The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet

by Katherine Cowley

  Yet more important than the time she devoted to any of her lessons was Mary’s quest for the truth. It had been a week and a half since she had mailed the letters to Maria and Kitty, which should have given them enough time to receive her correspondence, gather information, and send a reply. The next morning she had several spare hours, so she decided to go to town. It was about a four-mile walk to the post office in Worthing, so that was out of the question, and the last time she had taken a carriage, she had been followed.

  She entered the stables and as luck would have it, she found Mr. Tubbs, the man who had driven her to Castle Durrington on her first day. She might have left the stables and postponed her trip for another day had she met Mr. Parker.

  “Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Tubbs. “Now what can I do for you today?”

  “If possible, I would like to ride a horse into Worthing.”

  “We have plenty of horses you could ride that are used to a side saddle.”

  She hated to admit her inadequacies, but in this case it was expedient. “I am not a very skilled rider.” Of her sisters, Jane was the best horsewoman. Mary was better than Elizabeth, but not by much.

  “In that case you should ride Dusty. She is old, but gentle and level-headed.”

  Mary rested her hand on a smooth wooden post and enjoyed the fresh scent of the hay as Mr. Tubbs prepared Dusty and led her outside. Mary stood on the left side of the horse, swallowing the nervousness she always felt when riding these large beasts. She placed her right hand on the higher pommel of the saddle, also called the fixed head, and raised her skirts a little with her left. Mounting was her least favorite part of riding. She raised her right foot, and Mr. Tubbs supported it with both of his hands. She bent her left knee and sprang up towards the horse, feeling a bit out of control as Mr. Tubbs lifted her right leg and guided her the rest of the way.

  Secure on the saddle, Mary breathed a sigh of relief and adjusted her legs comfortably to the left side of the horse, around the two pommels, the fixed head and the leaping head, which made it easier to stay in position and not fall off the horse. She attempted to pull her dress down so it completely covered her ankle and her boot to be more proper, but this was not a riding habit and did not have the extra length, so she could not completely do so. The Bennets had never purchased riding habits for their daughters. Sometimes they did drape a blanket over their legs, but Mary did not want to incur the extra effort of keeping a blanket in place the entire ride.

  Mr. Tubbs handed her a riding crop. “When you reach Worthing, stop at the inn and mention that you live at Castle Durrington. They will tie up Dusty, free of charge, and help you mount when you are ready to come home.”

  “Thank you,” said Mary.

  “Once you feel ready, start her at a walk.”

  Mary took a moment to concentrate and then urged the horse forward. Dusty walked, calmly, slowly. The horse followed her directions with only gentle suggestions as she urged her to turn left and then right.

  “Now take her at a trot. Yes, like that. Now do not ask her to go any faster than that.”

  “There is no risk of me wanting to go any faster,” said Mary.

  After leaving Castle Durrington Mary looked back several times, but it did not appear that anyone was following her. Her ride to Worthing was uneventful, and she did as Mr. Tubbs recommended and left the horse at the inn.

  First she stopped at the bookseller where she found a very small writing book, with minuscule sheets of paper bound together. She intended to record her notes and observations on Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow in order to better notice any abnormalities and transgressions in their behaviour. In case someone saw her in the shop and informed Lady Trafford of her visit, Mary also bought a new piece of music for the pianoforte.

  Mary left the bookseller and looked at the post office next door. She could not simply walk in and ask for Mary Woodville’s mail; she had visited the post office before, and they might recognize her as Mary Bennet.

  Instead she walked farther up the street. She stepped inside a clothing store that catered to the working classes and immediately drew so many startled looks that she knew she could not purchase from such an establishment. She promptly left the shop without even managing a proper apology for her haste.

  This would not do—this would not do at all. She needed to return to Castle Durrington before the length of her absence became suspicious, and she needed to check for mail.

  In frustration, Mary turned down a smaller side street, and then into an alley. She kicked at the dirt road, and it coated her shoes and turned the bottom of her dress a dusty brown. She stopped kicking the dirt as she passed a raggedly dressed woman sitting on the side of the road, rocking her baby.

  A few steps later Mary stopped and turned around. “May I buy your cloak?”

  “What you be needin’ mine cloak for? Yourn is purty espensive.”

  “It does not matter what I want it for. I will give you…seven shillings for it.”

  “I wunt higgle over that,” said the woman. She stood and ripped off the cloak in one quick motion, without setting down the baby.

  Mary counted out the shillings and exchanged them for the cloak. It was ragged and smelled like a stall that had not been mucked, but it was very long and had a large hood that would help hide her face.

  The woman kissed one of the coins, spit on it, and put it in a pocket, keeping the other coins in her hand. Mary’s confusion must have shown, for the woman said, “Tis good luck.” She began to walk away with her baby.

  “Wait!” said Mary.

  She turned around. “You be wantin’ mine dress too?” She gave a bawdy laugh and tugged at the collar.

  “I do not need your dress,” said Mary firmly. “But I will pay you an additional two shillings if you do not tell anyone that you have seen me or sold me your cloak.”

  “That’s mighty suent,” said the woman, her hand outstretched. The baby began to cry.

  “Do you promise you will not tell anyone I bought this from you?”

  “I swear it, on mine baby.”

  “You should not be swearing on your baby,” said Mary, concerned that the woman might have done this many times before.

  “But I do. I swear on mine baby.”

  Mary sighed. “Very well.” She handed over the extra two shillings. “Please, buy yourself a new cloak before you freeze.” The woman hurried off down the alley.

  Mary wrapped the cloak around herself and pulled the hood over her head, allowing it to cover part of her face. She did up all the clasps to cover as much of her dress as possible, then smeared some dirt on her hands and her face.

  Her disguise ready, Mary entered the post office. A woman holding a large package pulled her two children as far away from Mary as possible, then hurried them out the door. The same man as last time greeted her, but not with the same smile.

  “My name’s Mary Woodville,” she said, trying to imitate the original owner of the cloak’s way of speaking. “I’m expectin’ two letters.”

  The man looked in the back room and then returned to the desk. “I do have a letter for you, Miss Woodville.”

  “Only one?”

  “Yes, one. It will be eight pence.” The man looked skeptical that she possessed the funds.

  As she passed him the money, she realized that this was a rather shoddy disguise. An old cloak and some dirt could not hide her hands that had never seen labor and her well-kept fingernails. And if anyone knew her well, they would still recognize her face. But at least this man did not seem to.

  She took the letter. Her name and address were in Kitty’s handwriting, which meant there was no letter from Maria, even though Brighton was closer and she should have received the letter faster.

  Mary returned to the alley where she had purchased the cloak. She broke the seal and read her sister’s words.

  My dearest Mary Woodville,

  I did not realize that we read the same books. What other secrets have you been keeping from
me all these years? This creates all sorts of possibilities. Imagine if we read the same novel every month and then did as we are doing now, attempting to act out the characters through our letters. I think it would provide splendid entertainment.

  In terms of what I have discovered, it is for your ears only. Do not show this letter to anyone, or the consequences would be dire! (I think I could make a living writing Gothic novels, and it would oblige me greatly if you agreed.)

  In terms of my revelations to you, we shall start from the smallest and move to the largest. First, I asked Mother if she had ever heard of Lady Trafford before Father’s funeral. She answered affirmatively, but upon further questioning I have concluded that Mother wishes she could have remembered knowing of Lady Trafford but had never actually heard of or met her before.

  Revelation the second. I have gone through the letter box that Father used to keep on his desk. In it I found one—only one!—letter from Lady Trafford, dated January 1809. A lengthy part of the letter discusses the weather and other trivialities. Then she mentions the death of her daughter and calls it “tragic.” (I did not know that Lady Trafford had a daughter—you shall have to write me and tell me more of it!) Apparently, her daughter’s gravestone was damaged and had to be repaired. Finally, Lady Trafford requests that Father return her request for information. Interestingly, she gives no details on what sort of information she is demanding, which leads me to conclude that she had written him other letters on the subject.

  Revelation the third. Prepare yourself to be shocked. The locked letter box that Father kept on the shelf is missing. No one can remember seeing it since before the funeral. We did not bring it with us to the Philipses’, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins have not seen it at all. After speaking—discreetly—to an extensive number of people, I have concluded that the letter box is most definitively gone and probably disappeared within a fortnight of Father’s death.

  I hope you have a splendid week. There is a public ball, and since I am no longer in mourning clothes, I will attend. It will be my very first ball alone, with no sisters by my side, so I hope you think of me there, and imagine me dancing with as many men as possible.

  Yours always,

  The Incomparable Kitty Bennet

  Mary reflected on Kitty’s “revelations.” It did not surprise her that Mrs. Bennet would pretend, when questioned, that she had known of Lady Trafford; after all, Lady Trafford was a woman of importance. The second was more interesting. Lady Trafford had indeed known Mr. Bennet, at least well enough that he had kept one of her letters. But if Mary remembered correctly, Lady Trafford’s daughter Anne had died in June 1808. Lady Trafford only informed Mr. Bennet of the fact in January 1809. If they had a close connection, the correspondence would have been sent more quickly after the event.

  Mary folded Kitty’s letter and hid it in her stocking. She removed the beggar’s cloak, wrapped it, and tucked it within her own cloak. Then she used her handkerchief to clean her face as well as she could.

  She returned to the stable at the inn where she had left Dusty. She saw a reflection of herself in a piece of glass and grimaced. She asked a stable lad for a wet rag and scrubbed at her face and her hands. Once she finished, she was about to ask for help mounting the horse when she paused. How had Mr. Holloway come to Worthing anyway? From the maps she had studied in Castle Durrington’s library, she knew it was a lengthy trip, over twenty-five miles. Perhaps he had taken a public carriage, as she had. Or maybe he owned his own horse or carriage.

  “Did you know Mr. Holloway?” asked Mary.

  “The dead man you foun’?” said the boy. “Course I did.”

  She did not like being so strongly associated with Mr. Holloway, but it did serve its purpose. “Did he have his own horse or carriage?”

  “Oh yes, his own ’orse. I always puts her in the back stall. He wouldn’t let us keep her anywhere else.”

  “The day he came to Worthing and then died—did he bring his horse here?”

  “Certain sure he did.”

  Mary smiled. Her intuition had been correct. “What happened to the horse?”

  “Well, the ’orse had been here for most of a week, and we were wonderin’ why, but then the magistrate came and got her. I think he sent her back to Crawley.”

  Mary deflated a little. She felt rather silly about her excitement for her brilliant realization, a realization that had occurred to Sir Pickering weeks ago.

  “Did Holloway have any bags with him that day?”

  “I dunno. If he did, the magistrate took’m.”

  It was no use; there was nothing more she could learn here. The horse had been gone for weeks, taken by Sir Pickering along with any other evidence there might have been. But still, she could not resist asking, “Can I see the stall?”

  The boy led her back. The stall was empty, but she stepped inside and asked for a moment alone.

  This was the stall where Mr. Holloway had left his horse, an ordinary, smelly stall, with hay and dirt and wooden walls. She had seen Mr. Holloway with Mr. Withrow, and then Holloway had come here, and then he had met with someone, and then he had died.

  She found the stable boy again, and he helped her back into Dusty’s saddle. As she approached Castle Durrington, she realized she needed to hide her new—well, old—cloak. She would need it again, but with how it smelled, she could not possibly bring it in the castle. She found a hollow in a tree, tucked it inside, and hoped the animals stayed out of it.

  After returning the horse she rushed to her room, cleaned herself more thoroughly, and changed into a fresh mourning dress.

  Then she practiced her new song on the pianoforte. Playing always helped her relax and brought clarity to her thoughts.

  “That is a very nice piece.” Lady Trafford had entered the room so quietly that Mary had not realized she was there.

  Mary smiled. “I bought it when I went to town today.”

  Lady Trafford listened for a few minutes and then excused herself to attend to other business.

  A part of the song caused Mary to stumble. She stopped, worked out the correct fingerings, and then played those measures ten times in a row to help herself grow more used to the movement. Once she was finished, she started the piece from the beginning. This time, the challenging section did not cause her any trouble.

  As she lost herself in the music, she realized that there was one additional point of interest in Kitty’s letter: the broken gravestone. It seemed that a private visit to the church was in order.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Wednesday morning, Richard Hucknall, William Hughes, and Thomas Foss, for forgeries; and Joseph Sylvester, for highway robbery, were executed in front of Newgate. Hucknall was formerly a stockbroker and had contrived to elude discovery for a considerable time. The unhappy men met their fate with becoming fortitude and resignation.”

  –Kentish Chronicle, Canterbury, England, November 12, 1813

  The church was empty and quiet, and the stillness felt unnatural compared to the fullness it held on days of worship, the constant movement and energy. Mary’s steps echoed on the stone floor as she walked through the sanctuary, examining the windows, the paintings, the pews.

  The middle-of-the-night visitors had mentioned that they did not have time to visit the church, which implied that there would be reason to do so. Yet Mary could see no secrets in these walls, and unless they had some sort of dealings with Mr. Shaffer and his family, she could not discern a purpose for them to visit.

  Of course, Withrow had said that if they visited in the middle of the night they would be suspected of grave robbing. Perhaps it was less the church they wanted than the adjoining cemetery. Which brought her back to Kitty’s letter and its mention of the damaged gravestone.

  Mary left the building and entered the cemetery. It was a cold day with a strong wind, and soon her feet, her ears, and her nose were chilled. The ground was damp, and as she walked between the rows, mud gathered on her shoes and the hem of her dress. Her eyes s
canned the names and dates on each of the headstones, searching for Lady Trafford’s children and husband.

  In the middle of one row was a patch of freshly turned soil. A recent grave. Maybe even from the last few days. No headstone had yet been placed, no grass yet grew.

  This grave was not the purpose of her visit, yet she found herself unable to walk any farther. A few days after her father’s funeral, she had visited his grave and it had appeared just like this.

  A wave of emotion took her, like the waves Withrow had described which could carry even the strongest swimmer out to sea, and then Mary was drowning, drowning in her sorrow, drowning in her loss. She was back, back to her father’s dying words, back to his dying breath. Back to the nights spent keeping vigil over his body, wishing it was not true, willing to trade anything just to see him, speak to him, reassure him that she loved him and hear him express the same for her. Back to feeling his dead cold hand in hers.

  Mary sank to her knees, getting mud all up her dress, but she paid it no heed. Her body shook, and it took all her strength just to breathe in the frigid air. What did life mean if it always ended like this, with a body in the ground, subject to worms and decay? What did life mean for those who loved the deceased the most, and were then left alone in the world?

  She pictured his hand when it had reached out to her, weak and pale in its last moments. Then Mr. Bennet coughed, and his hand went not to Mary, but to Elizabeth. But now his hand, decaying and bereft of life, was beneath the ground. She had not even attended his funeral.

  She tried to control herself, tried to pull herself back to the present moment, but the more she resisted, the more her emotions dragged her under. So she let them. She submersed herself in the ragged sense of loss until sorrow surrounded her entire being and became every fiber of her.