The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet

by Katherine Cowley

  She closed the book and set it on the chair, then went to her room and retrieved the family names chart she had prepared. Once she had returned to the library, she laid both the book and her chart on Mr. Withrow’s desk—on top of his papers, as she did not want to move them—and studied name after name, searching for the point of convergence.

  The records in the family Bible were very thorough, containing every child, spouse, and connection for every single family line for the past one hundred and fifty years. Mary compared each name to those on her chart, wondering if they might be third or fourth or fifth cousins, either directly or through marriage.

  Finally, Mary leaned back in the chair and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. She was getting a headache as she tried to sort out the significance of the evidence before her. Based on the records in the family Bible, Mary was not, in fact, related to Lady Trafford.

  Chapter Seven

  A bulletin published by the Crown Prince of Sweden to his people, after the failure of the armistice: “Soldiers! It is to arms then… The same sentiment which guided the French in 1792 and which prompted them to assemble and combat the armies which entered their territory, ought to animate your valour against those who, after having invaded the land which gave you birth, still hold in chains your brethren, your wives, and your children. Soldiers! What a noble prospect is presented to you. The liberty of Europe, the reestablishment of its equilibrium, the end of that convulsive state which has had twenty years’ duration; finally, the peace of the world will be the result of your efforts. Render yourselves worthy, by your union, your discipline, and your courage, of the high destiny which awaits you.”

  –The Bath Chronicle, Bath, England, September 9, 1813

  Mary attempted, for the first time in her life, to draw a still life. The master, a Richard Linton who resided in Worthing, had arranged several items in the centre of a table, given Mary a piece of paper and a pencil made of graphite encased in silver, and instructed Mary to draw.

  In this she found herself anything but proficient. She could not even force a straight line when she desired a straight line, or a curved line with a proper curve.

  Mr. Linton stood a few feet away, looking out the parlor of the window towards the sea, which was hardly visible because of the rain. After a few minutes he returned to stand behind Mary.

  “Have you ever had any drawing instruction before?”

  “No, sir,” said Mary, sinking a little in her chair.

  “Have you spent much time drawing on your own?”

  “No, sir,” she said again, feeling a little smaller.

  “Then you have no bad habits to correct. You are a blank canvas.” He pulled up a chair beside Mary. “May I use the pencil?”

  He took it and began drawing on top of Mary’s picture. She felt an initial surge of resentment but then forced it back down. Mr. Linton was a master, after all, and it was not as if her fruit or the flowers had turned out well in any case.

  “The key is to draw not what you know is there, but instead, only what you can see from a particular vantage point.” He paused. “What you have done is look at the outside of the forms. Blocking your arrangement onto the page can be quite useful because it helps you lay out your image and keep the correct proportions between objects.” He made her apple a little larger and rounder and sketched a new outline for the vase.

  “In the coming weeks, I will give you other supplies—graphite of different hardnesses, charcoal in different shades. But for now, I want you to master this pencil, and do all that you can with it.”

  Mr. Linton demonstrated how to form a thick or a thin line by adjusting the sharpness of the pencil or the angle used. He made darker and lighter lines depending on how hard he pressed the pencil on the paper. And he showed how to use lines not only on the outer edges of an object, but on the inside, to create depth, give an appearance of shape and shadows, and make it seem as if the picture depicted more than a flat object on a flat page.

  “You should write a book of these techniques,” said Mary. “I am sure many individuals would find it invaluable.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Linton. “But there is only so much one can learn from a book. There are many things that are best taught by a teacher, or by experience itself.”

  “My best teachers have always been books,” said Mary.

  “I will see if I can teach you to draw better than they did.” He directed her attention back to the page. “Now try with the apple. You need to create depth and curve.”

  She tried to do as he said, adding shadow on one side of the apple, and suddenly, the sketch seemed more like the real thing.

  “Add a little shading near the stem—a little bit darker, if you will. And now perhaps a few very light lines where the light is hitting the apple right here.”

  She followed his direction as best of as she was able and was surprised by the results. She congratulated herself on learning from him so quickly.

  Mr. Linton guided her to add lines and texture and shadow to the flowers, then gave her a second piece of paper and a mirror.

  “Now take the next fifteen minutes and draw a self-portrait of your face. Think about blocking, think about light and shadow, consider how all the parts of the face relate to each other, and how each is required to make a whole.”

  Mary swallowed but she lifted up the pencil. She sketched an oval very lightly, in case she needed to change it later, and then stared at her face in the mirror. Two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, how hard could it be? Yet she found herself at a loss for where to begin. Her features were normal, unremarkable. She did not consider herself ugly or unattractive, but she certainly was plain.

  After a minute, she began work on the nose, but the curves were challenging. She moved on to her eyes, which were much easier, then stared at her lips in the mirror. Mr. Linton sat across from her, drawing furiously, with only an occasional pause and glance in her direction. She wondered what he drew. Finally she drew her own lips. She had just started on her hair when Mr. Linton said, “one more minute,” so she hastily sketched her hair in a bun.

  She breathed out and considered her work. It was not perfect, but for her first attempt at drawing a person, it certainly had some merit.

  Mr. Linton stood and examined her drawing. She waited for some praise of her effort, but instead he said, “Your proportions do not match that of a real human face. For instance, the eyes are much too high on the head, well into the area where the forehead should be.”

  He took a fresh paper and sketched an oval. He then drew a slightly curved line at the halfway point. “If you study the human body, you will find that the eyes always fall at the midpoint between the top of the head and the bottom of the chin. I recommend blocking those first and then positioning the nose and the mouth beneath them.” He demonstrated the positioning and moved on to show the placement of the ears, eyebrows, and hairline. “Children’s faces are proportioned a bit differently, but we will cover that another day.”

  Mary looked at his sketch of proportions and then back to her self-portrait. Suddenly it seemed woefully inadequate, like something drawn by a young child.

  “Why did you not teach me this before I drew my face?”

  “Because then you would not appreciate the knowledge, and you would be less likely to remember it.”

  Mary sniffed. That was, to her, not the ideal teaching method. Why force a student to fail before providing proper instruction? She almost said as much, but an image of Elizabeth and Jane appeared in her mind. They would look down on such a comment, consider it improper even, and perhaps they were right.

  “While you were drawing, I did a quick sketch of your face. Ideally, I would spend an hour or two more, but it does provide a resemblance.”

  Mary took in a quick breath of air. The portrait was absolutely marvelous, the work of a true artist. She had not even been sitting still, and yet in fifteen minutes he had managed to pin her to the page. She could not possibly imagine what he would improv
e if he spent an hour or more on it.

  “If you apply yourself with diligence, in a few months you should be able to draw a self-portrait that satisfies you.”

  “One’s commitment to hard work is a reflection of the value one places on one’s own soul.” If there was anything Mary knew how to do, it was to apply herself. And if she had the potential to draw anything like what Mr. Linton had, she would do all that was required.

  “Keep every page you sketch on. It will be a record so you can see your own improvement, and so I can give you specific feedback on what is and is not working. Please date and sign each of your pages.” He then gave her instruction on what he wanted her to complete before her next lesson: three still lifes; a page each of ears, noses, mouths, eyes, and hands; and three landscapes. She was to have drawing lessons twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and as today was a Thursday, that gave her five days to complete the task.

  Mr. Linton packed up his things.

  “Can I keep the portrait you drew of me?”

  “If you would like.” He signed the page. “Maybe someday I will draw a better one.”

  As he left, Mary studied her portrait. It was excellently done, but on closer consideration, she looked scared and timid. There was nothing noteworthy about her appearance; it was the sort of face that people would ignore and dismiss as unimportant. Yet a real artist had found it worth drawing, worth putting in pencil on a page.

  Mary’s ruminations were interrupted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Boughton, who announced the arrival of the second tutor, a Madame Dieupart.

  Madame Dieupart was a small woman with dark, curly hair and pronounced cheekbones. She wore simple, dark-coloured clothing, a style Mary approved of.

  She curtsied to Mary. “Bonjour.”

  Now that was a word Mary did know how to say. “Bonjour.”

  Madame Dieupart clucked. “Non, non, non. Bonjour.”

  She looked at Mary expectantly, but Mary did not know what she expected her to say.

  “Quand je dis quelque chose, il faut écouter bien et répéter. Bonjour. Répétez.”

  Mary understood bonjour, but Madame Dieupart spoke so quickly that Mary had no idea what any of the other words meant. Reading had truly not prepared her to speak the language.

  Madame Dieupart pointed at herself and said, “Bonjour,” pointed at Mary and said, “Bonjour. Répétez.”

  Mary supposed the woman wanted her to repeat. She must have said the word inadequately.

  “Bonjour,” said Mary. They went back and forth saying bonjour to each other until finally Madame Dieupart said, “Enfin!”

  What did that mean? Mary had not the least idea.

  “Asseyez-vous.”

  Vous meant you, but Madame Dieupart had spoken very quickly, and Mary could not figure out how the first thing her teacher had said was spelled, so she did not know what it meant.

  “Asseyez-vous.” Her teacher gestured at the chair, so Mary sat, and Madame Dieupart followed suit.

  The next hour continued in a similar manner, Madame Dieupart saying a word or a phrase in French and insisting Mary repeat it back dozens of times. Mary wondered if Lady Trafford had employed someone to teach her French who did not speak a word of English. She also questioned whether this would actually teach her French. If she was forced only to repeat words without understanding them, how would she ever learn to speak?

  Mary wanted to tell her that she could read French. She wanted to ask questions and learn something about the language. But instead it was just this endless repetition. Every time Mary attempted to say something in English, Madame Dieupart ignored her.

  She began repeating the words with a defiant tone. It was not her fault no one had ever given her lessons before. There were several French speakers her parents could have hired, or they could have sent her to London for a true education.

  Finally, when Mary was about to abandon Madame Dieupart and the endless repeating in the parlor, Madame Dieupart said, with only a light accent, “Very good. That is enough listening and sounds practice for the day.”

  “You speak English?”

  “Of course. I fled France during la Terreur and have been living here ever since.” Her eyes turned to the window. “I like to imagine that I can see past the ocean and back to my home. I have never returned, and with things the way they are, I could not.”

  Mary did not know much about French politics or what would lead a French person to either sympathize with or oppose Napoleon Bonaparte.

  Madame Dieupart passed Mary a book titled An Introduction to French Phrases and Grammar. “Lady Trafford said that you can read French?”

  “Yes, Madame Dieupart.”

  She instructed Mary to read a few sentences of a text and then translate them. Then she explained the general rules for pronouncing the sounds.

  “Why did we not start with this?” asked Mary, annoyed.

  “You have to be able to listen. You must be able to understand and create the sounds. This book will make it easier for you to study and practice on your own, but I do not want you to be overly attached to the page.” She paused, considering Mary. “You are much older than my normal beginning students.”

  “I am only nineteen.”

  “It is easier to learn the sounds when you are young. But we will manage. Lady Trafford has asked me to teach you for an hour and a half a day, five days a week.”

  Mary was surprised. She had expected French to be like her drawing lessons, only twice a week. Seven and a half hours was an enormous portion of time spent with a single teacher. Apparently when Lady Trafford decided to do something, she did it thoroughly.

  “In addition to your lessons, you should spend at least an hour every day practicing. You can practice the sounds and phrases from the book. Or, if you have a French speaker to converse with, that is even better.” She raised her eyebrows dramatically. “Mr. Withrow is fluent in French.”

  “I do not think Mr. Withrow would agree to practice French with me.”

  Madame Dieupart laughed. “Perhaps you are right. Or perhaps you would be surprised.” She paused. “I taught him, you know. And Lady Trafford’s children, Anne and James.”

  “Where are they?” Mr. Darcy had mentioned Lady Trafford’s son, but besides that brief reference, no one had spoken of him. Mr. Withrow seemed to be responsible for running the estate, which meant Anne and James must either be absent, or have passed on. She rather suspected the latter.

  “That is not my story to tell.”

  Madame Dieupart left, and Mary rubbed her face with her hands. Her head ached from the lessons, particularly the French. Why ever had she told Lady Trafford that she wanted to learn French?

  “Excuse me, miss,” said a voice. Mary lifted her face and saw the maid, Fanny, carrying a platter of food and drinks. “I thought you might like some light refreshment.”

  Mary had not thought she needed anything—she would not have asked for anything—but suddenly it was exactly what she wanted. “Yes, thank you.”

  Mary began on the tea and the pastries, eating more quickly than was normal for her.

  While yesterday Fanny had been full of talk, today she stood quietly, waiting to be of assistance.

  Mary finished the food, yet did not want Fanny to leave, so she spoke. “I do not know if I can do this. Drawing and French; it’s all rather overwhelming.”

  “Things are harder when you are new,” said Fanny. “I have only been here three months, and the first fortnight was dreadful, trying to figure out my place and learn everything. But my mum always said you have to stick with something for long enough to give it a real chance. And things often start hard, don’t they?”

  It was good wisdom, even though it was not expressed in the most sophisticated fashion.

  “Has Lady Trafford returned?”

  “Not yet, miss, and there has been no word on when she will.”

  Fanny gathered the tray. Mary desired company, but she had no excuse to make Fanny stay.

&n
bsp; It was strange being in such a big house, with only Mr. Withrow for company, and him not even here today. She was certain there were many servants, but she had only seen a few so far. At home, no matter how many of her sisters were gone, it had never felt quiet or lonely with Mrs. Bennet in the house.

  Mary did not desire to draw or practice more French just yet, so she went upstairs and played the pianoforte until her fingers remembered what they were doing. Her fingers would be sore on the morrow.

  She decided she best start on her drawing assignment, for diligence was the key to mastery. She wanted to start with a landscape, and so she wandered about the floor, looking out the windows for the most interesting view. Some of the spaces and proportions and sizes of the rooms surprised her, but she could not pinpoint what was off. She supposed it was due to the use of a circular room for the staircase and balcony inside of a rectangular structure. Each of the rooms were square or rectangular, which meant that there must be large gaps in the walls between the round landing and the rooms.

  She thought she heard voices from the smallest drawing room, so she stepped towards that door. They were both voices she recognized—Mr. Withrow and Lady Trafford. She had returned. It surprised Mary that she had not sent a servant to find Mary and apprise her of the arrival—Mary was, after all, her guest, and they had not seen each other since Longbourn. Of course, this was also the woman who claimed to be a relative when no connection between them was apparent, and who surely must know of Mr. Withrow’s friend, the thief.

  These thoughts made her wary, so Mary stepped towards the room quietly, hoping to hear what they spoke of. But before she could hear anything of their conversation, Lady Trafford said loudly, “Miss Bennet, please come in.”

  Apparently she had been louder than she thought.

  As she stepped inside, Lady Trafford passed Mr. Withrow a paper which quickly disappeared into his jacket.

  “Miss Bennet! What a pleasure to have you join us here at Castle Durrington.”

  “I am glad to be here and grateful for this opportunity.” She tried to remember the words of her speech, but Lady Trafford gestured for her to be seated.