“And how was your trip? Not eventful, I hope.”
“Nothing unusual occurred. How was your trip to Brighton?”
“Very brief, but necessary.”
“Mr. Withrow said you were there for some charity work?”
“Yes, I am on the board of Brighton’s Society for Literacy and Improvement of the Poor. There was an incident with one of the teachers we hired, and so I thought it best for me to resolve the problem myself.”
The answer was satisfactory, though still a little vague. But Mary supposed it was better for Lady Trafford to not disclose the particular details about the incident, in order to protect those involved.
“I wish I had been able to go with you to Brighton. My friend from Hertfordshire, Mrs. Blankenbeckler, lives there now.”
“I do not visit Brighton very often,” said Lady Trafford, “but if I visit again, I will make sure to bring you with me.”
They engaged in polite, trivial conversation—or at least, Mary and Lady Trafford did. Mr. Withrow looked on, not saying anything unless prompted by his aunt. There was nothing strange or unusual in the conversation, unlike the night that they had met. Everything was exactly what you would expect from a woman of Lady Trafford’s position. Mary kept wanting to bring up the issue of the family Bible, but she needed to do so delicately. She did not want to be accusatory, for she had only arrived and would rather not endanger her stay.
“How were your lessons?” asked Lady Trafford.
It was only the first day, Mary reminded herself, thinking of Fanny’s words. And she did not want to appear ungrateful. “They were not quite what I expected. But I really enjoyed the drawing.”
“I agree that French is challenging,” said Lady Trafford. “But I suspect you will find the effort worth it, in the end.”
Mary had said nothing about French, and so wondered at Lady Trafford’s rather accurate surmise.
Mary summoned up her courage, and said, in as polite a tone as she could, “I brought a detailed family chart of names with me. I know you said that we are related, and I was hoping to discover our connection, and so I—”
“That is quite a natural desire,” said Lady Trafford, cutting her off and thus preventing her from mentioning the Bible. “I believe one of your great uncles or aunts married one of my cousins. I have my own chart which contains all of the details. I need to find it, and once I do, we can compare.”
Mary supposed the records in the Bible could be incomplete, but before she could reflect on it, Lady Trafford moved to a new topic of conversation.
“Mrs. Boughton said you did not finish your tour of the house.”
“I had seen sufficient.”
“Oh, it is much better to be thorough. Come, take a stroll with me on the back lawn.”
“But it is cold.” It was only September, and yet already the temperature was dropping.
“I presume you have a shawl. And if not, I insist that you borrow one of mine.” She did not wait to see if Mary agreed, instead turning to her nephew. “Will you be joining us, Henry?”
“Unfortunately, I have matters of the estate to attend to,” said Mr. Withrow, all courteousness. “But perhaps we can take a walk together later.”
Lady Trafford rang a bell and called in Fanny, who carried Mary’s drawing supplies up to her room and returned with her black shawl.
From what Mary had observed, there were two ways to exit the house to the back lawns—from the parlor downstairs, and from this parlor, on the first floor. They exited and found themselves on a large terrace. Lady Trafford led the way down the grand marble steps. Mary followed her closely, keeping her eyes fixed on the older woman in case she started to fall, but Lady Trafford’s steps were deliberate, and she had no trouble. She guessed that Lady Trafford was about the age of her mother—maybe a few years older—but more physically able. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, they walked out onto the lawn, which was rather plain with an undeveloped landscape.
“Do you often take unexpected trips?” asked Mary.
“From time to time. I like to keep myself busy and involved in many worthwhile endeavors, which means there are always many places to go and things to do. When possible, I travel farther afield. There are always so many new experiences, so many possibilities that the world has to offer.”
Mary had never had a desire to see the world. She had always been able to experience plenty of the world through books. And people were more understandable in books than in life.
Lady Trafford turned back to face the house, but Mary continued to look out across the lawn. It was difficult to tell if she saw the sea or only storm clouds. She would need to attempt a drawing from this angle; it was a worthy view.
“Why did my lessons start so quickly?”
“Would you rather wait a week or two? I thought it best to begin immediately, for both myself and Mr. Withrow can be rather dull company. Besides, there is always so much to learn.” Lady Trafford gave her a sharp look. “Really, Miss Bennet, you should turn around and look back at the house.”
Mary did so and could not stop a gasp. If she had not known better, she would have thought she had been instantly transported to another house somewhere else in the countryside, for the back of the house did not look anything like a castle. Gone were the turrets and towers she had seen on the front of Castle Durrington. There was no grey stone, nothing at all castle-like. Rather, she felt like she had stepped into an Italian painting. The house was grand, with yellow facing and beautiful, tall white pillars.
“I had asked Mrs. Boughton not to tell you in advance about the two styles of architecture of the estate. I much prefer if guests experience it for themselves.”
“I did not expect…” said Mary, but she found herself at a loss for words.
“My husband and I conceived of it together. He did not live to see it finished. It has taken twenty-three years, and there are still some improvements I would like to make.”
“What happened to your husband?” asked Mary. “And to your children?”
“You will find that it is not always best to ask extremely personal questions of new acquaintances,” said Lady Trafford. Despite giving correction, she did not look angry or ruffled. Instead she continued as if Mary had never asked. “I have always enjoyed architecture that combines very different styles in new and intriguing ways. To me, it is true to my experience of life, of people.
“I think sometimes we look at a person and we assume we know everything about them. We think we know all of their sides. Yet often there is more to a person than meets the eye. There is a side we have not seen, and until we see it, we cannot know them.
“The real reason I have brought you here, Miss Bennet, is I think there is more to you than meets the eye. I think people underestimate you, and so they do not see you fully. But I have confidence that you will surpass everyone’s expectations.”
No one had ever spoken like this to Mary before, and the words made her feel warm and hopeful inside. Whether or not they shared a familial connection, Lady Trafford had seen something in her, something of worth.
But it also made Mary wonder. Yes, Lady Trafford had been speaking of Castle Durrington and of Mary, but surely it must apply to the lady herself. What was hidden beneath the surface of Lady Trafford? If there was more to her, Mary was determined to find out.
Chapter Eight
“May the Cydads glide smooth, and the party be free
From that cursed of maladies, sickness at sea.”
–The Sussex Weekly Advertiser, Lewes, England, September 13, 1813
Lady Trafford unfolded a large piece of paper and laid it on the table in the parlor, nearly covering the entire surface. Her finger trailed along the fibers of the paper until it came to rest upon her own name.
“Here is where I am located on the chart. And this is my dearly departed husband.” Her finger traced upwards to his parents, and then down to a woman’s name, “Susan Trafford.”
“My husband�
��s sister married a Mr. Charles Withrow. You, of course, know their third child, Henry Withrow, who will inherit Castle Durrington and the estate.”
Mary nodded, eager to move past these basic facts and see how she and Lady Trafford were related. After all, it had been four days since Lady Trafford had promised to show her their familial connection, and Mary found herself growing impatient. Despite her lessons and meeting some of Lady Trafford’s friends, Mary would feel more firm in her position at Castle Durrington if there was a substantial connection between them.
Lady Trafford moved back to her own name. She traced up to her great-grandparents and then down to a second cousin once removed. She tapped on his name. “I believe this is where the connection occurs. Let us see your chart.”
Mary spread out the pages of her own family chart. They went through Mary’s records and discovered that Mary’s cousin’s aunt—who was an aunt by marriage and shared no blood with Mary—had married the man that Lady Trafford had pointed out on the chart.
Mary had been wrong. She had examined these relationships—and even remembered looking at this aunt’s name—the other night in the library. Yet in the family Bible, she had not seen her aunt’s name, and truly could not remember seeing her husband’s name. She must have missed his name and missed this connection even though it was really quite simple. The failure felt as strong and sudden as knocking over a shelf full of books.
They were related, tangentially. But it was clear that Mary did not have a strong claim on Lady Trafford as a relation and that Lady Trafford taking her in and providing her with lessons was truly an act of benevolence—and a supposed act of gratitude for preventing the thief from interfering with her cases. Mary must have made their day much more difficult by recognizing him, forcing Withrow to pretend to chase him.
“May I copy some of this information, for our family records?”
“Of course,” said Lady Trafford.
Mary fastidiously wrote out name after name, date after date. As she did so, Lady Trafford read newspaper after newspaper. Several seemed to be local, regional papers, like the Kentish Gazette, while others were from London—The Times, The Courier. There even appeared to be one from Scotland and another from Ireland.
She took a minute to consider the names closest to Lady Trafford’s. Her husband, Sir George Trafford, had died in 1805. Her daughter, Anne, in 1808, at only fourteen years old. And her son, James, in 1810, at the age of twenty. Mary twisted the mourning ring on her finger. Death could come to anyone, at any time, without warning. She was struck by a sudden sadness. She blinked quickly to keep her eyes clear and dutifully copied down the names and dates for Anne, James, and Sir George. That was a large amount of personal loss for Lady Trafford to suffer in a period of only five years. But why would both Madame Dieupart and Lady Trafford refuse to give any details? Was there something unusual or strange about their deaths?
Speculations besieged her mind as she continued her work. Finally Mary finished—not the whole chart, for there was no reason to copy all of the information—but enough that she had the relevant details.
Armed with this new knowledge, Mary decided to return to the library. Lady Trafford was engrossed in a newspaper, so Mary did not interrupt her reading as she left. She wanted to find these names in the Bible so she could see how she had missed them before.
She went down the grand staircase, pausing briefly to look at the dome above her head. It was a cloudy day so only a dull light shone through it. She continued down, crossed the round entry room, and entered the library, her new chart with supplemental information in hand.
Only a few steps into the library she heard her name. “Miss Bennet!” It was Lady Trafford; she must have followed her out of the room and down the stairs. “You must be looking for a book. Has anyone explained the library to you?”
“I gave myself a tour the first evening,” Mary admitted. “I managed to find the section of religious books, but I cannot make sense of the library as a whole.” She was about to say that she had also found the rare books and examined the family Bible, but something made her hold back. It was embarrassment, perhaps—if she was going to talk about the family Bible, she should have done it hours ago, when Lady Trafford first showed her the chart. And she did not want to admit her failure at finding their connection on her own.
Lady Trafford gave her a thorough tour of the library. There were twelve different sections—twelve! how could one possibly have twelve categories of books?—and within each section the books were organized chronologically by publication date.
As they passed by the rare book section, which was the only section organized visually, rather than chronologically, Mary glanced at the family Bible, but, as Lady Trafford was watching her, she did not allow her eyes to linger on it. Yet she was certain that something about it had looked a little different, as if it had a slightly different shade of binding. Mary pressed her top teeth to her bottom lip as she tried to remember the exact details of the Bible from her first time in the library.
“You seem deep in thought,” observed Lady Trafford. “What troubles you?”
Mary stepped away from the rare bookshelf. If something was different about the book, she needed to figure out what it was before she asked about it. And she needed to do so privately. If possible, she preferred figuring out things without the watchful eye of others. She gestured around the library with a bit of a sour taste in her mouth for not truly answering the question asked of her, and said, “Why organize the books by the publication date?”
“Knowledge is something that builds, something that is growing and evolving. Every new text is written in reference to other texts, whether intentionally or not, and so a chronological organization allows one to see where something occurs within a conversation.”
Already, Mary could not remember all twelve categories.
Lady Trafford seemed to guess her struggle to understand the library and showed her the catalogue, a massive handwritten tome with many extra pages to accommodate the purchase of more texts. The beginning of the catalogue was organized by section and had each of the library’s books listed within its section; the middle of the catalogue had an alphabetical list by author and a chronological list of all the books; the end of the catalogue contained each book title by purchase date, with a list of relevant details, people, and events contained within. All of the sections in the catalogue cross referenced each other.
“Has Mr. Linton assigned you Alberti’s On Painting?”
Mary shook her head.
“He asked me to purchase it for my daughter, Anne. I am certain he would like you to read it as well.”
“But I am not learning how to paint.”
“It has a great deal on other topics that will be relevant to you—perspective, the history of art, and ways of thinking about art.”
Lady Trafford showed her how to find the book within the catalogue and its corresponding spot on the shelves. She gave On Painting to Mary.
“Thank you. I appreciate the recommendation and am certain it will give Mr. Linton and me more things to discuss.”
Lady Trafford smiled. “Now I do believe I should find something for me to read.”
Mary excused herself and put the book about painting in her room, as well as her family chart and the additional pages she had created. She would return and search for the family Bible later, once the library had been vacated. She wanted to rest or work on her studies, but an unease, both in her stomach and her head, prevented either. Was it wise to stay in a castle with two individuals who knowingly associated with a thief? And why was she so hesitant to accuse them?
Perhaps she simply needed fresh air to clear her head, so she left the castle through the front doors. She would use the time to learn about the rest of the estate.
She vaguely knew that east of Castle Durrington were cottages for the estate workers and other buildings, but she wanted to see for herself. She walked east on the main road that passed in front of the castle on the
north. She passed a patch of forest, and then she saw the cottages, but there were not just cottages—there was a granary, a sawmill, a brickyard, and another stable, this one for the work horses. This explained why Castle Durrington was much larger and grander than Longbourn; the estate and holdings were much more expansive.
Once she reached the end of these buildings, she considered where on the estate she would visit next. Quite a ways southeast was a barn, but she had seen barns before. From here she could also see all the land south of the castle. The castle was more elevated than the land south of it, which explained why, though several miles away from it, you could see the beach. The area south of the castle had a long, sloping plain, but the plain was interrupted by a rounded circle of forest—which looked intentional enough that it might be a Roundel—as well as an orchard and a strange walled structure.
Mary walked across the plain, down mild slopes and around occasional rocks and oak trees until she reached the walled structure. It was made of red brick with regular pilasters breaking up its flat surface and was a little over two times her height. She walked slowly around the perimeter of the space, dodging the occasional shrub and counting her paces. It was rectangular, and a huge area—approximately 300 feet on the long side and 180 on the short side.
On the north side, facing Castle Durrington, were several flues, as well as several other structures jutting out whose entrance must be on the inside. There had been a door on the south side, facing the orchard and far beyond it, the beach. There was also a door on the north side. She leaned with her ear against it. She could hear noises—unknown things hitting other things, grunts and moans, some talk and even some laughter. She wondered what could possibly be the source of all that, and why it was on Lady Trafford’s land—for she must still be on Lady Trafford’s land. It was such a strange walled space, and she suspected that if she had paid more attention, she would have been able to see it from the house. Even stranger was the fact that no one had mentioned this wall or what was housed within.
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 9