“Colonel Coates and Sir Pickering already searched the boats in Worthing for signs of struggle.”
Mary felt her face fall.
“But it is an insightful observation. We have documented seventy-three boats in the surrounding area, from small fishing vessels to large ones that could travel across the sea. I will make sure that none were missed. Do you have anything else to report, or other questions?”
“Did you follow up on Mr. Shaffer?”
“We did,” he said. “Mr. Shaffer has a perfect alibi for both the final day of Mr. Holloway’s life and the next day. We also went over his boat with great care.”
Mary nodded, satisfied on that count. “Who was it you spoke to, as you entered the store?”
“Colonel Radcliffe,” said Monsieur Corneau, confirming her conjecture. “He is a new acquaintance. Well, I must go. Thank you for your report.”
Mary turned back to the books, and now looked at them in earnest. She chose a nice leather-bound copy of Practical Piety by Hannah More. She always found Hannah More edifying and knew she would read the book multiple times, which made it a worthwhile purchase. Also, Lady Trafford did not own a single book by her.
Mary sat down on one of the bookseller’s sofas to wait for Lady Trafford to finish her own errands. Instead of opening her new book, she broke open her own letters, neither of which used a secure seal.
The first was a brief note from Kitty, almost terse. Kitty was disappointed that their mother still did not feel well enough for them to travel to stay with Jane or Elizabeth. Strangely, Kitty seemed irritated at Mary. Yet Mary had no influence whatsoever on their mother’s health, especially from such a distance. Mary reread Kitty’s words and detected a hint of jealously, particularly in a line in which she wistfully asked a question about Castle Durrington. Mary looked up from the letter. She was unused to any of her sisters ever desiring something she possessed that they did not.
The second was a letter from Mrs. Bennet. It rambled on without focus. It did not mention feeling unwell, but it did spend a great deal of time lecturing Mary on what she should demand from Lady Trafford. “Do not allow Lady Trafford to send you away in haste. She is a relative, and by virtue of our relations, do not let her neglect what is owed to you. She should be introducing you to new gentlemen every single week, and you must do whatever you must in order to find a match.”
Mary shook her head. Marrying her daughters was the only thing Mrs. Bennet cared about. Mary had liked it better when her mother had assumed that she was not marriageable.
She set aside her letters and examined the others given to her by the post office. There were a handful for the servants, which did not interest her, five for Mr. Withrow, and seven for Lady Trafford. Of all of Withrow’s and Lady Trafford’s letters, only one was sealed in a non-secure method. The rest were like a textbook on different approaches to sealing letters. Only one used the precise method Lady Trafford had taught her, though two were similar. Others wove paper in a complex method on the edge, were sewed shut with thread, used different types of adhesives than wax, used seals which indented all the paper layers, or used peculiar folds and shapes. Several of the letters were quite heavy, much heavier than any letter she had ever sent.
She examined the postal markings on each of the letters. A number of them came from Brighton, Dover, and London. There was also one from Durham, which was in the far north of England, and one from Bolingbroke. She had no idea where that was, but the letter had passed through London on the way here.
On one of the letters from Brighton it said M. May on the outside. As it was October, it could not be a reference to the date, so perhaps it was someone with the last name of May with a first initial of M.
None of the other letters listed a name or a return address on the outside. It was not that unusual, but it did mean that every single sender assumed that Lady Trafford would pay for the receipt of the letters even without any indication of who had sent them.
Mary did not dare open any of the letters, not here in a shop, where anyone could see her. But she did examine the letter without a complicated closure method a little more closely. The author had folded the letter in a way that left the edges open.
She checked to make sure no one in the shop was paying her any attention, and then separated the edges of the pages. She could only glimpse a few words on the inside, and the cursive was terrible. But she did manage to make out a few words: “I used the money you sent to bribe the—” She could not make out the next portion, but a little later another phrase was clear enough to decipher: “I have confirmed that he has been shipping things illegally to and from France.”
Footsteps approached, so she closed the edge of the letter and opened her new book.
“Do you need any refreshment, Miss Bennet?” asked the shopkeeper.
“No. I am quite all right.”
That had been too close. She could not risk someone noticing her examining Lady Trafford’s mail and then reporting it to her.
As she continued to spy on Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow, she would need to find concrete evidence, either of their involvement in Mr. Holloway’s demise, or, if they were in no way responsible, of whatever nefarious activities they were involved in, for the things she had observed pointed to at least some underhanded behaviour. Lady Trafford’s benevolence to Mary was a less important factor than her potential crimes. It was Mary’s duty as an Englishwoman to expose Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow before returning home.
Which meant she truly needed more evidence.
Finding this evidence would require more actions like she had taken last night and today—not things that were wrong, per se, especially as they were morally justified. However, they were things that could put her in an awkward situation should she be discovered by Lady Trafford.
She thought of the words of her father, whenever she struggled to get along with her sisters. “Sometimes, my dear, if you want something, you must allow others to believe they have gotten their way, and that you are doing as they wish.” Then he would pause dramatically and say, “It is the only way I have survived your mother all these years.”
Mary needed to make Lady Trafford believe that she was doing as Lady Trafford desired, so she would not notice Mary’s other actions, or at least be more likely to dismiss or forgive them if she did notice them. She needed to ingratiate herself more with Lady Trafford to guarantee that she would not be sent home before she discovered the truth.
By the time Lady Trafford returned to the shop with the carriage, Mary had decided on a plan. First, she removed the letters from her pocket—except the ones from Kitty and Mrs. Bennet—and gave them to Lady Trafford.
“I took the liberty of collecting your letters.”
“That is what the postmaster told Mr. Tubbs,” said Lady Trafford. “How very thoughtful of you. Did you receive any letters yourself?”
“Yes, I received one from my sister, Kitty.” She did not precisely know why, but she did not want to mention that she had received a letter from her mother. Perhaps it was that her mother mentioned very specifically that Mary needed to demand more from Lady Trafford, but the letter made her feel uncomfortable.
“I have something that I have been considering for the past several weeks,” said Mary.
“Yes?”
“When we first met, you said you could train me to be a governess. As I have spent time here, I have realized how much I value independence. I do not want to spend my entire life dependent on the whims of my aunts and uncles, my sisters and their husbands. I would like to make my own way. Would it be possible for you to have me trained in other things beyond French and drawing? I am not completely committed to becoming a governess, but I would like that to be a possibility for my future.” All of this was true; she did value independence and would like additional lessons and training.
Lady Trafford smiled. “It is wise to prepare for the future and embrace multiple possibilities.”
“So you will help me? I am not�
��asking too much of you?”
“Not at all. I will plan your course of study myself.” She seemed quite pleased.
When they returned to the castle, Lady Trafford led Mary to the library. Mr. Withrow was at work at his desk. He greeted his aunt warmly and gave Mary a “Good afternoon, Miss Bennet” and a polite but lukewarm smile.
Lady Trafford wandered through the library, pulling down a number of books. She handed them to Mary. “To read, for your studies.”
Mary read the titles as she carried the books up the stairs. The top one was a book titled The Complete Book of Manners for Young Ladies, but there were also books on history, mathematics, and geography. Mary realized she had not asked Lady Trafford about the order in which the books should be read, or if there was anything she should focus on while reading them. She went back down the staircase to ask, but she paused directly outside of the library. Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow were having a conversation, and the door had not been closed all the way.
“I know that you would have preferred to train her younger sister,” came the voice of Lady Trafford. “But while you think Miss Catherine Bennet would have been more suited as a…governess, I do not believe that would be the case.”
Mr. Withrow uttered some sort of dissent.
“You may not find Miss Bennet attractive or agreeable, but she may still be useful for our purposes, and you will train her, Henry.”
Mary put her hand against the wall to steady herself. She noted the pause Lady Trafford had taken before the word governess; clearly, they had something else in mind for her, some sinister purpose that required grand manipulations to get her to come here, to Castle Durrington. What did they want with her?
Yet she could not focus entirely on their plan, instead being struck by Lady Trafford’s admission, that Withrow—and probably others—did not find Mary attractive or agreeable. She had never cared much about attractiveness, though she did like to think she was agreeable and pleasant company. She did not care about Withrow’s good opinion, yet still the fact of not having it slid down her throat like a bitter drink, settling in her stomach. Perhaps that was why they had chosen her instead of her younger sister; if Mary was not attractive or agreeable, people would care less if something happened to her, if, for instance, she was harmed or injured. Yet Mary was grateful they had chosen her. She would not want Kitty to have been placed in harm’s way, and Mary thought that she possessed the intelligence to keep herself out of their plans while gathering enough evidence to reveal them to the world.
Mary turned swiftly away from the library, almost dropping the books as she ascended the spiral staircase. Once in her room, she piled her books on the desk without further consideration. She could not read now, not in the light of the conversation she had heard, and especially not with all that she had learned in the past twenty-four hours.
It had occurred to her that once a letter had been opened, it had no security at all. Anyone who came across it could read it, without leaving any evidence.
She took the letter from Kitty and added it to her packet of letters that she kept on her bedside table. She loosened her hair and then yanked a strand from her head. Then she tucked the hair underneath the string tie and around the corner of the letter, so it appeared as though a piece of hair had simply fallen out and become snagged on the letters. She stared at the positioning of the hair and the exact placement of the letters on the table for several minutes. If someone removed and read any of the letters, she would know it.
She read the letter from her mother one more time. This letter, to Lady Trafford’s knowledge, did not exist, so Mary needed to make sure it could never be discovered. She put the letter into the fire and watched until every last fragment of the paper burned.
Chapter Thirteen
“A second French courier, who has to carry the Emperor’s letter bag to Paris, was attacked…by some of General Theilman’s partizans. This capture, in a military point of view, is of great consequence. We shall here confine ourselves to publishing some of the letters, in extracts.”
–The Morning Post, London, October 26, 1813
It was Mary’s first day of lessons with Mr. Withrow, and she was determined not to be intimidated. While Mr. Linton and Madame Dieupart gave her lessons in the parlor, Mr. Withrow had informed Mary that he would provide her with instruction in the library. She tried opening the door, but it was locked. She knocked firmly.
Mr. Withrow unlocked the door, and this time the comforting smell of paper and leather did not lift her spirits. With perfect manners, Withrow invited Mary to sit with him at his desk. He took the large, padded chair and she took a smaller wooden one on the other side.
Fanny followed Mary into the room and took a soft chair in the corner so she could act as their chaperone. She had a basket of bright yellow fabric with some needles and thread to occupy herself.
“At my aunt’s request,” said Mr. Withrow, “I have agreed to give you a cursory introduction to economics, politics, and mathematics.”
“It is my understanding that those subjects are not particularly suited to the feminine mind,” said Mary.
“If you are not capable of learning them, then by all means, let us halt these lessons now.”
Mary had been questioning their appropriateness, not her own mind. She wished she could say something clever and biting in response as Elizabeth would, but she could only manage, “I am sure I will be quite capable at whatever you choose to teach me.”
“We will see,” he said, passing her a piece of paper. “You have ten minutes to write an answer to each of these questions.”
Mary read the precise, small handwriting at the top of the page. “But I could spend days researching and writing a response for each one.”
“I am certain you could, Miss Bennet. But I want your thoughts, not the ideas of others, and I want them to be brief, and I want them immediately. So please begin.” He picked up a book on economics and left her to it.
Mary swallowed, wishing she was receiving drawing or French instruction instead. She reread the first question: “What is the ultimate goal in running an estate?” She thought of her father, the late nights he had spent toiling over the estate’s ledgers, and the way he had visited each of those he employed and kept himself aware of their concerns. She hoped Mr. Collins continued to do the same. She dipped her pen in the ink and wrote, “To make sure everything and everyone is functioning properly.”
Next question: “What are the benefits of charity on the recipient and the giver?” This was easier, for it was addressed by so many of the sermons and books that she read. The hard part of this question was restricting herself to only a few sentences. “Charity lifts the soul, ennobles the less fortunate, and provides relief to the suffering. Ultimately, it is key to gaining the approval of God.”
She turned to the final question: “What is at the root of civic unrest, and what is in the best interests of the government?” She knew almost nothing of politics and, despite straining her mind for an answer, could not come up with anything suitable. Mr. Withrow set down his book and said, “Finish whatever you are writing,” so in an effort to provide an answer, she wrote a single word, “Peace.”
Mr. Withrow reached across the desk, took her paper, and read her responses.
“The real answer to each of these questions is one word: money.”
“But—” said Mary.
“Hear me out,” said Mr. Withrow. “Your first response is not far off—everything and everyone on the estate must function properly, but that is not the goal, that is the means. The goal is money. If not, everything falls apart: the estate is lost or falls into ruin, the family becomes impoverished and dependent on relatives, all the workers and servants are thrown out into the world, with nothing to support them, often turning to crime and other vices. Thus, the ultimate goal must be money. You and your mother and your sister, who went from having plenty to having little, should know that more than most.”
Since her father’s d
eath, the lack of funds had plagued them. But the loss of money from the estate was of less importance in her mind than the loss of stability and of her lifelong home.
“In terms of your second response, I will not contest your lofty ideals, but ultimately, the recipients of charity need money—it is survival; it is life. And those givers of charity maintain their own position through money, and by performing acts of charity maintain the social order and thus their access to money.”
His cynicism frightened her. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that charity exists to keep people in their place. It gives them enough to prevent desperation, for desperation causes desperate actions which often challenge the positions of those who give charitably.”
Mary rolled her quill between her fingers, unsure if she should take notes on something so antithetical to everything she believed.
“In terms of the third question, I assume you mean that peace is the purpose of government. But let us return to the first half of the question. What is the cause of social unrest? Rebellions rarely happen when people are satisfied with their position, when they have sufficient money for the needs of their station. But when a lack of money, and thus of the necessities of survival, causes suffering, that is when people rise up.
“It is in the best interests of the government to keep the status quo intact. We do not need a bloody revolution like in France, where tens of thousands were killed and the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands were disrupted. Obviously those in positions of authority want to maintain their power and fortunes, and will do whatever it takes—force, propaganda, and a slight redistribution or democratization of power or money when necessary.
“As you pursue this course of study, you must remember that at the root of almost every question or problem, money is a primary, if not the primary, motivator.”
Mary was appalled. “But there is so much more to life than money. So much of greater worth that motivates people. Paul himself writes that ‘the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.’”
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 15