Had these visitors come during the day and not spoken of a dead man, they would seem like respectable people, the sort of people Lady Trafford might do business with, or who might run in similar social circles. Why meet with them in the middle of the night to share information about Holloway? And what had been meant by the comments about the church and grave robbing? Mr. Holloway had not been buried in Worthing; his body had been sent back to Crawley.
Mary twisted her mourning ring, wondering what her father would think. He would probably find it preposterous that she was skulking about a castle in the middle of the night and offer some justifiable reason for their behaviour. Perhaps they were travelling and could not spare the time for a visit during the day, and of course they were speaking about Holloway—since Mary had discovered his body, it seemed that no one could speak of anything else. Mr. Bennet would likely call her a silly girl. He had always lumped her with her younger two sisters in terms of silliness, which Mary had found rather absurd. But now, here she was, behaving precisely as a silly girl would. Perhaps, in order to be silly, she simply needed the proper opportunity. She stifled a laugh that she felt rising, for silence was still paramount.
Once Mary was certain she would not be caught, she made her way back to her room, trying to decide a way in which to discreetly question Lady Trafford about the visit in the morning.
Chapter Twelve
“Some letters expect that seeing the rapid decline of his reputation, and feeling the necessity of attempting something, however desperate, [Bonaparte] will risk everything in a general battle!
‘I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the dye.’”
–The Bristol Mirror, Bristol, England, October 23, 1813
Fanny removed Mary’s nicest black dress from the clothing press and shook it out.
“One of the others will serve me better,” said Mary.
“But you are going to town with Lady Trafford,” said Fanny.
“I may be going to town, but it is not to display myself.” Mary yawned, fatigued from her lack of sleep, in part due to the middle-of-the-night visitors.
“Did you not sleep well?”
“I am a little tired, that is all.”
Mary knew Mrs. Boughton was in full confidence with Lady Trafford, but she did not know about the other servants or how strong their loyalties were to their mistress. Of course, whether or not Fanny were involved, she might know something.
“I thought I heard a noise in the middle of the night, perhaps from a horse or a carriage,” said Mary.
“The road is not too far from here. Maybe it was a doctor driving to help someone.”
The response was not useful. Mary wondered who else she could question without raising suspicions.
Fanny helped Mary out of her nightgown. “Lady Trafford has set aside fabric and other materials for me to make you dresses.” She gave a sly smile. “And I would much rather make you dresses than perform some of the less pleasant household tasks.”
“I have sufficient clothing for my needs.”
“But the fabric will go to waste if I do not use it. Will you let me measure you? I can do it quickly.”
Fatigued, Mary did not have the stamina to stand up to Fanny. “I suppose you may make me one new black dress, but it must have no lace, beads, or other adornment, and it should be an example of modesty in all aspects.”
“I assume that by the ball you will no longer be wearing black?”
“What ball?”
“Did you not know? Lady Trafford is throwing a ball, in five weeks’ time.”
“I was never informed.” It did not matter whether she was at Longbourn or here; Mary was always the last person to hear about balls.
“If you are still wearing black, it would not be appropriate for you to attend, and as her honored guest for all this time, I can only believe you would want to show her your gratitude by attending rather than shaming her by not.”
Fanny was skilled at leaving no room for argument.
“I will stop wearing black by the time of the ball.”
“I am so glad. I have such a wonderful plan for your new ball gown.”
“I do not need a new ball gown,” said Mary firmly. “My green dress has served me for many a ball and will serve me for another.”
“Maybe you will change your mind,” said Fanny. “At least let me take your measurements so I can make you a morning gown.”
“Very well.”
Fanny began taking measurements and writing down notes. She was efficient and seemed more skilled than others who had measured Mary before.
“Where did you learn this?”
“My mother works for a dressmaker in London. And my father is a tailor. Some day they will open their own shop and make all their own designs.”
“I am sure if they are industrious, they will do well for themselves.”
Fanny gave a look as if she did not completely agree, but she said nothing.
After a minute of silence, Mary asked, “Do your parents like living in London?” She had only been there for two days with the Gardiners and had not seen much of the city at all.
“They like it well enough. My mother has lived there her whole life. My father was born in Virginia as a slave. He gained his freedom by fighting with the loyalists when the colonies revolted. When we lost the war, he came to London. He misses the weather in Virginia, but not much else.”
Fanny finished the measurements and helped Mary into her most plain mourning dress.
“What about you?” asked Mary. “Did you like London? Or do you like it better here?”
“It does not matter what I like,” said Fanny. “This is where I need to be.”
*
All through breakfast, Mary expected either Lady Trafford or Mr. Withrow to say something—anything—about the mysterious visitors, but they did not. Of course, Mary never had told her family about Lady Trafford’s middle-of-the-night visit before her father’s funeral, so perhaps it was not too surprising.
As Mary rode the carriage to town with Lady Trafford, Mary said, “I trust you slept well last night.”
Lady Trafford smiled serenely. “Quite well. And what about you, Miss Bennet? Did you sleep well, or did anything disturb you?”
Now it seemed that Lady Trafford was trying to extract information from Mary.
“I always sleep soundly.” The taste of sour milk filled Mary’s mouth. She had given a direct lie and felt terrible for it. Honesty, after all, was one of the prime virtues. But what if someone was doing something that might not be honest or straightforward? What then? Should she tell the whole truth? Mary did not want Lady Trafford to know that she had been spying on her. She wanted to find out what Lady Trafford was doing, but without endangering her position at Castle Durrington.
She decided to attempt a different line of questioning that might draw out a reference to the night’s events. “Are we expecting any guests?”
“The Mulberrys will be joining us again; they will dine with us on Sunday. Why do you ask?”
“I enjoy the stimulation of varied conversation which naturally results from having guests at Castle Durrington.”
“You will be pleased, then, to know that a number of guests will be staying with us, starting several days in advance of the ball. Did Fanny mention it to you?”
“She did. I look forward to increasing my skills at reading conversations.”
Mr. Tubbs, their driver for the day, stopped the carriage on the outskirts of town at a small, dilapidated cottage.
“What are we doing?” asked Mary.
“I have a small gift for the woman who lives here.”
They exited the carriage and knocked on the door. It was cracked and warped, and most of the paint had chipped and peeled. It was not the neglect of a year or two, but decades of insufficient time or means devoted to the upkeep of the cottage.
An older woman opened the door. Her clothes were dirty, stained, and eve
n had a few rips and tears. She smelled as if she had not bathed in quite some time. When she saw Lady Trafford, she smiled and the movement of her lips added to the wrinkles on her face, almost threatening to split it in two. She was missing a number of teeth, and of those she had, several were pointed at unusual angles.
“My dear Ruth,” said Lady Trafford. She gave the poor woman a shawl, several loaves of freshly baked bread, and a basket of fruits and vegetables, then asked after her family.
“If my son ’adn’t gone abroad, I wouldn’t be so lonesome.”
“Abroad?” asked Mary. “Where does he live?”
“In Devon.”
“But Devon is—”
“It is so very far away,” interrupted Lady Trafford. Mary had been about to say that Devon was only a few counties away, still on the southern coast of England, and not very far at all.
“I heard,” said Lady Trafford, “that a new gentleman has taken residence at Edgeworth.”
“You ’eard right. It’s a Colonel Radcliffe,” said the old woman with glee. “He’s visited afore, but now he’s ’ere for good. He’s not with the regiment—he fought a while back, I bluv. And he’s in business.”
“What sort of business?” asked Lady Trafford.
“Well no one’s said, but I knows. Hisn family owns property, in the north. My friend Lucretia works for ’im. She told me all about it.”
“What sort of household does he run?”
“Well I’m not one to yabble, but I can tell you a little summat.” Ruth told them a story about the sugar running out in the kitchen and then a scandal over missing candlesticks. Colonel Radcliffe had already dismissed two servants due to their behaviour. After at least ten more minutes on Colonel Radcliffe’s household, Ruth began gossiping about everyone else in the area. Between those she knew personally and those she knew from the stories of others, she seemed to know absolutely everyone. Mary had always felt that gossip degraded the mind and assisted no one. She found herself growing impatient with both the old woman and Lady Trafford. Mary wanted to continue on to Worthing so she could visit the bookseller. She wondered what benefit this relationship served for Lady Trafford, or if she did it simply out of charity. But if for charity, why not leave the items without holding a long conversation? Or why not give the items to an organization that would distribute them to many people who were in need? She must take pleasure in the gossip, and this knowledge left Mary disappointed in Lady Trafford, who she had assumed was above such things.
After at least fifteen more minutes of gossip, some of which Mary found difficult to follow because of Ruth’s dialect, they returned to the carriage.
“What do you think of her?” asked Lady Trafford.
Mary almost said something cruel that probably would have offended Lady Trafford but stopped herself short. She did not need to be petty, like Lydia sometimes was. She thought for a moment before delivering her response. “She does not have the best grasp of geography.”
“It is true,” said Lady Trafford. “I hope you will excuse me for preventing you from correcting her. What you were about to say was accurate and might have instructed her in geography. But what would be the advantage of so doing? What would really be gained? You could correct her but at the same time hurt her feelings and make her less likely to talk to you, or to me, again. Unless there are urgent circumstances or a disbelief is causing harm, I attempt to use kindness and an awareness of others and their needs as a guide for what is acceptable conversation.”
Lady Trafford might have kind feelings towards the old woman, but her kindness seemed calculated, planned even. Jane’s kindness was always genuine and unstudied.
“If you do not think it appropriate to correct her, then why do you always correct me?”
“We have a different relationship, and I want to help you reach your potential.” Lady Trafford said it as if she had some distant goal for Mary, some grand vision that she had not chosen to share.
Lady Trafford paused thoughtfully. “I think your father would have appreciated your observation about her.”
“You do?” asked Mary. Besides stating that they had known each other in their younger years and that she respected Mr. Bennet, Lady Trafford had never said anything more about her father.
“Your father and I were once at the same very tedious dinner party. The host spoke for thirty minutes straight without pause. How he managed to breathe, I still do not know. The host told one story about Bicester, Oxfordshire, and every single time he said it as it is spelled, ‘Bi-ches-ter,’ instead of pronouncing it as it should be, ‘Bister.’ Finally the man paused for a drink and your father took the opportunity to interrupt.
“‘I take it,’ said Mr. Bennet. ‘That you have been to Bi-ches-ter many times?’ ‘Of course,” said the host. ‘At least three or four times.’ Mr. Bennet smiled and said, ‘I do love Bister myself. It has some marvelous old buildings.’ The host flushed as he realized his error, and it was all the rest of us could do to not laugh at him.”
“That sounds like something my father would say.” Despite not necessarily being related to Lady Trafford, Mary had assumed that Lady Trafford must have, in fact, known her father. Why else would she come to view his body or invite Mary as a guest? Yet a part of her must not have truly believed it, for Mary felt great surprise at hearing such a story from Lady Trafford. It was very specific, and on such an insignificant subject matter, that it did not make sense for it to have been fabricated. And it was in line with the way Mr. Bennet often spoke to those he found foolish. “How did you meet my father?”
“Oh, I cannot possibly remember when we met. With relations it is as if you always knew them.”
In this Lady Trafford seemed more evasive. But if she actually knew Mr. Bennet, what did she have to hide?
When they arrived in Worthing, Lady Trafford let Mary off on the main street, in front of the bookseller. Mary was about to enter but decided to visit the post office next door first. If she obtained her mail before it arrived at the castle, she could make sure no one read it, even if the sender used only a simple seal to secure it.
Three others were already in the post office: a seamstress and a shoemaker she recognized from church, and a short, well-dressed woman who, like Mary, wore black for mourning. The ribbon on Mary’s black bonnet felt tight under her chin, so she pulled out the knot and tied it again as the man at the counter helped the others.
Finally, it was her turn. “Do you have any mail for me?”
“What is your name, miss?”
“Mary Bennet. I am staying at Castle Durrington with Lady Trafford.”
The man went to the back room for a minute and returned with a stack of mail. “These two are for you. These others are also addressed to the Castle. Would you like to pay for them as well?”
Lady Trafford probably intended to come to the post office later, or more likely, have Mr. Tubbs do so. But Lady Trafford had given her some money for pocket expenses and had paid for the receipt of all of Mary’s letters during the course of her stay at Castle Durrington.
“Yes, please.” Another motivation, she admitted to herself, was the chance to see Lady Trafford’s correspondence.
The man spent a minute calculating the distances that the letters had travelled. “That will be eight shillings and ten pence.”
It was a huge amount—almost half a pound—and Mary almost did not pay it, but she had already agreed, and she was curious to see the stack of letters in the man’s hand. She removed the money from the pocket she had brought with her, counted it carefully, and handed it to the postman.
“Do you have anything you need sent?”
“Not today.” It occurred to her that rather than sending her mail with one of Lady Trafford’s servants, she could deliver it directly to the post office herself or leave it in one of the other post office boxes in Worthing.
She placed the stack of letters in her pocket, then she entered the bookseller’s shop. She had told Lady Trafford she would bu
y a book, and been given ten shillings for it, so despite the expense at the post office, she best spend money here as well. As she browsed, she heard the door to the shop open. The person who entered was none other than Monsieur Corneau; he must have seen Lady Trafford’s carriage and come to speak with Mary.
Corneau bowed at another man who was leaving the store. “Ah, Colonel, a pleasure.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you again,” the man said, and then he was gone. He was not dressed in uniform and was younger than Colonel Coates, so Mary guessed that it must be the new resident Ruth had spoken of, Colonel Radcliffe.
Monsieur Corneau approached Mary, gesturing towards the set of shelves at the very back of the shop. After a moment, Mary followed him there.
“J’ai plus des choses que je dois vous dire,” Mary said in a whisper.
“Let us speak in English, Miss Bennet,” said Monsieur Corneau, also with his voice low. “It will be easier.”
Madame Dieupart’s French friends made no complaint about speaking to Mary in French, and Mary’s French had improved to the point that she felt she could hold this conversation in it. Yet perhaps once you had habituated to speaking a particular language with a person, it was too difficult to switch.
In English, Mary told Corneau of the middle of the night visit and the portions of the conversation she had heard. He nodded almost continuously, barely keeping up the pretense of looking at the books on the shelves.
“That is very useful. I will inform Colonel Coates. I am sure he will be very pleased. You do not know the identity of the visitors?”
Mary shook her head.
“If you learn who they are, or if you hear more of these missing notebooks, come straight to me.”
“Do you know if Mr. Holloway could swim?”
“I do not. Why do you ask?”
“I was considering his death,” said Mary. “The knife wound was not enough to kill him. If Mr. Holloway did not know how to swim, he could have been stabbed anywhere near the water and then thrown in. After drowning, his body could have been washed farther out to sea. Yet if he did know how to swim, then he must have been stabbed on a boat out at sea.”
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 14