“How did you find the ball, Miss Bennet?”
“Larger than some I have been to, but not the largest. I danced more than I normally do at balls.” Often, she did not dance at all.
Lady Trafford raised her eyebrows. “Prior to the ball, I asked if you could help me. Were you able to find out anything useful from Colonel Radcliffe?”
Mary bit her lip as she debated whether or not she should tell Lady Trafford what she had learned. Despite all of Lady Trafford’s questionable motives and actions, part of Mary still wanted to please the woman. But this was much more than a business deal—this was a matter of great import. She could not possibly share it with someone whose nephew was involved in a similar scheme. She could not share it until she knew who had murdered Mr. Holloway.
“Our conversation was not particularly fruitful,” said Mary, and she did not feel guilty because that was the truth. Of course, what she had learned afterwards was fruitful, but Lady Trafford did not know to ask specifically about it.
“That is unfortunate.” Lady Trafford disinterestedly stirred her tea, which was set on a stand next to the bed. “Did he say anything of note, or did any of his mannerisms reveal anything about him?”
“He is not a very attentive dancer, but that is all I learned.” She thought it best to change the subject before Lady Trafford realized she was hiding things from her. “When will our next lesson be?”
“I am fatigued from the ball. It will take several days for the castle to be put back in order, and even then I will have a great many responsibilities.”
This was the sort of response that her family gave her when they wanted to avoid her, so Mary said the sort of thing she would say to her family. “I am glad my parents never put on a ball. Not only is there a high financial cost, but it is a burden on both the servants and their hosts.” Too late, she realized how rude this must sound. Despite her resolution to change, she was defaulting to her hurtful behaviours.
“It will be a great relief to you to learn that governesses are generally not expected to attend balls. If ever one of your employers throws a ball, you can stay upstairs in the nursery.”
She had forgotten, for a moment, that she had told Lady Trafford that she was interested in becoming a governess.
“Will Mr. Withrow still give me lessons?” On the one hand, she had lost all respect for him. But on the other hand, he still had knowledge she wanted to learn.
“I am afraid he will be much too busy in the coming weeks with matters of the estate and taking several trips.”
Mary tried to not let her disappointment show, but it must have, for Lady Trafford said, “Now, now, child. You will still have drawing lessons. And French, once Madame Dieupart returns from her trip. I can also assign you a list of books to read that I am certain you will find very helpful for your future.” Lady Trafford pointed at a desk in the corner. “Now fetch me a piece of paper and that quill.”
Lady Trafford wrote out a list of five books and then dismissed Mary. As she retrieved the books from the library, Mary noted that each of them had very direct, practical things that could help a prospective governess, much more relevant skills than the instruction she had received from Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow. One of them, Moral Tales for Young People by Maria Edgeworth, contained a story titled “The Good French Governess” which appeared to be a didactic about how to deal with difficult children.
Mary brought the books back to her room but did not attempt to read. Instead, she blocked the door with a chair and removed her letter-writing materials. She was glad that she had not told Lady Trafford what she had discovered, but that was not enough. She needed to act on it, and quickly.
She addressed the letter to Sir Richard Pickering. Writing a letter was better than if she had spoken to him in person, for with a letter, she could remain anonymous. When her concerns were addressed, she did not need her name noised about and made public as involved in the matter; it was enough that her name was had in the community with a connection to a dead body, but a connection to treasonous people, even if she was not one of them, could bring shame to her entire family. She used her left hand to write, which made it agonizingly slow, but also meant no one would be able to match it to her handwriting.
Dear Sir Richard Pickering,
I am writing this letter to you anonymously in order to protect myself and my family. Yet the matter is urgent.
I found myself in a position where I overheard a private conversation between two residents of Worthing: Colonel Radcliffe and Monsieur Corneau. Both of the men sympathize with Napoleon Bonaparte. Corneau seems to be gathering support for an invasion by Bonaparte. Colonel Radcliffe has not been attending the meetings but has been funding Corneau, and has a secret boat that he plans to use to contact Bonaparte when the opportune moment arises. He has also found a place for the troops to land undiscovered, but I do not know the location of it.
Mary twisted her quill in her fingers. What she was about to write felt like a betrayal of her hosts, but it must be done.
In their conversation, Monsieur Corneau mentioned that Mr. Henry Withrow, of Castle Durrington, wanted to join their group. As of the conversation, they had not invited him into their confidence or allowed him to join. However, on a different occasion I saw Withrow with a French officer from Napoleon’s army. I did not hear what they said, but they were looking at a map. Perhaps Withrow was gathering information that would help him join Radcliffe and Corneau.
She decided not to mention the things she had learned about Mr. Holloway and the Tagores, Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow; she did not quite see how everything fit together. But when she discovered the connections, she would report it and see that justice would be done.
Thank you for your time in reading this letter. It is my sincere hope that you act promptly on this matter.
Sincerely,
An Anonymous Friend
Mary decided to secure the letter well, but not in the method Lady Trafford had taught her. Instead she used a different method that she had seen on one of the letters Lady Trafford had received. She did not know exactly how it had been executed, but she could approximate it. She folded the letter, sewed the edges together with a needle and thread, and then dripped the wax onto the thread. Instead of using her seal, which someone at the post office might recognize, she pressed a plain square of paper on top of the wax and used a sharp metal point to press three holes in it, which let some of the wax seep through.
She placed the letter in her pocket and visited the stables. Mr. Tubbs once again prepared Dusty for her and helped her mount. When she arrived in town, instead of depositing the letter in one of the post boxes, she checked with the stable boy to see if the Pickerings were still at the inn. They were, so she paid him a few coins to slide the letter underneath their door. She rode back to Castle Durrington, hoping that Sir Pickering would act quickly on the information.
Chapter Twenty
“For a long time back the French government have been endeavoring to cripple our army, by offering inducements to the men to desert; they sent in the following paper among our men, published in English, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, German, Polish, and Dutch. This is the English copy verbatim:—
“‘ADVICE.—The soldiers of all nations, French, Italian, German, Polanders, English, Spanish, and Portuguese, who are in the English service, are advised that the deserters coming to the French Imperial Army, are perfectly well received: they are paid for the arms and the horses they bring with them: none of them is obliged to serve: passports are delivered to them to return to their native country if they choose, or to go to inner parts of France, where they may freely exercise their professions: they are moreover treated with all sort of regard.”
–The Suffolk Chronicle, Suffolk, England, December 4, 1813
When Mary returned from the inn, Castle Durrington was silent and empty, a husk stripped of the sights and sounds and society of the previous days. Mrs. Boughton informed Mary that Lady Trafford, Mr. Withrow, and
the Tagores had gone to Worthing to visit the Trafford family graves at the cemetery. The handful of ball guests who had spent the night were still fast asleep in the guest rooms.
Mary considered heading back to Worthing, but with them gone, there might be something more she could discover. She walked up two flights of stairs to the second floor, but instead of going to her own room, she continued down the hallway and around the corner to the Tagores’ rooms. She glanced nervously around, but she did not see any servants. She twisted the door handle of Miss Tagore’s door. It was locked.
She stepped down the hallway to the next room, the guest room for Mr. and Mrs. Tagore. This time the door opened. She let herself inside and closed the door, leaving a crack so she could hear if someone approached. She needed to work quickly, as they could return soon. She thought of her letter packet and the missing hair; she would need to take care to make sure she left no trace of her visit.
Mary found a letter packet, but it was Mrs. Tagore’s, so she did not open it. The Tagores’ clothes had been placed in two different clothing presses. There appeared to be nothing unusual inside.
Mr. Tagore had a case, but it was locked, and Mary could not open it.
Besides that, the room was bare, without any indication of the Tagores’ presence.
Afraid of being caught, she almost gave up the task as hopeless, but then she thought of how she had hidden her own notebook underneath her bed. She glanced out the hallway to make sure no one was near, closed the door again, and slid under the bed. Secured between the wooden frame and the bed she found a pile of papers and several notebooks. She carefully examined their placement before removing them, and then spread them out on the floor.
Some of the papers were ledgers, from various companies, organizations, and individuals, all written in the same hand. Another paper was a sketch of a map, and another a letter from a member of the East India Trade Company. Mary opened the notebooks. One appeared to be Mr. Tagore’s personal diary, and the other—the other was written in a hand Mary now recognized well.
The notebook belonged to Mr. Holloway.
Mary flipped to the end, to the final words he had written in this book before he died. Mary started to read, but then realized she needed her own copy of this—she could not take the book with her and study it the way she needed, or they would realize it was missing.
She dashed down the hallway to her room, gathered her own hidden notebook, a paper, and a pencil, as it would be faster than using a quill, and hurried back to the Tagores’ room.
Three quarters of the way through copying the final page, Mary heard horses outside. If Lady Trafford’s carriage had returned, someone could enter this room within minutes. But she could not return the notebook and other items to their place until she finished her transcription. Hand shaking, and with quite disgraceful handwriting, she finished the rest of the page.
Mary piled the papers and notebooks back in order, as exactly as she could. She tried not to work too quickly: if she did, things might not appear exactly as they had before. She could not leave evidence of her spying.
She heard other sounds, though whether it was Lady Trafford’s other guests awaking or the Tagores she could not tell. She slid the items back into their spot between the bed frame and the bed, rushed out of the room, closing the door behind her, and dashed into her own room.
Mary picked up one of the books assigned her by Lady Trafford and pretended to read.
Someone knocked on her door.
“Come in,” Mary called.
Miss Tagore pushed open the door. “I am sorry that we missed you in Worthing.” She paused. “Are you feeling well?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “Why?”
“Your face is a little flushed, that is all.”
“Oh,” said Mary. “I am tired from the late night.”
“We hope you will join us for tea.”
“Of course,” said Mary. She set down the book and accompanied Miss Tagore downstairs.
After tea, which was agonizingly long, Mary finally had the opportunity to examine her new notes in more detail. She barricaded the door to her room with a chair and set Mr. Holloway’s notebook, which she had found in the Worthing stable, next to the page copied from Mr. Holloway’s other notebook, which she had found in Mr. Tagore’s room.
The page from the notebook in Mr. Tagore’s possession read:
the colonel experienced disillusionment keeps his boat here come to Worthing before ship leaves for scouting mission
This seemed to be a clear reference to Colonel Coates. Holloway had been working with Lady Trafford and the Tagores in some capacity and discovered that Colonel Coates was smuggling. Based on this line, Lady Trafford had seen a need for Colonel Radcliffe’s boat, in order to apprehend Colonel Coates. Yet this conclusion did not take into account the second notebook.
Mary turned to the notebook in her possession and read the notes on the final page:
during his service on the continent pays for no record of it but now intends permanence at 3 on the 8th
Mary remembered her previous intuition, that Holloway’s notebook seemed but half of a record. She studied the words on the notebook in her possession, examining the spaces between words and what the pressure of the quill on the paper. It seemed as if the words had not been written continuously. She wished she had Mr. Holloway’s other notebook, but she dared not return to Mr. Tagore’s room for it, so instead she examined the text she had copied from that notebook and how it might fit with the other text.
It took five pages of her notebook and a large amount of frustration, but finally she wrote out a version that combined the two texts in a satisfactory, logical manner, though she had to add punctuation and capitalization for her own sanity:
The colonel, during his service on the continent, experienced disillusionment. Keeps his boat here, pays for no record of it. Come to Worthing before, but now intends permanence. Ship leaves at 3 on the 8th for scouting mission.
When she combined the words, it no longer seemed like Mr. Holloway had been writing about Colonel Coates. For while Colonel Coates had been to France, and obviously visited for smuggling purposes, he served in the militia, not the regulars. He had never served or fought on the continent. Yet there was another colonel who had served on the continent, and who very well could have visited Worthing before taking up permanent residence: Colonel Radcliffe.
Chapter Twenty-One
“What a sanctuary for the nations of the earth has England proved herself to be! With what veneration must not every inhabitant of every despoiled country look upon an Englishman! A country which has appeared ‘like a rock standing out of the waters’ to rescue every poor mariner, and every drowning wretch, from the overwhelming ocean of French rapacity and murder!”
–The Star, London, England, December 4, 1813
The other guests who had spent the night at Castle Durrington had finally woken; entertaining them required everyone’s attention, which allowed Mary to slip back to the stable. Mr. Tubbs helped her onto Dusty, then Mary rode to Worthing, stabled the horse, donned her disguise, and went down to the docks to investigate before taking additional action. In a stroke of luck, the dockmaster was not in his office, so she snuck inside to search it.
Mary could find no mention of a boat owned by Colonel Radcliffe, at least not in the official log. Of course, Mr. Holloway had written that the colonel paid for there to be no record kept of it, so she should not have been surprised. Yet everything in the dockmaster’s office was so detailed and meticulous that she had hoped to find something.
With haste, she opened all the drawers in the desk, examining every book and piece of paper. Certain that the dockmaster would return any minute, she could not prevent her eyes from glancing at the door.
Finally, she found a loose piece of paper titled with only the letters CR. Colonel Radcliffe. It detailed every payment the colonel had made to the dockmaster. She flipped the paper over and discovered a description of where Radcl
iffe kept his boat.
She heard someone approaching, so she started to put everything back in its place, but realized she was out of time. Instead, she scattered the papers, knocked over a pile of books, and fled from the room, down the hall, and then out, onto the wharf.
Mary walked up the wharf, not rushing or looking back at the dockmaster’s building, as either action could lead someone to suspect that she had been in the office. The wind was cold, and Mary was grateful that while the peasant cloak was ragged, it was still adequately warm.
Large military vessels did not land in Worthing, and no huge trading ships made port, nevertheless, it was a sea town and the number of seafaring vessels was numerous. There were endless small fishing vessels, private boats for excursions, and a few mid-size boats. Many of the smaller fishing vessels seemed to be gone for the day. She walked to the third pier, and then all the way to the end, where she found what she hoped was Colonel Radcliffe’s boat.
It was not a large boat, perhaps designed for four or five people, and could likely be sailed by a single individual. But it was a large enough boat to cross the channel and send word to Bonaparte, and it was a large enough boat for murder.
When Mary had visited Colonel Coates’s vessel, a gangplank had been lowered and she had walked serenely across, her hand held by Colonel Coates. But here, there was no lowered gangplank, no easy way to climb onto Colonel Radcliffe’s boat, if indeed it belonged to Colonel Radcliffe.
The boat was only about two feet from the dock, and the edge of the boat was only two feet above it. She looked around briefly; there were a few others on the docks, but no one was watching her. She leapt over the gap. Somehow, she hit the side of the boat with her stomach, but her arms managed to get over the side. With great effort, she pulled herself over the side and into the boat.
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 23