The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet

by Katherine Cowley

  Withrow exhaled audibly. “It is true that money has caused great sorrow and strife and evil. And there may be individuals with loftier motivations, or who at least believe their motivations are something better. Though more often than not at the root you will find money and self-aspiration.”

  “That is the most cynical statement I have ever heard uttered,” declared Mary.

  “You do not have to agree with anything I teach you, but I do expect you to learn it and understand it.”

  Mary suspected there would be much she would not agree with, but the rest of his lesson focused on very practical, factual knowledge. He was unforgiving of error, but good at answering her questions. At the end of the hour he outlined the planned course of study: estate management, accounting, balance sheets, the political system, the current political parties, the judicial system, the stock exchange, and how to quickly read a ledger and find information in it. The planned lesson schedule would keep her occupied for five weeks, all the way until the ball.

  “Why do I need to know all this?” asked Mary.

  “When you are a governess to a bunch of little boys, they will need to learn this so they can become leaders in the worlds of business and politics.” His words had none of the resistance, none of the doubt she had overheard from his conversation with Lady Trafford.

  “Will they not learn these things from their fathers? Or a tutor? Or from school?”

  “Eventually, yes; however, you will provide the foundation that will give them an advantage. It is never too early to learn essential life skills.”

  These did not sound like Mr. Withrow’s words or sentiments, but rather Lady Trafford’s, something he adopted because making the argument suited his purposes. Yet he delivered them in such a manner that if Mary had not spent almost two months in the same household, she would have thought them genuine.

  His sentiments on the centrality of money, however, were definitely his own.

  *

  When Mary returned to her room, her letter packet was in precisely the same position, but the hair was gone.

  Her hand went to the mourning ring and she clutched it tightly, wishing for her father’s advice.

  She wanted to rationalize the disappearance of the piece of hair: perhaps it had fallen out on its own or come undone when the letter packet was moved for cleaning. But she had secured the hair firmly. And she had placed the packet in a seemingly haphazard position on the table. If someone had moved the packet for cleaning, they would not have placed it back so precisely.

  The hair had been secure prior to her lesson with Mr. Withrow, and he had been with her the entire time. Which meant it was not Mr. Withrow, and not Fanny, who had observed their lesson. That left Lady Trafford, Mrs. Boughton, or one of the many other servants. But ultimately, it must be at the direction of Lady Trafford.

  She looked hastily around her room. She felt as if she were being watched, but of course, no one was there. Now that she knew for certain that her letters were being read, she would need to be very careful.

  She removed her writing supplies and sat at the table. She needed to gather more information about Lady Trafford and Withrow. Maria Blankenbeckler was in Brighton, and she might be able to help her.

  Dear Maria,

  I still have no current plans to visit Brighton. It is strange to be so close to you in terms of miles, and yet, for all practical purposes, so very far away.

  I have a favor to ask of you. There is some information that I need you to gather for me, but I need you to be discreet. Do not mention me, Lady Trafford, or Castle Durrington in any way. I need you to trust that I need this information without asking why, for I cannot explain why until I see you in person.

  I need you to find an M. May that resides in or around Brighton. Who is this person? What do they do? Any information you could provide would be useful.

  Second, I need you to find out information about Brighton’s Society for Literacy and Improvement of the Poor. Who is in charge of the organization? Who works for it? What exactly do they do? Also, did anything unusual or noteworthy happen within the organization during the week of September the 8th?

  I have one final request, which may seem strange, but is of the utmost importance. Do not put your name on the outside of the letter, and do not address the letter with my name. Instead direct it to Mary Woodville, Worthing, Sussex.

  Thank you for being my friend, and thank you for helping me with this task. I hope it is not too much trouble for you.

  Sincerely,

  Mary Bennet

  Woodville was the last name of the main character in the only Gothic novel she had ever read—Kitty’s novel—so it felt like an appropriate nom de plume. She secured the letter using the paper triangle lock that Lady Trafford had taught her to make.

  Then she took a new quarter sheet of paper and addressed her sister.

  Dear Kitty,

  I am trying to discover more about Lady Trafford’s relationship with our father before he died. I desire this information not for any particular cause, but only because I am of a curious nature.

  I know that Father’s letters were kept after his death. Are there any letters from Lady Trafford to him? Make sure to check both the letter box he kept on his desk and the locked box he kept on one of the top bookshelves, for I know I saw him place letters there as well.

  If you could also ask Mother if she had ever heard any mention of Lady Trafford before the funeral.

  I suspect someone has been opening my letters before I receive them, but, for various reasons, I do not want to tell Lady Trafford of my suspicion. Because of this, I ask that you do not put your name on the outside of the letter, nor mine—instead address it to Mary Woodville, Worthing, Sussex. I know you will appreciate the name I have chosen. I have never before asked you to keep a secret, but I ask it of you now—please do not tell anyone why you are looking through Father’s letters, or that you are sending a letter to me under another name.

  Love always, your sister,

  Mary Bennet

  She used the same, complex method to seal the letter to her sister. She had no way to take the letters to Worthing today, but she would be going tomorrow, so she kept the letters tucked inside her stocking as she went to the sitting room with the pianoforte for her first lesson from Lady Trafford.

  The topic was history, and in preparation Lady Trafford had asked Mary to study two chapters on the Wars of the Roses, each from a different history book. Mary came to the lesson prepared, having memorized all the major dates, names, and facts. But Lady Trafford was not at all impressed by Mary’s preparations.

  “It is not enough to be able to memorize. I want you to think, to analyze, to look at larger theories and trends. Why do you think I assigned you chapters from two different authors on the same subject?”

  “I…am not sure.”

  “They disagree on the primary causes, as well as the results. And what they choose to include as they describe the conflict reveals as much about the contemporary authors and their political viewpoints as it does about the events of the past.”

  Mary took notes, trying to record all of Lady Trafford’s words.

  “I want you to reread the chapters, this time with the intent to analyze them. Analyze the Wars of the Roses—their causes, their conflicts, their results. Analyze the differences between the two chapters, and what may be addressed inadequately in each. Analyze the authors themselves, and consider the larger theories they subscribe to. Finally, I want you to consider how these theories apply to Britain’s current conflicts on the continent and how these authors would likely write about Bonaparte.”

  Lady Trafford took Mary’s quill and added several additional items to the directions. Mary was unable to suppress a grimace.

  “What is the matter?” asked Lady Trafford.

  “Nothing is the matter,” said Mary, “But I do think that memorizing is much easier than what you expect me to do.”

  “Yes, but what I am asking you to do wil
l be more worth your while.”

  Mary considered the list. “Why do you spell his name Bonaparte, instead of Buonaparte?”

  “The emperor chose that version from his family history. Buonaparte is a spelling some journalists and writers started using again about a decade ago in order to mock Napoleon and attempt to delegitimize his right to rule France by using the name that sounds less French.”

  “Would that not be justified, given he is the enemy?”

  “Perhaps,” said Lady Trafford. “But if you do not treat your enemies with a certain amount of respect, then you will underestimate them and risk losing your own legitimacy.”

  *

  The next day, after her drawing class, Mr. Parker drove Mary in the carriage to Worthing for her French lesson. It was held in Madame Dieupart’s front parlor, which overlooked the sea. Madame Dieupart had invited two other French-speaking ladies for tea, and they spoke with Mary for an hour and a half without a single word of English.

  When her lesson was finished, she approached Mr. Parker, who sat idly in the box seat of Lady Trafford’s black carriage. “Could you wait for a few minutes?” she asked. “I would like to walk a little around the town before I return to Castle Durrington.”

  “Of course, Miss Bennet.” His mustache twitched. “Would you like me to wait here or to bring the carriage to meet you somewhere?”

  “You can wait here. I will not be long.”

  She walked a little along the boardwalk. She paused for a moment, watching as several boys threw rocks into the sea, making them skip across the water, and then she turned up the main road into town. Unlike at Castle Durrington, here in Worthing it always smelled of the sea.

  After a few blocks, she paused in front of a post office collection box. There were several scattered throughout town where you could deposit letters if you did not want to visit the post office itself. Before taking the letters out of her pocket, she looked at those nearby: young ladies fanning themselves as they spoke to an officer, a mother shepherding five young children down the road, a lad carrying a box of fish. None of them paid her any attention, but a block behind her, on the path she had taken from Madame Dieupart’s house, someone ducked around the corner. She had seen enough of him to be fairly certain that it was Mr. Parker.

  Instead of removing the letters, she walked farther up the road. She tried to keep a measured pace and ignore the pounding in her pulse and her sudden impulse to flee. If Mr. Parker was following her, she did not want him to realize that she knew it.

  In the distance, she spotted Mr. Withrow, speaking with the new arrival in Worthing, Colonel Radcliffe. She had not known that Withrow was in Worthing today. He did not appear to see her, and she wondered if he had instructed Mr. Parker to follow her.

  After several blocks, she stepped into the milliner’s shop. She examined different ribbons in a way that allowed her to see out of the front window from the edge of her vision without directly facing the window.

  Within less than a minute, Mr. Parker passed the shop, glancing nonchalantly at her.

  Mary bit her lip and was gripped by fear. She did not want to believe that Mr. Parker meant her any harm—Mr. Parker, who had driven her and Lady Trafford so many times, who took such care with the horses. But there had been a ferocity in his eyes that she had not seen before. He was the fox eyeing the enclosure, and she was the hen trapped within.

  She could give herself up, let Mr. Parker follow her and simply not mail the letters, or allow him to see her mailing the letters. But her soul rebelled against that thought, rebelled against giving in and giving up to the wishes and plans of others.

  Though she had never particularly liked ribbon, she bought a black ribbon and then did her best to speak as her sister Lydia might.

  “There is a gentleman down the street outside that I would rather not talk to,” she said. “Do you have another door by which I could leave the shop?”

  “We do,” said the milliner, “but it is not designed for ladies like yourself.”

  “Oh please,” begged Mary. “He always makes the conversation unpleasant, and speaking to him, alone, by myself, would surely not be proper.”

  “Very well,” said the milliner. He led her through the workroom and to a door that opened into a small, dank alleyway, empty of any people.

  “Thank you,” said Mary. “Your assistance is much appreciated.”

  She followed the back alley away from the road and took a side turn at random. As she walked, she heard voices coming from an alcove ahead, so she slowed. She considered turning back, but instead stepped closer.

  “I can guarantee the items would be in Chartres within two weeks.” Mary could not be certain, but it sounded like the voice of Colonel Coates. From the geography book Lady Trafford had assigned her, she knew that Chartres was not terribly far from Paris. How did Colonel Coates intend to get items to France in war time?

  Another man replied, “I would prefer it be earlier.”

  “If I want to keep my boat unobserved by British and French authorities, it must be on my own timetable. I must do it when the moment is right.”

  “Then I want to accompany the goods myself.”

  “That is acceptable,” said Colonel Coates. “But the price will be tripled.”

  “Tripled?”

  “Smuggling goods is one thing, smuggling people is quite another. But you do not need to accompany the items. You can ask anyone—even Mr. Shaffer. I do good work.”

  “I will consider it,” said the second voice.

  What she had just heard seemed impossible—Colonel Coates, smuggling. Despite the risk, Mary needed to confirm that it truly was him. He was a kind, attentive gentleman, working with Sir Pickering on the murder investigation—it could not possibly be him. Surely there was someone else in Worthing with a similar-sounding voice. And surely he had not just implied that Mr. Shaffer, the clergyman, had used his smuggling services.

  Mary peered around the edge of the alcove. It was indeed Colonel Coates, speaking with a merchant she vaguely recognized.

  Colonel Coates’s head turned in her direction, and she pulled herself back around the corner, then walked briskly down the alley, certain she would be discovered. She hurried past the back of the milliner’s shop and down a different path that led back to the main road.

  Finally, she came out on the main road, into the sunlight. She breathed in and out, almost panting from the exertion. A woman looked at her reproachfully, so Mary smoothed her skirts and smiled, attempting to mask her inner turmoil.

  Colonel Coates was a smuggler. He had a secret boat. Mr. Holloway was likely stabbed on a boat before being thrown into the sea. What if Holloway had discovered the smuggling, and Colonel Coates had killed him for it?

  There was no evidence that Colonel Coates had killed Holloway—it could have been someone else who owned one of the other seventy-three boats in the area. Yet it was a possibility, and suddenly Mary did not know who to trust.

  With that sobering thought, she returned to the postal collection box. She stopped a few feet away, waiting as a woman sighed dramatically and placed what must be a love letter inside. There was no sign of the colonels, no Mr. Withrow, no Mr. Parker, so Mary removed the letters from her pocket and slipped them into the box.

  She walked slowly back to the carriage and waited inside it, outwardly serene, with her hands neatly folded, until Mr. Parker returned.

  “Such a lovely day for a walk,” said Mary. “A little cold, but quite pleasant. I see you took a stroll yourself?”

  “A small one,” he said, giving Mary an inquisitive look, but he did not say anything about following Mary, and so she did not either.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “There is a tendency in all states to reduce the tiller of the earth to a level with the oxen he yokes to the plough….Were I called upon to estimate the quantity of freedom possessed by any people, I would not enquire under what particular form of government they existed, but by what tenure the land was hel
d by individuals, and into what portions it was divided and subdivided. If the freeholders were few in comparison to the whole population, I should be persuaded that slavery had taken deep root among them, although their political constitution should be of the most admirable construction. History can shew us republics, even democracies, in which three-fourths of the inhabitants are slaves….”

  –A letter to the editor by “Agrarius,” The Liverpool Mercury, Liverpool, England,

  November 5, 1813

  Mary worried about Mr. Withrow’s soul. Even those willfully acting in error deserved an opportunity to change for the better, so after her next lesson, which had been scheduled for a Friday morning, she handed him a treatise she had painstakingly prepared, entitled “Man is more than money.”

  Before her French lesson Withrow found her and returned the treatise. “Thank you for allowing me to read this.”

  “What did you think?” She would not allow him to return it to her with no comment beyond thanks.

  “Your paper tended towards the verbose and the sentimental, and took a rather circuitous approach to your subject, but many of your arguments were solid and you cited extensive sources.”

  A warmth filled Mary’s chest; from Mr. Withrow, that was actually a compliment. “Thank you.”

  “However, I stand by my original position on money.”

  Mary did not know what more she could do to persuade him. She had done her part in showing him the folly of his ways, and it was his choice of whether or not he would make changes in his own life. Besides, she had other, more urgent ways she needed to spend her time.

  After her French lesson she rushed to finish Lady Trafford’s assignments, which included both an analysis of two weeks of newspapers and a reading on the science behind mining techniques. In the past week and a half of lessons with Lady Trafford, Mary had discovered that Lady Trafford cared less about a particular subject matter than about an overall approach. They studied history, current events, newspapers, manners, literature, and science, and sometimes, Mary would leave after an hour with Lady Trafford and have no idea what they had studied at all. But regardless of the subject matter, Lady Trafford wanted Mary to come to her own conclusions, to think about the unstated goals and effects, and to consider how the subject impacted daily living.