Mrs. Tagore was quieter than her husband and her daughter, yet she watched everyone constantly, and when she spoke, everyone listened.
“Miss Bennet,” said Mrs. Tagore. Unlike her daughter, who had no accent, and her husband, who had only a trace, her accent was stronger. “What do you like most about it here? And by here, I do not mean the castle. Not your hosts, or your lessons, but more, what do you like most about Worthing and the surroundings?”
Mary thought for a moment, considering. She still felt like she was learning of this place and meeting the people.
“I like that it is different than where I am from. The ocean, the town itself, the people…it is refreshing to be in place that is not one’s own. Travel, I believe, may itself be an educator.”
“That is a wise answer,” said Mrs. Tagore. “To me, Worthing has always been filled with possibilities, with the potential for becoming something new and different.”
Throughout the rest of the dinner, Mary considered why Mrs. Tagore had not come for the middle-of-the-night visit. Maybe she did not know of her husband and daughter’s visit, yet she seemed the sort of person who would notice every detail.
After the meal, Mary had no desire for more company, so she retired directly to her room. A few minutes later, Lady Trafford knocked. Mary had never even seen the woman on this floor.
Mary let her in, and they both sat in armchairs.
“You were very subdued tonight,” observed Lady Trafford.
“I had nothing worth saying.” Her heart raced. Had Lady Trafford realized that she had been tracking her and Mr. Withrow? Did she know of the notebook? Would she cast her out of Castle Durrington? Mary would have to walk, in the dark, to Worthing for help. Where had she set her pocket with her money? She would need that to be able to get home. That was, if Lady Trafford even let her go. But before she left, she would need to report everything she had learned about the death of Mr. Holloway, though she could not report it to Coates or Corneau. If only she had a little more time to unravel the many threads she had found.
“Perhaps it is best if you rested more before the ball,” said Lady Trafford.
“I think you are right.” Mary hoped the topic stayed in safe territory.
Lady Trafford clasped her hands together and considered Mary’s face so intently that she wondered if she had spilled food on it during the meal.
“I am in need of your assistance at the ball, Miss Bennet.”
Mary rubbed her eye, which still hurt from the branch. “My assistance?”
“Yes. There is a person in Worthing who may be involved in illegal activity, perhaps some sort of smuggling. I have a personal interest in apprehending them, but in order to do so, I need access to a seafaring vessel and a particular set of skills, all in a trustworthy individual, ideally one who does not have a longstanding connection to this region. There is a wealthy merchant who has recently let a house here, a Colonel Radcliffe, who will be attending the ball. I have heard that he might have a new ship, and I believe he may be ideally suited to assist me. Now he has kept his ownership of this ship quiet in order to prevent people from asking him favors, so it would be best not to ask him directly about this, but if it does come up, any details you discover would be appreciated. It would also be useful if you could ask him about the friendships and relationships he has developed in the area.”
“Would it not be better for you to speak to Colonel Radcliffe yourself?”
“Some things are best done indirectly.”
“I see,” said Mary, though she actually did not. It was clear, from the lines of Lady Trafford’s letter she had read, and from this conversation, that Lady Trafford had discovered Colonel Coates’s involvement in smuggling. Did she also suspect him of being Holloway’s murderer? Why was Colonel Radcliffe so essential? How did the Tagores connect to all of this, beyond having searched Holloway’s things? And did this have anything to do with Withrow’s treasonous conversation with the French officer? Agreeing to help Lady Trafford might provide an opportunity to complete the puzzle.
“Over the past months, during your stay at the castle, I have come to trust your judgment and your skills. Do you think you could do this one thing for me, help me with this one task?”
Mary nodded. “I will do what I can.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Proclamation addressed by the Russian commander to the inhabitants of the Netherlands.
‘Brave Netherlanders!
‘It would be an insult to suppose that you require to be reminded of the great deeds of your forefathers. All of you well know how much this unfortunate country has suffered in consequence of its subjugation by the French. The French armies are annihilated; it therefore depends upon your own exertions to rid yourselves of the few Frenchmen remaining in your native country.’”
–Saunder’s News-Letter, and Daily Advertiser, Dublin, Ireland, December 3, 1813
Mary smoothed her old green ball gown, trying to rid it of its last few wrinkles. Though Fanny had wanted her to wear the new canary gown, she had still fixed the seams in the green dress and it looked quite presentable. She did recognize that her more simple dress contrasted with her surroundings; every inch of Castle Durrington displayed its finery. Expensive vases and fabrics and paintings that Mary had never seen before filled every spare space. Mary had entered the kitchen earlier and had been shocked by the number of additional hired help. The guests had also spared no expense on their wardrobes. People held themselves as if this were the most important night of their lives. Mary had never found it a sacrifice to attend evening engagements—a moderate amount of recreation and amusement was desirable—yet lavish waste seemed unnecessary.
Mary was torn between her many objectives for the evening. She wanted to observe Lady Trafford and, perhaps more importantly, Mr. Withrow. Additionally, the ball would include Colonel Coates, Mr. Shaffer, and endless other townsfolk who either had motive or opportunity to kill Mr. Holloway. The Tagores were surely not here simply for pleasure and friendship, so she should observe them as well. Not to mention that she needed to speak with Colonel Radcliffe in order to fulfill her commitment to Lady Trafford. It seemed impossible to do all these things at once, so Mary decided to start by observing Lady Trafford and her interactions with her guests as they arrived at the ball.
When guests entered Castle Durrington, they gave their cloaks and other items to servants, ascended the grand staircase, and were greeted by Lady Trafford as they entered the large ballroom on the first floor. Mary stood a ways behind and to the side of Lady Trafford, not close enough to be included in the introductions, but close enough that she could hear the conversation between the guests and their host.
Several officers in the militia arrived, friends of Colonel Coates, but Colonel Coates was not among them.
“Where is Colonel Coates?” exclaimed Lady Trafford. “I was very much looking forward to seeing him tonight.”
“I despise being the bearer of bad news,” said one of the officers, “but Colonel Coates has fallen ill. He sends his deepest regrets.”
Mary wondered if Colonel Coates had actually fallen ill, or if tonight was an opportune time for his smuggling operation.
A few minutes later, Sir Richard Pickering arrived, along with his wife, Lady Charlotte Pickering.
“Thank you for coming all the way from Brighton for this occasion,” said Lady Trafford.
“It is a terrible night for a ball,” said Lady Pickering. “Much too cold.”
“I hope that the fires will suffice,” said Lady Trafford.
“It is much colder in here than it was in the inn,” said Lady Pickering.
“Are you planning to stay at the inn in Worthing tonight?” asked Lady Trafford. “As I have said before, you are always welcome to stay here.”
“I would rather be comfortable.”
Lady Trafford did not seem offended by this statement, though surely it was meant to give offense. Instead of responding, she turned to Sir Pickering and s
poke as if she was taunting a wild animal with a stick. “Still no progress on your investigations?”
“I am hoping that I might discover something of note tonight,” said Sir Pickering.
“Please, try not to make the ball unpleasant for all of my guests,” said Lady Trafford. “You did quite ruin my last.”
“I will do what I must,” said Sir Pickering. “As the bard says, ‘truth will out.’”
Mary wondered what had occurred at Lady Trafford’s last ball. Regardless, she felt comfort at Sir Pickering’s presence. While she feared telling anything to either Colonel Coates or Monsieur Corneau, Sir Pickering still seemed trustworthy.
The Pickerings stepped farther into the ballroom, and Lady Trafford turned and gestured towards her. Mary pretended not to see, but then she said, “Come here, Miss Bennet,” so Mary was forced to join her.
“Why are you not mingling with the guests?”
She had already prepared an answer to this question, in case it was asked. “I do not want to miss Colonel Radcliffe’s arrival, so I thought I would stand near the entrance and listen to the introductions.”
“You look conspicuous,” said Lady Trafford. “It is better to spend time naturally with the guests, to learn about people, and make connections. I will ensure you are introduced to Colonel Radcliffe.”
“Very well.” Mary turned to go but Lady Trafford put her hand on her shoulder.
“I thought Fanny made you something new to wear.”
“She did, but I much prefer this.” Fanny had tried once again, just an hour before, to persuade Mary to wear the new dress. When Mary had absolutely refused, she had left in a huff and Mary had been forced to do her own hair, which was better anyway as it kept it simpler and more in line with her tastes.
“It would be respectful to her if you were to wear that which she labored so diligently to make for you,” said Lady Trafford, “and it would please me if you dressed in better apparel. It is not too late to change.”
“Yes, it is,” said Mary. “Everyone has already seen me in this.”
Lady Trafford looked ready to continue the argument, but more guests arrived. Mary slipped away. Now that she had been noticed, she could not stand here, continuing to watch Lady Trafford. She would find and observe Mr. Withrow.
As she passed through a drawing room, Miss Tagore hailed her. As she was also a person of interest, Mary joined her group of ladies and gentlemen.
“This is Miss Bennet. She is a relative of Lady Trafford and has been staying with her for the past several months.” In turn, Miss Tagore introduced her to all the others. The topic soon turned to dancing.
“And what about you, Miss Bennet, do you like to dance?” asked one of the gentlemen, a Mr. Franklin.
“My mother took great care to make sure that I learned to dance. She saw it as one of the greatest accomplishments.”
“But what do you think? Is it an accomplishment you would like to demonstrate?”
“To me, dancing is one of the most transitory accomplishments. It is not to be used until one is officially out in society. It then becomes useful until one secures a spouse, but then after it is used only sporadically.”
“I take it you do not desire to dance?” asked Miss Tagore.
“Being a transitory accomplishment does not necessitate shunning it entirely,” said Mary.
The last man she had danced with was Mr. Collins, at the ball at Netherfield, and it had been a pleasant experience. He had been a skilled, attentive dancer. Despite her many goals for the evening, she could spare a few minutes for a dance, should she be invited.
The group dispersed, but before Mary could continue her search for Withrow, Miss Tagore pulled her aside and spoke quietly.
“Did you realize that Mr. Franklin wanted to ask you to dance?”
“No.” It had not seemed to her that Mr. Franklin was inclined towards her at all.
“That is why he asked you if you like dancing.”
“Oh,” said Mary.
“I believe he took your commentary on dancing as a refusal.”
“I see.” Mary sniffed, trying to hide her surprising sense of disappointment. Yet her main objective tonight was not to dance, and so it should not matter whether a man she had just met invited her to the floor.
They were interrupted by Miss Tagore’s partner for the first dance, who led her to the ballroom. Mary followed, a little behind. Miss Tagore and her partner took the position of the first couple; Lady Trafford must have invited Miss Tagore to open the first dance.
Mary walked around the perimeter of the ballroom, stopping once she discovered Mr. Withrow. He was leading his own lady to the dance floor, but her back was turned. Mary stepped a bit closer and waited until the dance began and the woman turned. It was Miss Shaffer, who looked lovely in a cream-coloured gown.
One of the women who Miss Tagore had introduced to Mary came up to Mary and spoke quietly. “Your friend, Miss Tagore. I have heard she stands to inherit her father’s entire fortune, three thousand pounds a year. Is that correct?”
“I do not know. I have never discussed it with her.” If it was true, it did not surprise Mary. The trouble with having a fortune was that everyone wanted to be your friend, whether or not they were even worth your attention.
“Why have you come to stay with Lady Trafford?”
“In part, Lady Trafford has been training me to become a governess.”
The woman’s eyes studied Mary’s dress, and then returned to Mary’s face. “I can see that that is what she believes you are suited for.”
Mary bit back a harsh reply. This stranger was not worth Mary’s attention, or her fury. “I hope you enjoy your time at the ball.”
“You as well, Miss Bennet.”
As the woman walked away, Mary’s fists clenched involuntarily, as if she were an angry schoolboy. She spread out her fingers slowly, trying to release the tension in her body. She had thought everyone in Worthing was kinder than those in Meryton, but she had been wrong. She looked down at her dress and its drab green. She hated to admit it, but maybe Fanny had been correct about her clothing. And maybe Fordyce was wrong. Maybe a simplicity and modesty of dress was not the grand moral issue he made it out to be. She certainly would not condemn all the other women here as having trivial minds due to their beautiful apparel. Lady Trafford’s dress was the epitome of ornamentation, and yet no one would ever accuse her of a trivial mind. Surely it would not have hurt to wear Fanny’s dress for one night.
Mary watched the dance, but she could not rid herself of the tension in her shoulders, or of the self-loathing she always felt, every single time that she was treated this way. Yes, she may have brought the comment on herself, but in some ways, that made it worse, for that made the insult justified. She blinked her eyes and sniffed her nose. The musicians were first rate, and Miss Tagore did a fine job choosing the sets, making them interesting, but not putting too many complex ones in a row. Mr. Withrow seemed attentive to Miss Shaffer, but also a bit reserved. She, on the other hand, was full of smiles and delight. But Mary could not watch more of the dance, could not stand here while the insulting woman stood not far away, glancing occasionally in her direction and laughing. It reminded Mary of her first ball, a public ball she had attended in Meryton when she was fourteen. She was one of the youngest people there—Mrs. Bennet had no desire to make her daughters wait to be out in society—and she had hoped to dance with the vicar’s son, Mr. Miles, for he had always been kind to her.
There was only one other girl her age there, a girl who shared the name Mary. Miss Mary Yalden. They had never really been friends, and Miss Yalden’s behaviour that night was likely due to Mary always correcting Miss Yalden in Sunday school. Miss Yalden had surely found her overbearing.
At the ball, Miss Yalden had approached her, and, without even giving a greeting, said, “You think too much of yourself.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Mary had replied.
“I see you watching
Mr. Miles. You would not be suited for anyone half as fine as he is.”
Just then, Mr. Miles had walked in their direction, and Miss Yalden had said, loudly, “Whatever is that smell?” Then Miss Yalden, with an unpleasant expression on her face, had looked directly at Mary.
Mr. Miles had not asked Mary to dance. And Miss Yalden wore a laughing smile for the rest of the evening.
Mary tried, she tried ever so hard to balance both being herself and being an acceptable member of society. Yet she always failed. Always. Why could she not be different? Why did she always fall into the same traps, the same things that led people to undervalue and mistreat her? Yes, they were autonomous individuals who made their own poor choices in their treatment of her, but there was no reason for her to add to it or incite it. Yet over the years that was what she had always done, and she did not know how to stop. Even though she could hear so many better melodies in her head, this was the only melody she actually knew how to play, and she could not stop playing it.
Her heart pounded, and blood rushed to her head as every snub and insult from the past flashed through her mind. No longer did she feel only the emotions of the moment; she was wading through the muck of every barbed insult she had ever received: all stinging wounds, as fresh as they had been on the days they were given.
Mary found it difficult to breathe. She needed to leave, but Lady Trafford would surely not approve if she fled to her room, and she had much she needed to do tonight. She must find a way to move past this, find a way to set it aside. Instead of fleeing, she walked to her favorite drawing room. Playing the pianoforte could often calm her and help her set aside the judgment and censure of others.
Unfortunately, the pianoforte was occupied. Mary had no compunction about asking someone to let her have a turn, but the lady was at the beginning of what Mary recognized as a very long piece, and Mary thought it most polite to interrupt in between pieces rather than in the middle of a piece.
Perhaps if Mary demonstrated one of her other accomplishments, it would have the same calming effect as playing the pianoforte. Last night, Lady Trafford had instructed her to spend more time at the ball establishing relationships rather than demonstrating accomplishments, yet in situations like this Mary struggled with casual conversation and often found that demonstrating an accomplishment provided for subsequent topics of discussion. Further, after such a demonstration, she was more likely to be treated as a person of worth and value. Mary made her way over to a gathering of older women, along with a handful of younger women who had not been asked to dance, all seated near the side of the room. She knew several of them, including Mrs. Tagore, but even if she had not, at a private ball it was more permissible to speak to whomever you liked.
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 20