared at the shelf for a minute. Then she walked around the room, step by step, peering at each and every shelf. Surely Lady Trafford owned a Bible. She could not imagine what kind of person would not.

  Mary had begun to question the potential for the salvation of Lady Trafford’s soul when she found the Bible and quickly repented of her hasty judgment. It had been placed on a shelf with other books that appeared to be prized or rare.

  With care, she removed the Bible from the shelf and returned to her seat. She opened the book and inhaled its pleasant, musty smell. Inside she found page upon page of family records, written in dozens of different hands over the years.