The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet

by Katherine Cowley

  Introductions were made and, after a few minutes of niceties, Mary informed them that she had memorized several poems in the French language of an inspiring, religious nature, and expressed her hope that they would not mind if she recited one or two.

  She pressed her hands together, stood tall, and recited the first poem, making sure her enunciations were precise and raising and lowering the timbre of her voice at the appropriate moments. There was light applause at the end, so she undertook a second poem, after which their compliments were so enthusiastic that she decided to set all advice from Lady Trafford aside and recite a third poem. She had a fleeting thought that she might be indulging in the same bad habits that always led her to trouble, but she pushed it aside.

  There was less applause and fewer compliments after the third poem, and she wondered if she should switch to English and recite one of the sermons she had memorized, but before she began Monsieur Corneau approached.

  “Brava! C’est l’un de mes poèmes préférés.”

  “Je vous remercie,” Mary replied.

  He gestured her towards some chairs, and they sat. Mary’s recitation had calmed her; it had allowed her to forget most of her troubles, but now, she felt an edge of nervousness. She had been avoiding Monsieur Corneau since her discovery of the newspaper articles about his nephew.

  “Votre français a vraiment progressé, mademoiselle,” he said.

  “Merci,” said Mary.

  “It has been a while since we have spoken,” said Monsieur Corneau, switching back to English. “Colonel Coates has been disappointed not to hear more of your reports.”

  “I have been so busy with my studies, and I have not discovered anything of note,” Mary lied. Her falsehood felt justifiable: asking her to spy for him had been a grand deception on his part, from the very start.

  “That is unfortunate,” said Corneau. “Sir Pickering seems to think he is close to finding the murderer. With your help, who knows what could be discovered?”

  “I will keep watching and listening,” said Mary. “That is all that I can do.”

  Corneau rested his hand on his chin and looked at her thoughtfully. His eyes shifted to where Mrs. Tagore sat with some of the other women. “In one of your reports, you told me of the middle-of-the-night visitors. Did they happen to be the Tagores?”

  “No,” said Mary, hoping her tone of voice and her facial expression did not give away anything. “The visitors looked quite different than the Tagores.”

  Mary did not know why she felt she must protect their identity, but now it felt imperative.

  Corneau sighed. “Alas, you truly do not have more information for me. Please, let us meet more regularly in the future.”

  “Of course,” said Mary, and she was relieved when he left to converse with someone else.

  After a minute or two of steady breathing, she felt ready to return to her self-assigned tasks, so she returned to the ballroom. The music seemed to be drawing to a close, so she positioned herself near where she thought Withrow would be when it stopped. She was not quite correct, but not far off. She followed, at a distance, as he led Miss Shaffer back to her parents and then meandered through the rooms. He was clearly not going to dance the second dance, and while his path seemed aimless, Mary sensed a hidden purpose. She stayed as far behind him as she could without losing sight of him, and stopped several times to smell fresh flowers, purchased from a hot house.

  Withrow paused as he entered the smallest drawing room, the final public room on this floor, next to the hall which led to the master bedrooms. He strode in quickly, with purpose.

  Withrow placed his hand on Monsieur Corneau’s upper arm and led him out a small door behind a potted tree. They had entered Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow’s hallway. Mary stepped behind the same potted tree. They had not completely shut the door; Mary pushed it open a crack farther and peered down the hallway. Withrow used a key to unlock his own door. He gestured to Monsieur Corneau. The Frenchman paused, shrugged, then entered. Withrow followed, closing the door tightly behind them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Swiss Confederation.—The war, which was lately far from our frontiers, is approaching our country, and our peaceable dwellings.”

  –Saunder’s News-Letter, and Daily Advertiser, Dublin, Ireland, December 3, 1813

  Mary pressed her ear against the bedroom door. Corneau and Withrow were speaking rapidly in French. With the muffling through the wood, she could hardly understand a word they said, and yet still she stood against the door, trying to make something out.

  She glanced down the hallway, praying that all the servants were busy elsewhere and no one found her here, in this position. She tried placing her ear next to the keyhole, but she still could not understand them.

  After another minute, she almost gave up and returned to the ball, but then she heard the voice of Monsieur Corneau, louder and more clearly. “Non. Nous en reparlerons plus tard. Je dis plus tard.”

  She heard the key as it was inserted into the door and dashed back down the hall and into the drawing room. Several people looked at her askance, so she tried to calm her breathing as she walked through the room. She needed to leave the space, for it was likely that Monsieur Corneau and Withrow would return to this room. If they saw her breathing heavily, they might be suspicious.

  She passed through the other rooms, taking a slow, meandering route to the ballroom, rather than going through the domed balcony room to get there more quickly.

  Mary repeated the words of Monsieur Corneau in her mind. “No. We will talk about this later.” But what would they talk about, and why ever was it so important? Was Mr. Withrow working with or reporting to Corneau in some way?

  The couples now danced the second dance. Miss Tagore had a new partner, and though she had opened the first dance, her energy did not seem to flag. Mary wondered if, like Lydia, Miss Tagore would manage to dance the entire night.

  Mr. Tagore approached Mary and bowed. “Miss Bennet.”

  Mary curtsied in reply.

  “Dancing is one of the few things my daughter enjoys full-heartedly.”

  “She is quite skilled at it,” said Mary. “And does not seem to lack in partners.”

  “People see us as a novelty, and often do not take the effort to see us as anything less or more.”

  “A sign of true character is being able to see past superficialities.”

  Mr. Tagore nodded. “You are quite correct. And how are you finding the ball?”

  “It is quite elaborate,” said Mary. “I have never seen the preparations for a ball first-hand. For weeks every single servant has been dedicated only to this event. And the number of additional staff that have had to be brought on for today’s event is almost shocking. So much expense has been applied to the music, the decor, and the food, and all the guests have commissioned the finest apparel, and many probably hired a carriage for the evening. I have concluded that rather than hold balls it would be much better to alleviate suffering and help the poor.”

  By the end of her pronouncement, a number of those standing nearby had turned to listen to her words. She hoped that they would reflect on them even after the ball. Mr. Withrow was nearby—he had returned from his secret meeting with Corneau—and he gave her a hard, cold look, which Mary found completely unwarranted. She only spoke the truth.

  Mr. Tagore leaned towards her ear and spoke so only she could hear. “You would do well, Miss Bennet, to show gratitude and loyalty to your hosts, both privately and publicly.” His censure felt sudden and fierce, like a burn from touching something hot. Louder, so everyone could hear, he said, “I agree that more should be done to help the poor, but the occasional frivolity has its place, and many of the funds directly pay, and thus help, members of the community.”

  “You are correct, of course,” said Mary quickly. Even though Lady Trafford and Withrow had ordered the theft of her family’s mourning rings, even though Withrow had met with a French officer, she was still their guest and
did owe them at least a certain amount of outward respect. Furthermore, Mr. Tagore’s financial argument had merit.

  Sir Pickering approached. “Mr. Tagore, Miss Bennet.” He focused on Mary, speaking directly to his point. “It has been a while since we have spoken. Have you recalled anything else from finding the body, or noted anything else since then, which would be useful in assisting my investigation?”

  Clearly none of what she had reported to Corneau had made its way to Sir Pickering, or, if it had, not with any credit to her. There was so much she could tell him, so many observations and suspicions. But she could not tell him now, not here, at the ball, not here, with Mr. Tagore at her side and Mr. Withrow a few feet away. She would not cause a scene, especially not when it meant she might prevent the discovery of the rest of the truth.

  “Unfortunately, I have nothing more to tell you,” said Mary. “How are you finding the ball?”

  “Quite capital,” said Sir Pickering. “If you will excuse me, I have others I need to speak to.”

  After Sir Pickering left, Lady Trafford approached with none other than Colonel Radcliffe.

  “Mr. Tagore, Miss Bennet, this is Colonel Radcliffe,” said Lady Trafford.

  Mary curtsied and prepared to speak, but before she could say anything, Colonel Radcliffe turned to Mr. Tagore.

  “Mr. Tagore, I heard you work for the East India Trade Company.”

  “I used to be employed by them,” said Mr. Tagore, “but now I work with them, and with other organizations involved in trade.”

  “I would love to speak to you about it,” said Colonel Radcliffe. “Perhaps over cards?”

  “I am sure you will have plenty of opportunity to speak to Mr. Tagore,” said Lady Trafford. “But first, you must dance.”

  “I am not much of a dancer.”

  “But then this is the perfect opportunity, right before supper, when you will be able to rest your feet. The musicians are providing wonderful accompaniment and—”

  “I really had not planned to dance tonight.”

  “I insist,” said Lady Trafford firmly. “There are too many women without partners for you to not dance at least one dance. I know for a fact that my dear friend Miss Bennet, who has been my esteemed guest over the past months, had very much hoped to dance tonight.”

  Lady Trafford gave her a determined look, so Mary said, “I would be most obliged.”

  Colonel Radcliffe seemed to steel himself, and then he bowed to Mary. “Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of the next dance?”

  “Of course.”

  “If I may excuse myself, I need to speak to someone, but I will return in a few minutes to escort you to the floor.”

  Once he had left, Lady Trafford turned to Mary with a knowing smile. “I hope you enjoy your dance and know that I appreciate your efforts.” And then she turned to Mr. Tagore. “There are several officers in the militia I should introduce you to.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Tagore. “It was a pleasure speaking with you, Miss Bennet.”

  Mary watched the last few minutes of the dance, the musicians took a short break, and then partners for the next dance gathered on the floor, including Withrow, with an older woman whom Mary did not recognize. Mary stood in her spot at the edge of the ballroom, determined not to move. She would not let Colonel Radcliffe out of the dance by making herself difficult to find, as Lydia and Kitty did on occasion when they found their partners undesirable.

  The dance began, but still Colonel Radcliffe did not seek her out.

  Mary rarely danced at balls, but she had attended plenty, and it was always uncomfortable for a young lady to join the dance floor late, and quite rude on the part of the gentleman.

  She turned the mourning ring on her finger. It was her first ball since her father died. He did not always attend balls with the rest of the family, but when he did, he was a source of stability for the whole family, keeping everyone—including herself—within the lines of propriety and respectability. It was an important role, and she missed him for it. She wished that Jane had not ended mourning so early. Mary would rather wear her emotions for her father publicly, so all could see, than keep them hidden inside herself. She had grown more accustomed, now, to the fact of his death, but it was there, ever present, just beneath the surface.

  She tried to push her sorrow aside; a ball was not a time to mourn. She would do that later in her own room. For now, she should focus on the task set by Lady Trafford. Of course, in order to succeed she needed the colonel to return.

  Mr. Bennet would recommend patience, but she found herself lacking any patience for her partner. She would feel very foolish indeed if the one dance partner who asked for her hand withdrew his offer without even speaking to her first.

  Mary counted the couples dancing, and then she began counting the flickering candles in the chandeliers above her.

  Colonel Radcliffe approached. He did not look nearly as apologetic as he should.

  “My greatest apologies, Miss Bennet. I lost track of the time. Perhaps we could save the dance for—”

  “No,” said Mary. “We should join the dance now.” She had learned from Lady Trafford that sometimes it was necessary to insist upon one’s own desires.

  “Very well,” said Colonel Radcliffe.

  He took her gloved hand in his own and led her to the bottom of the floor. After a moment they were able to join.

  It was a fast dance with complicated footwork, that even her sisters would find challenging. Soon Mary was out of breath, but she had a task, and she would not be deterred.

  “Do you plan to stay”—she executed a short series of complicated footwork—“in the area for very long?”

  Colonel Radcliffe smiled agreeably. He did not seem to find the dance complex and was not breathing heavily. “I like change, meeting new people and doing new things. But I do hope to stay here for the foreseeable future.”

  And now she needed to say something agreeable in reply, as Jane would. “It is a pleasure to have you in the area.”

  “How long do you intend to stay at Castle Durrington?”

  “I am not certain,” said Mary.

  “Do they treat you well?” said the colonel, and there was something in his tone that gave her pause.

  “Yes, very well,” said Mary. “It is just that my family has been missing me, especially my mother.”

  In truth, no one had said anything in their letters about missing her in the slightest, but often such sentiments were difficult to express on paper.

  She tried to turn the conversation back to him, to find something about the boat that might be of interest to Lady Trafford.

  “Do you run an estate? Or are you involved in business or industry?”

  “Nothing I do would be of any interest to you, Miss Bennet.”

  “I often found my father’s work interesting.”

  “That was probably due to familial connection, then.”

  The next part of the dance was difficult to talk through, which was just as well, for Mary suspected that were she to talk, she might verbalize her frustration with Colonel Radcliffe.

  She could feel her face redden as they took their turn dancing near the fire. Lady Trafford watched her from the edge of the room, and Mary wondered if she knew how miserably Mary was failing her task.

  As she raised her leg for a dance step she tripped and almost fell, but she caught herself and continued. She thought she heard laughter from the side of the room, but she did not turn her head to see who it was. Colonel Radcliffe was looking at one of the other women in the dance and did not appear to have witnessed her near fall.

  “Have you developed many friendships here, since you arrived?” Mary asked, drawing his attention back to her.

  “I have met many people, but it can take time to form strong relationships. Have you made any strong friendships since you arrived, Miss Bennet?”

  Mary was taken aback by the question. She knew many people here, but her tutors, Corneau, Miss Shaffer
, Lady Trafford, none of them were friends, truly. “Perhaps friendships matter less than the difference we can make in the lives of those around us.”

  She felt as if she had not discovered any information about any of the things Lady Trafford wanted her to discover. “Have you seen the beach?”

  “Of course. It is impossible to miss if you set foot in Worthing.”

  “Do you like the ocean?”

  “I am impartial,” he said, but did not elaborate.

  “I had never seen the ocean before coming here.”

  “It is quite large.”

  “Have you ever been on a boat?” asked Mary.

  “Yes.”

  Elizabeth would know how to draw out a lengthier answer for questions like this, but it did not come naturally to Mary. She began formulating some sort of question or statement, perhaps about a personal desire to ride a boat, but then something hot hit her shoulder.

  Immediately her hand went to her shoulder, where she discovered a drop of wax. It must have dripped from one of the candles in the chandelier. It had burned a small spot of her dress, but not entirely through the fabric.

  “Are you distressed, Miss Bennet?” asked the colonel.

  “No, it was only a small bit of wax.”

  “Perhaps we should withdraw from the dance and give you time to recover.”

  Mary’s shoulder stung, but she recognized that the colonel wanted any excuse not to dance with her, and she refused to give him one.