The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet

by Katherine Cowley

  Gradually, the intensity of it slipped away. The pain was still present, like a fresh bruise, but it no longer consumed her. She removed the mourning ring from her finger and rotated it so the lock of her father’s hair faced out. As she slid the ring back on her finger, she realized that Miss Shaffer stood nearby, watching. Mary wondered how long she had been there.

  Mary rubbed her face with her hands, certain it was not presentable.

  “You must miss your father terribly,” said Miss Shaffer kindly as she approached.

  Mary nodded.

  “It is a hard thing, to lose a family member. I can tell that you loved him dearly.”

  Mary sniffed, and then tried to stand. Miss Shaffer helped her to her feet.

  “Come, walk with me,” said Miss Shaffer. She linked her arm with Mary’s and led her up and down the rows.

  Finally, Mary regained her voice. “I apologize for my behaviour and…”

  “You do not need to apologize. The church and these grounds should be a safe place to feel what you need to feel, to express what you need to express.”

  “Thank you,” said Mary. Miss Shaffer made her feel that she did not need to be ashamed.

  After a few more minutes of walking, Mary remembered her original purpose. “I know that Lady Trafford’s husband and children died not too many years ago. Are they buried here?”

  “Yes, they are.” Miss Shaffer led her to a secluded spot with three graves.

  The largest stone was cut in the form of a cross and was almost Mary’s height. Words on the base showed that it belonged to Sir George Trafford. To the left was the headstone for James, and to the right a space, likely reserved for Lady Trafford when her time in this world ended, and then a headstone for Anne, covered with delicate carvings of flowers. There was a long crack which had been repaired near the upper edge of Anne’s stone.

  “Lady Trafford has been hesitant to talk about their deaths,” said Mary.

  “She still grieves for them,” said Miss Shaffer. “It was one loss after another for her, first her husband, then her daughter, then her son. She seemed lost for quite some time, but now she has found a way to move forward.”

  “May I ask how they died?”

  Miss Shaffer paused, considering, and Mary feared that she would not answer.

  “It is simply because I want to avoid doing or saying anything that would offend Lady Trafford or cause her more pain.”

  Miss Shaffer nodded. “I suppose there can be no harm.” She folded her arms against her body and shivered. “Sir George Trafford died of consumption. Anne—” Miss Shaffer wiped a tear from her eye. “Anne was only a year older than I. She was very ill for an entire year. Finally, she grew healthy and strong and lively again, and then there was the accident.”

  “The accident?”

  “The family was riding horses on a trail. Anne went up ahead with her horse. They were on a rocky ledge and the ground was unstable. Some of it broke under the weight of the horse and Anne and the horse fell. She died in the fall.”

  Mary could picture it in her mind—a young girl falling, Lady Trafford screaming, maybe her older brother James jumping off his horse and running to her side, and no one, no one able to do anything for Anne.

  “That is dreadful,” said Mary. “I can see why Lady Trafford does not like to speak of it.”

  “It was quite tragic. Then with accidental deaths there is always an inquest, and I understand that it was quite hard on Lady Trafford.”

  Miss Shaffer stared intently at Anne’s grave. Five years had passed, yet Miss Shaffer still grieved her friend. Perhaps grief was never easily, neatly resolved.

  “Where did the accident occur?” Mary could imagine how hard it must be to pass that same spot again and again, to have the grief brought to the forefront every time.

  “It was in Crawley.”

  “In Crawley?” said Mary. “But that’s where Mr. Holloway—”

  “Yes,” said Miss Shaffer. “Anne’s death was actually how Mr. Holloway and Lady Trafford met. Mr. Holloway was one of the local clergymen, and after the accident, he rushed to help and support Lady Trafford. He even personally accompanied Anne’s body to Worthing, then stayed for an additional week to be of further assistance.”

  “Mr. Holloway sounds like he was a good man.”

  “A good man, and a great one. Truly great. My father has always felt inadequate in comparison to him.”

  “Mr. Withrow said that he could be rather theatrical.”

  Miss Shaffer smiled. “Yes, indeed. He could pull a coin out of your ear at a moment’s notice, and he liked to hide things in unusual places. He could find nooks and crannies everywhere. When he was younger, he would enter the parsonage, be inside for less than two minutes, and during that time he would have hidden a handful of ribbons around the room. If I found them quickly, I could keep them.”

  “Hearing of his death must have been hard on you too.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Shaffer simply, and returned her gaze to Anne’s grave.

  After a few minutes, Mary broke the silence. “What happened to James?”

  “He died of convulsions.”

  There were so many ways to die, so many reasons people died every single day. Yet when death came, it still felt unexpected.

  Mary gestured at Anne’s headstone. “Was it damaged?”

  “Vandals broke into the cemetery. It was not long after the stone was put in place.”

  “Did they damage any of the other graves?”

  Miss Shaffer appeared surprised at this question, as if it had never occurred to her before. “No. I do not believe they did.”

  It seemed too random for vandals to damage only one grave, the grave of Anne Trafford. The family must have someone who wanted to harm them, but who? And why?

  The deaths themselves did not sound suspicious, at least not from Miss Shaffer’s account. She wondered who else in Worthing would know more about the grave damage.

  Yet she had to take care with whom she asked for stories about Lady Trafford. If someone knew her well enough to know about her past and the mysteries surrounding her family, then they likely had some sort of relationship with Lady Trafford. Mary’s questioning could easily be reported to the woman herself. To a certain extent that was unavoidable, but it was one thing for a single person to report back to Lady Trafford, for then it might be dismissed as the fruits of curiosity. But if three or four people reported Mary’s line of questioning, it could lead to trouble.

  After a few minutes of more mundane conversation, Mary parted ways with Miss Shaffer. She returned to the inn and retrieved the old, smelly cloak, which she had left with Dusty. She prepared her disguise and visited the post office.

  A letter from Maria had arrived. With chagrin, Mary noted that Maria had not sealed the letter at all, but simply folded it into itself. After leaving the post office, she found a private spot and read the letter.

  Dear Mary,

  It feels very unusual to be sending you a letter, addressed to someone else. I cannot imagine why it might be necessary.

  I have spent a long time trying to find your information. Admittedly, I did many other things as well. I almost gave up, but then I finally discovered a few things that might be of interest to you.

  First, there is no Brighton’s Society for Literacy and Improvement of the Poor. At least, there is not now. It was disbanded six years ago, and I could not find any more information on it besides that. There are currently three active societies in Brighton to improve the town.

  There are a number of families with the surname May, but I discovered three individuals with the first initial of M. One is Martha May, another is Matthew May, and the final is a Martin May.

  I do hope you visit Brighton soon and tell me all about your stay at Castle Durrington.

  Your friend,

  Maria Blankenbeckler

  Mary could not help but be disappointed in Maria. She had provided no information whatsoever about the different Mays,
not their ages or occupations or associations. When Mary returned to the castle, she would write Maria another letter requesting more information, though she did not know if Maria would be an effective or efficient source. Kitty had approached her task with much more vigor.

  At least, though, Maria had found one useful fact. But if there was no Brighton’s Society for Literacy and Improvement of the Poor, then what had taken Lady Trafford to Brighton with such urgency on the day that Mary had arrived at Castle Durrington, the very same day that Mr. Holloway had met his end?

  Mary resolved to be more diligent at recording her thoughts and observations in her writing book. Thus far her notes had been sporadic and incomplete, yet with more diligence, perhaps then she could unravel the mysteries around her.

  *

  November 10: Withrow spends a lot of time managing the estate (though the butler and housekeeper do hire and supervise the servants). For an estate this size, I would expect them to employ a steward.

  November 11: Lady Trafford went to Worthing to meet with friends. It appeared she brought gifts for the poor old gossip again.

  November 12: I went to Worthing so I could report to Monsieur Corneau. I did not directly state that I had overheard Colonel Coates discussing smuggling, but I indirectly referred to it by saying I had heard rumors around town that Colonel Coates might not be dealing completely in forthright ways. Corneau brushed off my concerns, expressed full confidence in Coates, and insisted that Coates’s behaviour was completely aboveboard and any rumors to the contrary were unfounded. He then wanted to know who I had heard that from, but I said I did not know who it was. I wonder if Corneau might, in some way, be involved in this venture.

  In part to change the subject, I mentioned Anne’s damaged gravestone. Corneau said it was unlikely that it had anything to do with the current events. He confided in me that it was an old enemy of Lady Trafford’s who had performed the deed, someone that she had framed for a crime, but would not elaborate further. Yet Miss Shaffer said they never discovered the identity of the vandal.

  November 13: Lady Trafford disappeared for most of the day and came back from the milliner with a new hat.

  November 14: Almost caught. Well, I was caught. Following Withrow. I managed to pretend I had a question for him. I need to keep more distance next time and bring my drawing supplies as an excuse.

  November 15: After French, I followed Withrow. He went to the trees in the Roundel. I think he met someone, but I could not get close.

  November 16: Lady Trafford cares a great deal that everything be absolutely perfect for the ball. She has given me a large amount of advice on how to act and behave.

  November 17: I feel like my sister Kitty—I want to write about the “revelations” I have to share. Perhaps, like Kitty, I should start with the small one first.

  Revelation the first. According to the milliner, Lady Trafford did not visit last week. Did not remember the hat I described. Where is the hat from?

  Revelation the second. I spent several hours in the lending library in Worthing, searching old newspapers. I believe that I found the event Monsieur Corneau referenced. Two months before Anne’s gravestone was damaged, there was a man, half-French, half-English, who was arrested for highway robbery. He claimed he had been framed, though the newspaper did not state by whom, simply stating “by a prominent woman in the community, who had been the one to provide the evidence leading to his arrest.” He escaped from prison a week before the gravestone was damaged and was caught a week later. No mention was made in the newspaper that he was the one responsible for the gravestone’s damage. I knew that Corneau must have known another way, so I did more research, and I discovered that the arrested man was none other than Corneau’s nephew.

  As I have reflected back on the day I found Mr. Holloway’s body, I have realized that Colonel Coates may have been completely unaware that Corneau asked me to spy for them. Indeed, I wonder if Corneau was reporting what I discovered to Coates at all, or simply gathering the information for his own purposes.

  November 18: My letters have been examined again. I think where I am keeping this book is secure (hidden under the bed pressed between the wood and the bed itself).

  November 19: Mr. Parker has been absent for a whole week but has now returned. I asked him if he had gone to visit family. His answer was evasive.

  November 20: Two of the servants were let go today. I do not know what happened, but Mrs. Boughton was upset, and Fanny would not speak of it.

  November 21: At church, Lady Trafford kept looking at a window that faced the cemetery, but she did not visit the cemetery.

  After church, the merchant who had spoken to Colonel Coates about smuggling pulled Mr. Shaffer aside and spoke to him in hushed tones. I was unable to overhear much of the conversation, but I do believe it was about smuggling.

  November 22: Withrow went to the Roundel again today to meet with someone, at the same time. Whoever he meets with must enter the Roundel from the south side.

  November 23: Lady Trafford left early this morning, unannounced. No word on where she went.

  November 24: Lady Trafford is still gone. Withrow was absent the entire day as well. He returned before dinner but ate by himself in his room. I spoke with Colonel Coates, and after telling him that I had never been on a boat but always wanted to, he gave me a tour of his boat. There were no signs that led me to believe that Mr. Holloway was killed on his boat, but there were no signs of smuggling either, and I know, at the least, that Colonel Coates has participated in the latter.

  November 25: Lady Trafford came back in time for dinner. Apparently it was a short trip to Chichester to visit a friend.

  November 26: I wore my disguise to the post office, and Maria has not replied to the second letter for information that I sent her.

  After visiting the post office, I cleaned myself and returned to the stable at the inn so I could ride Dusty back to Castle Durrington. I went back to the stall where Holloway always kept his horse. I remembered that Miss Shaffer said that Holloway liked to hide things, and so I looked to see if there were any good hiding spots. It took several minutes—fortunately, the stable boy was not in the stable at the moment—but I found a board on the side wall that appeared slightly loose. I was able to shift it, and behind it I found one of Mr. Holloway’s missing notebooks. I have spent hours reading it. What I have discovered is that it is actually half of a book; it is as if half of his sentences were written in this book and half in another, and in order to understand what is written, you would need both books. Even though Corneau said that if I heard anything about the missing notebooks, I should report to him immediately, I am not going to. He had said I was spying for a worthy cause, but I do not know what cause he is really supporting, and so I will do it for him no longer. Now I seek to find the truth not for others, but for myself.

  November 27: Everyone is focused on preparations for the ball.

  November 28: Nothing of note. If the pattern holds, tomorrow Withrow will meet with someone in the Roundel. Today I partially completed several landscape sketches there so if I am caught, I have an excuse. I will try to secret myself there tomorrow before the meeting.

  *

  The next day, during her French lesson, Mary went back and forth with Madame Dieupart, practicing conversations, a bit impatient the whole time because she knew she would need to cut the lesson short. She felt guilty as this was her last French lesson before the ball; between now and then, there would be no time for lessons due to all the preparations for those who would be arriving early as well as for the ball itself. But she needed to know with whom Withrow was meeting.

  Mary kept watching the clock. Once a full hour had passed, she rubbed her face with her hands, then she tried to look apologetic as she expressed that she was feeling ill. “Je regrette, Madame, mais je ne me sens pas bien. Pouvons-nous finir notre leҫon tôt aujourd’hui?”

  “C’est vrai que tu me parais distraite aujourd’hui. Eh bien! Mais j’espère que tu t
e sentes assez mieux demain pour continuer notre leҫon. Sinon, demande à Madame Trafford d’envoyer un servant me laisser savoir dans la matinée.”

  Mary felt terrible for feigning illness. Kitty sometimes did this to get out of unpleasant tasks, and Mary wondered if her sister felt this same guilt each time. Yet, despite the guilt, it was surprisingly easy to do. The ease of the act felt like a betrayal to Mary; it should be more difficult to act out a falsehood.

  Yet Mary did not call Madame Dieupart back to apologize or stop her from leaving. Her desire to find the truth was stronger than her desire to tell the truth, and though she felt ashamed of herself, she stayed in her room, discreetly watching from the window.

  Once her instructor was out of sight, she gathered her drawing supplies and went downstairs. She stood outside the library and listened through the open door; someone, likely Withrow, paced back and forth. Mary exited out the front door, and then took a leisurely, meandering walk, which eventually took her to her destination. She secreted herself inside a large evergreen bush in the middle of the Roundel; this seemed an ideal position from which to spy on Mr. Withrow during his weekly meeting.

  After a few minutes, her legs began to hurt. Several branches jabbed into her arms, and pine needles itched her face, but she did not dare push them out of her way. She would stay the course and discover what Withrow was doing.

  There was a rustling from one end of the grove, and then from the other, and Withrow and another man met in an open patch of dirt. Withrow smiled and patted the man on the back.

  The man wore short black boots, light, whitish trousers, and a large brown overcoat that covered everything else, even his neck. He wore nothing on his head.

  The man undid his overcoat and reached for something inside one of its inner pockets. Mary stiffened. Under the cloak, she glimpsed a military uniform. It was white and blue, with a gold gorget around the neck and a white shoulder belt stretching from his shoulder to his waist. From the cut and ornamentation, it was likely an officer’s uniform. But it was not the uniform of a British officer—it was the uniform of a French officer from Napoleon Bonaparte’s army.