The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet

by Katherine Cowley

  “I would like to continue. Besides, the dance is almost complete.”

  They caught up with their neighbouring couples, and Mary suffered through the final few minutes of the dance. She had lost her train of thought and found herself unable to converse at all.

  The dance finally finished, and the couples descended the grand staircase to the dining room. Fortunately, Colonel Radcliffe knew the protocol and that he should sit with Mary at supper, because if she had to force him to do it, she would not know how to make such a request in a polite manner.

  Normally Mary would sit at a table that included her family, but none were here. Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow sat on the far side of the room, and Miss Tagore and her current dance partner sat with her parents and several others. Finally, Mary and the colonel’s table filled, with Monsieur Corneau taking the last seat and giving Mary a brief smile.

  Colonel Radcliffe helped serve all the ladies their food. He analyzed the dishes and told the woman on his other side about his favorite meals and where they had been served. It seemed to be a purposeful slight, and his easy conversation stood in stark contrast to their conversation during the dance. Almost every new acquaintance this evening had decided to take a strong disliking to her, and she knew that she had only herself to blame.

  Despite the delicacies before her, Mary did not eat very much. She wished she had not danced with Colonel Radcliffe, wished that Lady Trafford had not given her such a ridiculous task. She would rather be sitting near Withrow and Lady Trafford and listening in on their conversation than be banished over here. And if things continued as they were, Colonel Radcliffe would pass the entire supper without speaking of anything besides the food.

  Mary grew tired of the pretense, of attempting to encourage someone to discuss a subject without mentioning the subject.

  “Colonel Radcliffe,” said Mary, interrupting his conversation. “I have always wanted to sail in a boat, and I heard you have your own private boat. Do you use it for pleasure trips, or is it strictly business?”

  There was a moment of silence, and if she was not mistaken, Colonel Radcliffe flinched slightly. He spared the briefest glance around the table before saying smoothly, “You must have me confused with someone else. I have never owned a boat, and do not much enjoy sailing.”

  Colonel Radcliffe returned to the previous conversation as if she had not interrupted. He strummed his fingers on the table when he was not eating and glanced occasionally at Mary. He was clearly hiding something; Mary’s best guess was that Lady Trafford was correct and he did not want his boat ownership to be publicly known, because of requests from smugglers, or from individuals like Lady Trafford. Or perhaps, like Lady Trafford, he was engaged in manipulations and deceit.

  Mary started a conversation with Monsieur Corneau about French poetry. He examined his pocket watch several times, but otherwise seemed engaged. Mary wondered if his meeting with Mr. Withrow was soon.

  After the meal they stood. Colonel Radcliffe bowed and thanked Mary for both the dance and the supper. “It was my pleasure,” said Mary, because it was the sort of thing one was supposed to say, though in truth it was a lie: she had taken very little pleasure in either activity. Why did mere participation in polite society require telling so many untruths?

  The colonel left the room quickly. Perhaps he was avoiding someone, which was suspicious in its own right, but Mary had more important matters to attend to. Withrow lingered, as did Monsieur Corneau, who once again examined his pocket watch. They must be having their meeting soon. She considered trying to secret herself in Withrow’s room, but there was no guarantee that they would meet there again, and entering his room would cause a scandal of Lydia-like proportions should she be discovered. It would be better to wait and follow them discreetly, but standing here next to the table was starting to feel conspicuous.

  Miss Tagore was about to leave, but Mary touched her on the arm. “I was hoping you would tell me about your dance partners.”

  “Well, fortunately I am spending the night, so we will be able to analyze them thoroughly in the morning.”

  Mary bit her lip. “Can you spare me just one moment right now?”

  “Anything for you, Miss Bennet. Though it cannot be for too long—I do not wish to keep my next dance partner waiting.” She sighed. “Well, first I danced with…”

  Withrow’s eyes passed around everyone in the room, lingering for a moment on Monsieur Corneau. Then Withrow slipped away. She decided to wait and follow the Frenchman.

  Mary smiled at whatever Miss Tagore was saying. She turned so she was not really watching Monsieur Corneau but would be able to see when he left the room. After a minute he did.

  “It would be best if I did not keep you from your partner any longer.”

  Miss Tagore tilted her head to the side. “Of course.”

  Mary walked after Monsieur Corneau. He did not go back upstairs to the ballroom or Mr. Withrow’s room, but instead entered the sitting room next to the library.

  She followed quietly and heard something—perhaps a door. She rushed into the room and saw that the door to the lawn had just closed. She inched it open and was hit by bitterly cold air. She was not even wearing a shawl, but she followed him out onto the back lawn.

  He strode rapidly across the frosty grass, away from the lights shining out of the house and towards the Roundel. He carried no candle, and neither did Mary, so it was almost impossible to see him, and even harder not to trip.

  As she neared the circular grove of trees, she slowed. She did not want to be seen. She walked as quietly as she could, listening for the voices of Corneau and Withrow. She secreted herself behind a tree at the perimeter of the Roundel where she could hear them clearly.

  “I thought we would never escape,” said Corneau.

  “Did anyone follow?” asked a voice that did not sound like Withrow, yet was also familiar.

  “No,” said Corneau.

  “Where could Miss Bennet have heard about the boat?” asked the other voice, and to Mary’s surprise, she realized it belonged to Colonel Radcliffe.

  “She has observed a few useful things for me, at my request, but I do not believe she could have discovered your boat on her own.”

  “She was a most disagreeable dance partner,” said Radcliffe. In her opinion, he had been the disagreeable one. “Maybe she heard something from Trafford or Withrow, but I do not know how they would know.”

  “Withrow claims to be sympathetic to our cause. He attempted to convince me to let him attend one of my meetings.”

  “I hope you did not agree,” said Radcliffe sharply.

  “Of course not,” said Corneau.

  “Good. I do not trust him, or that he would stand with us, no matter what he says.”

  There was a minute of silence, and Mary worried that they would return to the house and see her on their way. Her heart raced and her teeth chattered so loudly that she feared they would hear her. She clamped her lips shut but tried to keep her upper teeth apart from her lower ones.

  “The news in the papers makes our position seem bleak,” said Colonel Radcliffe.

  “If you read the English papers, yes. It is in their interest to make it seem like their victory is close. However, while there have been setbacks, the Imperial Army is still strong. The emperor needs only one grand victory and then it will be easy for him to gain new recruits and double the size of his army.” There was a pause. “His troops are approaching Switzerland. They can no longer remain neutral. That is one front where victory could occur. But many of us believe that here would be better. Consider the statement it would make.”

  “When you deem that the time is right,” said Colonel Radcliffe, “my boat is available to send word to Napoleon.”

  “That is good,” said the Frenchman. “You should also attend our next meeting.”

  “It is too dangerous. But I will give you more funds.” Another pause. “I have found the perfect spot for Napoleon’s troops to land without being dete
cted.”

  Goosebumps covered Mary’s arms, and a chill reached her heart. Corneau and Radcliffe’s words were nothing less than treason.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Bonaparte took exactly twelve years to rise to a height, from which twelve months have been sufficient to precipitate him. In 1799 he was installed First Consul; in 1802 appointed Consul for life; in 1804 Emperor of France; and in 1812, with almost all Europe at his feet, he began that declension at Moscow, which, in 1813, was completed at Leipzic.”

  –The Morning Chronicle, London, December 3, 1813

  Mary stood very still, realizing, only now, the complete folly of the place where she had chosen to hide. Hiding behind a tree was not in itself a problem, but rather, the fact that she had chosen a tree on this side of the Roundel, so close to them. If she moved, the two men would discover her. If she stayed, the two men would walk directly past her in order to return to the castle. If these men were willing to betray all of England, if they were willing to invite an invasion which would cause death and destruction, they would have no qualms in eliminating one maiden who stood in their way. Furthermore, Colonel Radcliffe was a former soldier; he would know how to kill.

  Mary pressed herself against the tree, as much as she was able while wearing this dress. In this, her choice of the old green gown was better than the new, much fuller gown Fanny had made.

  “When our plans come to fruition,” said Corneau, “you will be well rewarded for your efforts.”

  “It is not for money or power that I do this,” said Radcliffe.

  “Of course not,” said Corneau. “But if you receive them as happy side effects, you will not complain, no?”

  “I suppose not.”

  There was a rustling. Footsteps. Mary closed her eyes, certain she would be discovered and not wanting to see it coming.

  The footsteps passed her, and after a minute Mary turned slightly so she could see the men as they approached the castle. But she saw only one silhouette, not two. Maybe they were walking in perfect alignment, but as Mary watched, that seemed unlikely.

  Which meant one of the men was still here in the grove.

  Mary’s heart pounded with abandon. She tried to still her ragged breath as she once again pressed herself against the tree.

  There was more rustling, and this time Mary did not close her eyes. The movement stopped, and as Mary peered into the darkness, she saw the figure of a man, not two feet from her, looking back at Castle Durrington. It was Colonel Radcliffe, and if he shifted his head to the side at all, then the darkness would not be enough to hide her.

  If he were to attack her, she could scream, but the Roundel was too far from Castle Durrington. No one would hear her. No one would come to her aid. She was alone.

  Her hands trembled. She tried to steady them against the tree, but to no avail. The moment stretched on and on and Mary almost wanted to call out simply to end the suspense.

  After a large fraction of eternity, Radcliffe’s body moved. This startled Mary, and she bumped her cheek against the tree. She bit back a cry of pain.

  To her relief, Radcliffe did not turn, but instead walked back to the castle. She watched until his silhouette entered the same door she had exited a few minutes before.

  Mary knew she should return to the house, but she could not move, paralyzed by cold and fear. In one of the many newspapers Lady Trafford had assigned her to read, there had been a description of Bonaparte’s soldiers and their savage behaviour towards the city of Smolensk. She could picture it in her mind, but instead of unknown Russians she saw the soldiers attacking the people of Worthing: Madame Dieupart, Miss Shaffer and her parents, the milliner, and the poor woman with her baby.

  Her teeth began to chatter again, and this time she could not stop them. They rattled against each other, faster, faster, uncontrollably, until her whole body shook. She forced herself from the protection of the Roundel and walked back towards the castle, but she could not bring herself to return directly to the parlor door. There were so many windows at the back of the castle. Any one of the people inside could look out and see her, including Corneau and Radcliffe.

  She kept far from the back of the castle, travelling instead around the side. In front of Castle Durrington, carriages were wrapped around the entire drive, with plenty of people and servants about who could see her. She did not want to enter the front entryway of the castle with its grand staircase. The door to the annex with the kitchen and servant quarters was also on the front side of the castle, but unlike the main entrance, it was not well lit so it would be less likely that someone would notice her. She opened the door, stepped inside, and ran directly into the housekeeper, Mrs. Boughton.

  “Miss Bennet!” she exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Mary could not muster a response before Mrs. Boughton went on, “You look quite a fright and your cheeks are bright red. Have you been outside?”

  “I—” Mary paused, searching for an excuse. “I was overwhelmed by the ball, so I stepped outside. For fresh air.”

  “Lady Trafford would say it was foolish to not wear a cloak or gloves. You are not even wearing a hat. Here, let’s warm you up next to the fire until you are ready to return to the ball.”

  Mary did not want to be under Mrs. Boughton’s care, for Mrs. Boughton had Lady Trafford’s confidence and was part of her schemes. Under her scrutiny, she might give something away about what she had done and discovered. “I am too tired to return to the ball tonight. I would like to retire to my room.”

  Mrs. Boughton pinched her face in displeasure. “Very well.”

  “I do not want everyone to see me like this. Can I go up by the servants’ staircase?”

  Conflict waged on her face, but ultimately the housekeeper relented. “Only this one time.”

  Mrs. Boughton led her to her room and then left to find someone to build up the fire. Mary looked at the canary ball gown, laid out on the bed. She pushed it aside, letting it fall to the floor, and climbed into the covers, not even bothering to remove her old, worn green ball gown.

  Mary shivered underneath the blankets. She was so cold. She should not have gone outside without proper clothing for the weather. Surely she would catch a chill from tonight. Her mother had always said that sickness or a chill was acceptable if it was acquired in the pursuit of a man. In fact, she had pursued multiple men tonight, but not in the way that Mrs. Bennet would desire.

  In the morning, she would write to Sir Pickering. She considered finding him now, but was too tired and too cold, and even if she found Sir Pickering, there would be too many people for her to tell him everything. It would be better to rest, and act on the morrow.

  A few minutes later Fanny entered the room to stoke the fire. Mary pretended to sleep but kept her eyes cracked open so she could watch her. She worked thoroughly, building up a large fire that would stay warm through the night. Then she rubbed her hands methodically on her apron, removing every speck of ash.

  Fanny walked to the bedside and picked up the canary ball gown from off the floor. A small tear started to run down Fanny’s face, but she wiped it off before it could travel far. Fanny had spent days—no, weeks—working on the dress. For her own sense of self-righteousness Mary had refused to even try it on. On Fanny’s face, Mary saw rejection, the feeling of not belonging, that moment when you realize your accomplishments are not valued. Mary had felt all those things so many times before, and now, seeing them writ on Fanny’s face, her heart broke for what she had done.

  Over the years, others had been cold and harsh and unkind to Mary, and Mary had developed her own coldness in response: rigidity and strictness, correctness and self-righteousness, and further, a shortness of speech. She had built up these behaviours to protect herself from harm, a sort of wall between her and the world, but it was a wall with plenty of fissures that still let harm through. Far worse, it was a wall that caused active harm to others.

  She hoped that she could find a way to tear it down.
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br />   *

  When Mary woke in the morning, Fanny was tending to the fire.

  Mary sat up and rubbed her fingers under her eyes.

  “Fanny, I have something I would like to speak to you about.”

  Fanny turned. “Yes, Miss Bennet?” she said stiffly.

  “I would like to apologize to you for my behaviour,” said Mary. “The way I treated you was inappropriate. I should have worn the dress you spent so much time making, and I should have spoken to you differently. Also, I wanted to tell you that you were correct about how people would treat me based off of my clothing. I hope that you will accept my apologies.”

  “No,” said Fanny.

  “What?” said Mary.

  “I do not accept your apologies.”

  “Whyever not?” Mary had never had anyone not accept her apologies before.

  “I’m sure that in some way you do feel bad for your behaviour, which was highly inappropriate, but you are like every other privileged woman I have met. You’re mostly apologizing because you want to feel better. You want me to accept so you can feel happy and free of guilt and obligation.”

  “I…I—” said Mary. But Fanny was correct. Mary’s apologies were selfish, and they did nothing to make things better for Fanny.

  Fanny walked to the door. “Lady Trafford would like to see you, in her room, in the next few minutes. I am sure you can dress yourself.” She stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut with a fair amount of vigor.

  Mary rubbed her temples. A few months ago, she would have lectured Fanny on the necessity of forgiveness, how it freed the soul and was a divine opportunity to rise above one’s troubles and trials. But now, she had no desire for such platitudes. She had hurt Fanny and would need to find something better than an apology to make things right. But what could she do? As she pondered this question, she prepared herself to speak to Lady Trafford.

  This was the first time Mary had ever been inside Lady Trafford’s room, and Mary could not help but look in awe at the fine, yet tasteful furnishings. Lady Trafford was seated upright in her bed, with a luxurious scarlet duvet, yet she appeared tired, which must be why she had not yet left her room.