Some days I am very tired, but I simply remind myself that it is better to live with a knowledge of one’s shortcomings and be able to improve upon them than to continue in ignorance.
I know I mentioned that Lady Trafford seemed a bit unusual. Whenever we have guests, the next day she likes to analyze their word choice and movement. Other times she gives me advice, like moderating how much I speak when someone asks me a question, or asking what she calls reciprocal or counterpoint questions. She has taken several more charity trips, one of them unplanned. It makes her seem a bit eccentric and a little too willing to help people at a moment’s notice. None of the trips have been to Brighton, or I would have gone with her and visited Maria.
I hope your illness does not prevent you from enjoying your visit to Pemberley next week. Give my love to Elizabeth.
Faithfully yours,
Mary Bennet
Mary reviewed the letter and, satisfied, she folded it to make it smaller. As always, for the final fold she made sure that the top piece of paper only went halfway down the rest of the letter to leave room for the seal. She melted a bit of wax, savoring the pleasant scent of flame and wax, dripped the wax onto the letter, pressed her seal on it, then wrote out Jane’s address.
Lady Trafford, who had been writing her own letter on the other side of the parlor, approached. “I will have someone bring your letter, and my own, to the post office today.” She picked up the letter, staring at the seal. “Do you always seal your letters like this?”
“Yes. It is a standard method. My mother taught me.” Her entire family used this approach. She had seen Mr. Darcy use a more complicated method once, and at times Mr. Bennet had used more complicated methods as well, but most of the time even her father sealed letters in the same manner she did.
“I would say about six in ten people send letters this way. Thus, you are correct; it is a standard method. But it is not very secure.”
Lady Trafford picked up Mary’s knife for cutting the wax. She wedged the edge of the knife underneath the sealed wax Mary had just placed on the letter.
“What are you doing?” asked Mary with horror.
“Opening your letter,” said Lady Trafford. In a few seconds, the bottom half of the wax popped off that layer of the letter. She showed the letter to Mary. “If you do it carefully, you can avoid ripping the paper. Then you can open the letter,” she did so, “read it,” she pointedly looked at each page of the letter for long enough that she could read a decent portion, “and then close it again.”
Mary swallowed, wondering if Lady Trafford had read the part of the letter written about her.
Lady Trafford held the bottom of the wax seal over the flame, not as close as Mary had done to melt the wax initially, but still close. Then she folded the final flap of the letter back down, pinching the papers tightly together without touching the seal.
“The wax will not be pressed as firmly onto the paper as it was before, since I would not have access to your metal seal to push it down completely, but it will hold, and it is unlikely that anyone would suspect that it has been opened.”
“Why would you want to read someone else’s letters?”
“Of course I do not want to read anyone’s letters. But it is a useful demonstration of why you should send your letters in a more secure fashion.”
“I do not send any secrets.”
“I am sure you do not possess any secrets, but does that mean you want to allow anyone to read whatever they choose? What if you decide to write something about me to your sisters? Do you want me to know your innermost thoughts?”
Mary’s cheeks burned. Lady Trafford had indeed read the portion of the letter about herself.
“Come, sit with me. I will show you another method for sealing your letters.”
Mary followed Lady Trafford across the room and sat. The padding on the chair sank beneath her, making the wood at the chair’s edge push uncomfortably against her leg. Mary shifted back and forth in her chair but was unable to find a better position.
“It appears that you write your letters on a quarter sheet of paper folded in half, which is good. This allows for four possible writing surfaces—like a four-page book. If you want your letter to be secure, you should only ever write on the front and the two inner pages, as you have done. Some people write on the portions of the back that will be folded into the inside, but I would not recommend it.”
Lady Trafford wrote a few nonsense words on each page. Mary cringed at the thought of this quarter sheet of paper being wasted for a demonstration. Why did Lady Trafford not show her on an actual letter? Unless Lady Trafford did not want a single word of an actual letter read.
She passed the fake letter to Mary and then wasted another quarter sheet by making a fake letter for herself. “Now follow along.” She folded the letter in thirds, and so did Mary. She folded it in half the other direction. She slid a flat, wooden board under the letter, took a pen knife, and cut a slit through all the layers of paper, about three quarters of an inch from where the edges joined together.
She passed Mary the board and the knife. It was much harder to do than it appeared; Mary had to put the knife into the slit again and again to pass through all twelve layers of paper, and it was not nearly as neat as Lady Trafford’s. Clearly that was another skill which required practice, but it was not an accomplishment Mary had heard anyone mention.
“Now, from the same type of paper, I will cut a long, thin triangle—one for each of us. You should use the same type of paper, first, so it matches the letter aesthetically, and second, because this triangle is how we will lock the letter. If someone breaks the lock, it will be difficult for them to make it appear as if the lock has never been broken, for they will need to find the exact same sort of paper.”
“I doubt that letter security is an accomplishment taught at the schools for young ladies in London.”
“If you choose the correct one, you might be surprised.” Lady Trafford continued as if Mary had not voiced any objection. “Now take the thinnest end of the triangle and insert it through the slit you have made through all the layers of paper. Pull the triangle through until it is snug. Yes, like that.” Half of the triangle piece protruded from one side of the letter, half from the other side. “Now, though it is not strictly necessary, on the pointy side of the triangle I make a cut from the tip all the way down to the letter.”
She did so, passed Mary the knife, and Mary copied. She had not played with paper this much since she was a young child, and in that case, she was punished for ruining two sheets of her father’s paper. She could not remember what the punishment was, so it must not have been dire.
Lady Trafford took the pointy end of the triangle, now cut in two, and folded both pieces so they lay on the letter in opposite directions. “This is the back of the letter.” She placed a wooden board under the letter, then melted part of her wax stick, slowly spinning it over the candle flame. Lady Trafford’s wax had a stronger smell than Mary’s. “I use a more expensive wax, which does more damage to the paper than yours. This is the goal; you want to damage your own letter, because it makes it harder for someone to open without leaving evidence.”
“If someone really wanted to read a letter,” said Mary, “could they break the paper lock, open the letter, and then burn it after reading? There would be no evidence, except for a letter that never arrived.”
Lady Trafford smiled. “Very perceptive. Not receiving a letter or reply you know was sent is telling in itself. There is an article in the crime section of today’s Kentish Gazette describing how a man named Spur stole letters which contained bank notes. It is quite the torrid affair. But we cannot prevent that possibility, and this is something we can control.”
She dabbed the hot wax onto the two slit ends of the triangle, then took the end of the triangle sticking out of the front side of the letter, folded it over the side of the letter, and pressed it onto the back side, on top of the cut slits and the still hot wax. She used a tool
with a pointed metal end to poke the portion of the triangle on top of the wax. This made indents, and in some places, little holes.
“The indents this creates will extend through many layers of the letter.” After blowing on the wax to make sure it was cool, she flipped the letter to the front side. Only about an inch of the triangle paper showed on the edge of this side. “As one final element of security, when I write the address, I make sure that some of the letters are on top of the triangle insert. If someone were to break open the letter and try to replace the triangle—which would be difficult, especially with the wax and the slit and the indents and needing to match the paper—they would also need to perfectly imitate your handwriting for this portion of the address.”
Mary finished the final steps for sealing her own letter and was quite pleased with the result. The triangle insert holding the letter together made it look refined and sophisticated.
Lady Trafford gave Mary three more quarter sheets and watched as Mary performed the letter sealing method three more times. Mary cringed each time at the waste of paper, but by the final one, she could do it without any help.
“Now break one of them open, as you would if you were receiving this letter.”
Mary pulled on it, but it did not open, so she used the pen knife to slit the folded edge of the triangle insert. She tugged, and after a minute she managed to open the letter.
“I want you to study all the damage that is left by this sealing method. Examine where you see slits and indents and wax remnants. Then try to open the other letters and reseal them without leaving evidence of having done so.”
Mary spent over an hour on the task before concluding that it was impossible. As she did so, she wondered about Lady Trafford’s methods. Learning how to seal letters in different ways could, admittedly, be useful. But what virtuous woman would instruct someone to practice opening letters without leaving any evidence?
*
That night, as Mary was falling asleep, it occurred to her that Lady Trafford might not have told the full truth. She had stated that she did not want to read anyone else’s letters. But someone could choose to do something, even if one did not want to do it.
Which meant Lady Trafford could have read other letters Mary had sent over the last six weeks. Or letters that Mary had received.
Mary tried to dismiss the thought and fall asleep, but she could not. Instead, she tried to recall every single letter she had written from Castle Durrington, to remember every little detail she had included. Was there any content she would regret Lady Trafford knowing? Not that she could change that now, but at least she could be aware of it and how it might impact her relationship with Lady Trafford. The woman had obviously wanted Mary to know that she might have been reading her letters, and Mary tried to fathom why. She spent hours in her bed, in the dark, her mind busy with remembering her letters and reflecting on Lady Trafford’s motives. Fortunately, Mary had reported to Monsieur Corneau only in person, and not sent her reports via post, or Lady Trafford would know what she had been asked to do.
There was a noise outside the house—the whinny of a horse.
Mary immediately went to her window and looked out at the lawn. In front of the house, lit by only a single lantern, was a carriage. Two people descended from it, holding a smaller lantern that they had dimmed by partially covering it with something. Mary could not tell whether the people were men or women, or any further distinguishing characteristics. They hurried to the front door and were immediately let inside the house.
Mary debated staying in her room, but curiosity overcame her. Curiosity could be a virtue, as long as it was properly regulated. She wrapped a shawl around herself for modesty’s sake and stepped quietly out of the room. All was silent, and even though this floor currently housed only her and Mrs. Boughton, she trod down the hallway as softly as she could. She descended the smaller, spiral staircase to the first floor and, as she did not know where the visitors had gone, exited to the domed balcony room. She leaned against the balcony railing, looking down at the entry to the house below, but did not see anyone. She wondered if Lady Trafford had been notified of the middle-of-the-night visitors.
She heard footsteps coming down a hall—the hall with Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow’s rooms—and panicked. She felt as if she were in one of Kitty’s silly Gothic novels. She had read one of Kitty’s novels, only with the purpose of more fully understanding and condemning the pettiness of the world. But now, all the terrible possibilities presented in the novel came to the forefront of her mind.
In Kitty’s novel, the main character had been caught eavesdropping on an illicit liaison and been thrown out of the estate in the middle of the night.
Mary could not let herself be seen. She had no way to defend herself and very little money. If she wrote to her family, someone would come fetch her, but it could take several days for her letter to arrive. While Colonel Coates had promised to help her should the need ever arrive, she had no desire to walk to Worthing in the middle of the night and attempt to find him.
She stepped back from the balcony and hid behind a curtain covering one of the decorative alcoves. There was a gap, just large enough for her to fit. She pressed herself flat against the wall panel, and once again found herself wondering at the castle’s design and the empty, walled-off space that must exist behind this panel.
She peered around the edge of the curtain and watched as Mrs. Boughton, Lady Trafford, and Mr. Withrow descended the grand staircase, carrying candles. Mrs. Boughton must have let the visitors in and come to fetch Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow. Mary waited a minute and then followed them down to the main floor.
A faint light shone from underneath the door of the library. She stood in front of it, considering. She had no justifiable reason to barge in, and if she stayed here, she could be discovered. Unlike the domed balcony room above, the circular entryway had no easy place to hide, so she stepped into the parlor next to the library. From here she could still see the entryway but was unlikely to be seen.
Mary pressed her ear against the wall of the sitting room that adjoined the library, but she could hear nothing, so she resigned herself to kneeling behind a sofa, peering out at the entry hall. She recognized the absurdity of the situation, of attempting to spy on her hosts, yet at the moment, spying seemed like the only course of action before her. Ordinary people did not hold middle-of-the-night meetings if there was another alternative. It could be an under-the-table business affair, a plan to defraud someone, an illegal shipping agreement, or countless other clandestine possibilities.
After not more than a minute or two, Mrs. Boughton passed through the entry hall from the direction of the kitchens. She carried a platter of tea and bread and entered the library.
Mary tiptoed back to the circular entryway. The library door was cracked, and she heard voices; they must be seated at the chairs near the entrance.
“We questioned everyone,” said a woman’s voice, “but it was futile. Either no motive, or, if they had motive, no possible way they could have been in Worthing to perform the deed.”
Mary tried to fix the words in her mind, to remember every detail. She could analyze them later.
“I was able to search the parsonage, and I found most of his materials,” said a man’s voice. He had a slight accent, but Mary could not place it. “Several key notebooks were missing.”
“We could lose more than Holloway if we do not recover them.” This voice Mary recognized. It was Lady Trafford. They were talking about Holloway’s death, as if he were a lost notebook! Mary felt pity for the poor man.
“He must have had them with him,” said the man.
Now, Mr. Withrow spoke. “There was nothing on him when Miss Bennet discovered his body, if she is to be believed.”
“She would not hide something like that from us,” said Mrs. Boughton, and her voice seemed to be getting louder. “She does not have the skill.”
Mary backed away from the library door and into the parlo
r, and not a moment too soon, for she heard the library door shut.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She had almost been caught, almost discovered. At the very least they would accuse her of eavesdropping, though they might take it to the logical conclusion and realize she was spying on them.
She curled up on the sofa, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her, but it did not stop the cold that she felt. Her mind leapt around the snatch of conversation that she had heard. They had searched a parsonage, but she did not know where. It could be here in Worthing, or anywhere really, but if it held Holloway’s papers, perhaps it was in Crawley. Questioning people in Crawley made sense as they knew Holloway but would not have been in Worthing to kill him. It surprised her that multiple people could have wanted to kill Holloway—he had been a clergyman—but now that she was involved in a murder investigation, it was time that she ceased to be surprised by such possibilities.
A sound interrupted her thoughts. Perhaps the swinging of a door. She sat up, raising her head just above the edge of the sofa so she could see out into the circular entryway.
Into the entryway stepped Mrs. Boughton carrying a candelabra, followed by Lady Trafford, Mr. Withrow, and their two mysterious guests. They had dark brown skin—though not as dark as Fanny’s—a regal air, and fine clothing. The woman appeared to be about Mary’s age, and Mary guessed that the man was her father. The woman embraced Lady Trafford and said, “I wish we had time to visit the church. We will on our upcoming visit.”
“It is just as well,” said Withrow. “At this time of night you would be suspected of grave robbing.”
Mary could not hear the response to this statement, or tell from whence it came. The mysterious woman and man exited the house with hardly a sound. Mrs. Boughton locked the front door, and Lady Trafford, Mr. Withrow, and Mrs. Boughton ascended the stairs.
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 13