Chapter Sixteen
“When the war broke out with Russia, the Emperor Alexander wisely packed off the whole tribe of French actors and actresses, that infested St. Petersburgh. Not only is the French drama a powerful instrument in infusing French principles into all ranks of society; but the chief performers, especially the females, have at times been too successfully employed as spies, and agents of political corruption.”
–The Times, London, November 29, 1813
The French officer unfolded the paper that he had removed from his overcoat. Mary wished she had a hiding spot closer to where the French officer and Withrow stood, because she could not make out any details, but it appeared to be a map.
The officer rested the map on a tree stump and moved his hands in different directions along it, gesturing, tapping certain spots, and pausing as Withrow asked him questions. She could not hear a word they were saying, but what she could see was enough. This was much worse than a dubious business deal meant to enrich Withrow and Lady Trafford, much worse than manipulations to bring Mary to Castle Durrington, much worse than a set of stolen mourning rings or searching her parents’ bedroom. Much worse than smuggling, and maybe even worse than the murder of Mr. Holloway. Withrow might, at this moment, be betraying his own country.
She shivered in her hiding spot. While she had become more accustomed to going out in the cold, it was more tolerable when one was in motion. It was a particularly bitter day, with a cold wind coming up from the sea, cutting through her cloak.
Her muscles tightened and she involuntarily shifted her body in response. A branch next to her cracked, and a pine needle poked her in the eye. She cut off her cry of pain, clamping her mouth shut and swallowing.
Withrow and the French officer stopped and looked up from the map. They had heard her. The French officer paced around the clearing. As he approached, Mary could see the fine shine on his boots. There was not a single blemish. Beneath his overcoat, attached to his belt, was a sword.
Mary’s eye hurt so much that she wanted to let out a sob, but she contained herself, watching, waiting for discovery. The sketches she had brought would not be sufficient excuse if she was discovered, not in this circumstance, hiding beneath a bush.
The French officer passed her hiding spot and returned to Withrow and the map. Yet while she wanted to feel relief, Mary could not. She could hardly breathe out of fear of making another sound.
Finally, the officer and Withrow finished with their conversation. The officer folded his map and placed it in his cloak, which he carefully did up so not a single glimpse of his uniform was visible.
Withrow embraced the man, and as he left, Withrow called out, “Be safe, my friend!” After the man left, Withrow stood for several minutes, waiting, and then he returned to the castle.
*
An hour later, Mary found herself at odds with Fanny. Mary had been playing the pianoforte, trying to calm herself and think rationally about Withrow’s meeting with a French officer, when Fanny practically dragged her upstairs to her room.
“Now sit on the bed, right there, and close your eyes,” said Fanny.
Mary sat on the bed and gritted her teeth, but did not close her eyes, one of which still hurt from the pine needle.
“Please, close your eyes, just for a moment.”
Mary complied, though she wished Fanny would tell her why she had felt a need to interrupt her. At Longbourn, the servants all knew better than to disturb her while she practiced music.
“Now open them,” said Fanny.
Mary did so, making her dissatisfaction clear on her face.
Fanny held up two dresses: a cream-coloured morning gown with intricate embroidery and a puce evening gown with copious amounts of lace. Mary was not particularly fond of puce, though Kitty, Lydia, and other fashionable young women adored it.
“What am I looking at?”
“The new clothes I made you, of course. This morning gown will be perfect for your complexion, especially now that your face has perked up from walking, and the evening gown should look stunning by candlelight.”
“I did not—”
“But what you will really like is the ball gown.” Fanny set down the gowns, turned, and lifted an elaborate, bright canary-yellow ball gown.
Mary sniffed in disdain. It was pretty—she would not deny that—but opulent, like sewing ten-pound notes onto your dress. The neckline was low, both in the front and the back.
“That is not what I asked you to make,” said Mary.
“Your request did not make any sense,” said Fanny. “You asked for another black mourning gown when you are almost done with mourning. So I made you what you need—a new morning gown for daily activities, and a new evening gown, especially useful when dining with visitors. And of course, you have no ball gown and we are about to hold a ball. I thought you would be pleased.”
“As I told you before, I have worn my green dress to every ball I have attended for the past three years. And I intend to wear it to Lady Trafford’s ball.”
Fanny held the new ball gown up to herself, as if trying it on for size. “And what exactly is wrong with this one?”
“I told you that any new dress had to have no lace, no beads, nor other adornment, and be an example of modesty in all aspects. This dress fails on all counts.”
“It’s as modest as all the other dresses the women will be wearing at the ball.”
“The fact that everyone wears something does not make it modest.” Her sisters all wore dresses like this to balls, but Mary would not. She had been profoundly impacted by Fordyce’s sermons—they had given her hope when she had felt none, and they helped her understand her place in her family and in the world when she felt lost. James Fordyce devoted an entire sermon to the subject of modesty of women’s apparel, and she had memorized a number of its passages. Fordyce warned against the wantonness of fashion; fancy dress could prevent domestic and intellectual and spiritual improvements. He had demonstrated, quite persuasively, that fancy dress was an idol, and that the pursuit of trivial ornament was proof of a trivial mind. Mary was convinced that simplicity and modesty of apparel was the only solution, and over the years, it had become a sort of creed for how she dressed.
The ball gown Fanny had made was anything but simple; it would draw attention to itself and its wearer. Wearing a dress like this once would not stain Mary’s character or set her on the wayward path, but doing it would demonstrate a willingness to depart from her principles, and this she would not do. She pushed aside the memory of lying to Madame Dieupart; that had been a necessary evil. But this would be an act of falsehood against her very self.
Fanny set down the ball gown next to Mary on the bed and opened up the clothes press. While Fanny’s back was turned, Mary fingered the new dress. It had a soft, creamy feel. It tempted her, just as Fordyce had said it would.
As Fanny turned back around, Mary wrenched her hand away from the fabric. It was bad enough to be tempted by it, but worse if anyone knew.
Fanny held Mary’s green dress. She unfolded it, pursing her lips in disapproval. “The fabric is rather faded, and the seams are a little ragged, both here and here.”
“I am certain you have the skills to fix the seams.”
Fanny shook out the dress. “If you wear this dress, you are letting other people control how you are seen.”
“I have always chosen my own clothes, without anyone’s input. I control how I am seen.”
Fanny walked to the window and looked out. “Because of the colour of my skin, people instantly have perceptions of me. But by what I wear, how I speak, and how I hold myself, I can nudge those perceptions in one direction or another.” The maid turned to face Mary. “People have perceptions of you too, as a young, unmarried genteel woman with no fortune to speak of.”
She picked up the canary gown and held the two dresses side by side. The green dress did look pale and old and ragged in comparison. “You may choose to wear this green dress, but you cannot
choose what it means to everyone else—the place and time we live makes those decisions. Now sometimes you may want people to underestimate or ignore or dismiss you, and if so, then of course, wear the green dress. But if you want a different meaning, if you want people to treat you differently or think of you differently, you must dress the part.”
Mary’s hands trembled with anger. She had never, in her entire life, had a servant speak to her like this. She pressed her hands firmly against her sides. “People do not ignore me or dismiss me or look down on me because of what I wear. People respect me, they enjoy my company, and they admire my many accomplishments.”
Fanny arched her eyebrows in a way that Lady Trafford would probably say expressed disagreement, and perhaps even a subtle mocking. “I made you the dresses at Lady Trafford’s request.”
This gave Mary pause. Why did Lady Trafford want Mary to wear these?
Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow’s behaviour was becoming more clear, but still Mary did not quite see what part they wanted her to play in it. Why would Lady Trafford need her to dress in the style of other people? Perhaps her plan was to force Mary into a marriage that would be advantageous in some way to Lady Trafford, and that was why she wanted Mary in these dresses.
If Mary gave Fanny a firm refusal on the clothing, Lady Trafford would surely hear of it and likely force the issue.
“They appear well made,” said Mary carefully, considering how Elizabeth might extract herself from this situation, “so I doubt they will require many modifications. I have other matters to attend to at the moment, so perhaps I can try them on another time.”
Before Fanny could protest, Mary left the room, closing the door behind her.
Mrs. Boughton was walking down the hallway in her direction.
“Miss Bennet, I have come to request your company. Several of Lady Trafford’s guests have arrived. They will be staying at the castle through the ball, and she thought you might like to meet them before you dine.”
Mary breathed deeply, trying to calm herself from her altercation with Fanny before responding. “Of course. Thank you.”
Mrs. Boughton interwove her fingers together. “I notice there is some…dirt on your dress. Perhaps you would like to change first? And tidy your hair?”
Mary looked down at her skirt. There was indeed some dirt on her dress. It must be from hiding in the bush while watching Withrow and the French officer.
While Mary did not see any need for fancy clothing, she did prefer to be neat and clean. But if she changed, she would have to interact with Fanny again, as the maid still had not left her room.
Mary did her best to brush the dirt off her dress, though some of it simply rubbed in. “I will be fine as I am.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Boughton. As she led her down the two flights of stairs, Mary tried to compose herself. She could not allow Lady Trafford or Mr. Withrow to see her anger or suspicions. She felt like she had gathered most of the key pieces of a puzzle, and she only needed to find a few more before she could fit everything together. She needed to keep up appearances until then.
As Mary entered the parlor, Lady Trafford, Mr. Withrow, and three visitors stood, two women and one man. Their skin was brown, and they wore fine clothing. The man was balding, and what was left of his hair was turning grey. He held himself as one accustomed to being treated with dignity. The older woman wore Indian clothing; the younger woman wore a dress typical of any well-to-do Englishwoman and appeared to be about Mary’s age. She had striking features, silky black hair, and a vibrant smile. It took a moment, but then the realization struck Mary. The man and the younger woman were the individuals who had visited the castle in the middle of the night.
Lady Trafford made the introductions. “This is Miss Mary Bennet. Miss Bennet, these are my esteemed guests, Mr. Jeetu Tagore, Mrs. Rebati Tagore, and their daughter, Miss Madhabika Tagore.”
Mary curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Miss Tagore took Mary’s arm and led her to a sofa. Mr. and Mrs. Tagore sat on the other side of the room with Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow.
Miss Tagore crossed her legs, then set her hands on top of them, as if she were posing for a portrait. “I was ecstatic when Lady Trafford told me that another young lady of my own age was residing at the castle.”
People were not normally ecstatic to see Mary. “I am glad you find my presence desirable.”
“Of course! Any friend of Lady Trafford is a friend of mine.”
“Have you visited Castle Durrington before?” asked Mary.
“Many times. But it has been at least a year.”
This was a complete falsehood. While Lady Trafford had not mentioned the middle-of-the-night visitors, even when prodded about how she had slept, she had never lied about it. Yet Miss Tagore seemed to have no compunction about lying.
“How long have you been staying here?” asked Miss Tagore.
“Almost three months now.”
“And how has your visit been?”
“It has been generally agreeable.”
“Only generally?”
“When you spend a long time with someone,” said Mary, “whether it is a family member, a friend, or a new acquaintance, you can hardly expect it to be always agreeable.”
“Many of my acquaintances are not honest enough to admit that. Lady Trafford said I would like you, and as always she is correct.”
The compliment surprised Mary. She did not tell the truth in order for people to like her.
“And where do you come from, Miss Bennet?”
“I am from Hertfordshire, near Meryton.”
“I have passed through Hertfordshire, but never had the fortune to stay.”
Any of her sisters would have responded with a standard pleasantry, such as “I hope someday you have the opportunity,” but Mary found this sort of small talk dull and could not bring herself to say anything.
“I am from Bengal but have lived in England for a number of years.” She leaned in, focusing her eyes on Mary’s head. She lowered her voice and whispered, “I do believe you have something in your hair.”
Mary patted her head, trying to find the object. “I was outside drawing earlier. Something must have gotten in my hair.”
“Try a little higher,” said Miss Tagore. “A little to the left—not my left, your left. Now farther back.”
Mary removed a small brown twig. Unsure what to do with it, she set it in her lap.
“You must be very diligent in your studies, to be out drawing on a cold day like this one. Why, I almost froze in the carriage, even with fur blankets and a hot rock under my feet.”
“I am sorry you were cold,” said Mary.
“I have heard it said that this should be a very cold winter.”
“I…I really know nothing of the matter.”
Suddenly Withrow sat down near them. He had crossed the room without Mary’s notice. This disconcerted her, as she normally prided herself on her powers of observation.
Withrow inserted himself into the conversation, talking about some of the new methods used to analyze the weather. Mary felt strangely like Withrow had saved her. She let him and Miss Tagore continue the conversation without adding any further comments. The Tagores, Withrow, Lady Trafford, Mr. Holloway: they were all connected. Their webs wove around her, but like spider webs, they could only be completely seen with the proper light, which she clearly did not have. Mary felt as if the walls of the room were pressing in on her, and her face felt a bit overheated, so she fanned herself with her hand.
“Are you unwell?” asked Miss Tagore.
“No,” insisted Mary. “I am quite well.”
If Mrs. Bennet were here, she would say that Mary’s discoveries had been too much for her nerves and recommend going straight to bed. But Mary would not blame her nerves—they were made of sterner stuff than her mother’s—and so she suffered through the conversation.
After a while, Mrs. Boughton led the way upstairs and introduced the
Tagores to their rooms. Everyone else was changing into evening apparel, so Mary thought it best to at least change out of her dirt-stained dress. She opened her clothes press and paused.
Fanny had folded the three new dresses and placed them on one of the shelves.
Mary considered trying on the new evening dress. Its purplish-reddish-brown colour was so intense it was almost indecent. Even the name of the colour itself—puce—felt indecent. Perhaps seeing it on herself would rid her of the strange draw she felt towards the dresses. She would see herself in it, and it would become apparent that it was simply fabric with unnecessary opulence.
She almost removed the dress from the clothes press but she stopped herself. It was as likely that the reverse would happen; if she tried it on, she might rationalize wearing it and the other dresses, and it was better to keep desire in check rather than giving it an opportunity to blossom. She had lied to her French teacher, dressed as an impoverished woman, and done a bit of spying, but those were for a good purpose, and she did not want to compromise herself for fashion, especially if doing so would make her a victim of Lady Trafford’s plans, or, even worse, complicit in them.
She took a clean black mourning dress and shut the doors of the clothes press, promising herself not to consider the new dresses again, and feeling quite pleased with herself for standing up to the temptation of fashionable clothing.
*
Dinner felt like watching a play. She found herself emotionally detached, her mind returning again and again to the French officer, and wondering if, or how, this was connected to the death of Mr. Holloway. While there were points where she could insert herself into the conversation, she had no will to do so.
Everyone else was so very comfortable with each other, and she found herself mentally playing the matchmaker. Mr. Withrow and Miss Tagore did not seem to be interested in each other romantically, but as dual deceivers they would suit each other well.
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 19