“Immediately?” asked Mary, unable to comprehend Lady Trafford’s words.
“Yes. I will have you on a carriage to Washington this evening. Then tomorrow to London, and then on to Meryton.”
“This evening?” Mary said. Lady Trafford had said she would get Mary out of the way, but Mary had not expected to be thrown out of the house without any warning. She must have something truly dreadful planned with the visitor.
“There is no point in arguing with me, Miss Bennet, once my mind has been firmly set. Now come here, child. You must write a letter to your mother telling of your return. We will send it express so it arrives before you do.”
Mary moved like a puppet dragging its feet.
Lady Trafford handed her a quill and a paper. “Now please write the following: Dear Mother,” Lady Trafford paused, watching as Mary wrote the words, and then continued, “I am excited to return to see you and my sister in Meryton. Please expect me on the evening of December eleventh. With love, Mary.”
Mary finished writing the words and set down the quill.
“Good, good. Brief, but to the point,” said Lady Trafford. “I need you to take the horse you always ride and go to Worthing. I will provide you with funds so you can send the letter express, pre-paid. While you are in town, I have a number of items from different shops that I need you to purchase for me.”
Lady Trafford passed her a lengthy list, which included items from five different shops. From one shop, she needed to purchase seven different types of parchment paper.
“I am not sure I would be the best person to make these purchases,” said Mary. “I would hate to buy something that does not meet your expectations.”
“Most of the servants have the day off,” said Lady Trafford, “and I cannot spare any of those who remain.”
Mary’s cheeks burned. She was being treated like a servant. She felt humiliated even though she knew she was only assigned these tasks to keep her away from the castle, so she would not see or meet their visitor, Mr. Stanley. Yet what else could she do besides follow Lady Trafford’s orders?
“Very well,” said Mary, folding the list. Her eyes strayed to the grandfather clock. It was half past one. Mr. Withrow had stated that Mr. Stanley was expected at three o’clock, which was in only an hour and a half.
“Fanny, please accompany Miss Bennet to her room. She will give you directions about packing her things so they can be ready for her when she returns. Also, since Mary did not wear the new dresses, there is no reason to pack them.”
They walked up to Mary’s room in silence. As they did, Mary realized there was nothing preventing her from appearing to acquiesce to Lady Trafford’s demands and then doing something else entirely. If Lady Trafford did not want her meeting Mr. Stanley, then she would find a way to meet him. She could foresee few negative consequences to avoiding Lady Trafford’s assigned tasks; she was already being sent home.
When they reached the room, Fanny asked Mary a few questions about how she wanted things packed, but then stopped. She clasped her hands together and said, “I am sorry that you must leave like this.”
Her sincerity almost made Mary cry. “I have been horrible to you, Fanny, yet still you are kind to me. I do not deserve you.”
“You have not been horrible.”
“Yes, I have. I should have worn the dress you made to the ball, but it was so beautiful, I could not put it on.”
“That is a very strange reason to not wear a dress.”
“I know, it is. I just…I…I have been overzealous and decided to value simplicity above everything else.” Mary paused. “Also, I was afraid, because the dress is beautiful, and I am not.”
“A dress is just a dress. I made it to look good on you, not on someone else.”
“If I could go back a few days, I would wear it to the ball. I am sorry that I cannot.”
“Life is as it is, and there is little you can do to change it.” Fanny seemed resigned to life’s whims and caprices.
“Do you truly believe that?”
“I suppose not.”
“What would you change about life?” asked Mary.
“I want to own my own dress shop and hire seamstresses so I can focus on designs rather than stitching. But that is why I am here. What Lady Trafford offered is enough that I can save for it.”
“I hope you get what you want.” More than ever, Mary wished she had worn the dress to the ball. “I know that Lady Trafford will not let me keep them, but could I at least try on one of the dresses? Only if it is agreeable to you, of course.”
Fanny nodded. “You may, but we need to be quick. Lady Trafford expects you to complete her tasks, and I need to pack for you.”
“Thank you,” said Mary.
Mary undid her dress as Fanny removed the ball gown from the clothing press.
“Now close your eyes,” directed Fanny.
Mary closed her eyes as Fanny pulled the dress onto her, did up the laces, and then led her across the room.
“Now open them.”
Mary did so, and despite the fact that she believed gasping should be reserved only for silly females, she gasped. She looked like a maiden from a painting or a play. She looked lovely, maybe even beautiful, and she had never once considered those words in relationship to herself.
She had never worn yellow before, and the canary colour made her feel like someone who both desired and deserved the attention of others. The neckline was swaths lower than any neckline Mary had ever worn before, yet with how Fanny had designed it, it did not feel immodest or revealing. She had not realized a dress could look so flattering on her figure.
Mary swished the dress back and forth, imagining how it would look on a dance floor. “It is stunning.”
“Next one,” said Fanny, and started undoing the ball gown before Mary could even reply. She seemed to be enjoying herself.
Before she knew it, Mary was dressed in the lacy puce evening gown.
Mary did not normally bestow many compliments, but it seemed the right thing to do. And with Fanny’s workmanship, it was easy to be genuine.
“I do not normally like this colour, but I love it on this dress.”
“Because I know what to do with it.”
“You certainly do. I think even the most intolerable man could not help admiring me. Can I try the last one?”
Fanny smiled. “Of course.”
They dressed her in the cream-coloured morning gown. It had intricate embroidery, especially around the bodice, which had the risk of drawing undue attention to that region of her body, a thought which made Mary uncomfortable. Yet it was also her favorite dress. It made her feel that she could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone she wanted to be.
She could lose herself in a dress like this. And do so willingly.
“You are the most amazing seamstress I have ever met.”
Fanny smiled in agreement.
“And you designed all of these dresses yourself?”
“I did, Miss Bennet.”
Mary lingered in front of the mirror, not wanting to return to her normal clothes and still figuring out how to interrupt Lady Trafford’s plans. But she did not have time to dawdle. She needed to fool Lady Trafford into thinking she had gone to Worthing, intercept Mr. Stanley, and somehow trick him into revealing their plans.
It might be easier to succeed if she wore this dress.
“Would it be possible for me to stay in this dress for the next few hours?” Mary asked. And now to say nothing dishonest to Fanny and yet hopefully direct her to the incorrect conclusion. “There is…a man I would like to meet. A man I will only be able to see today. And I would rather him see me in this than in one of my normal dresses.”
“Oh, you have a sweetheart in Worthing.” Fanny smiled. Though she had no young man, Mary blushed. The sensation felt quite unfamiliar to her. “No wonder you have been so keen to visit these past weeks. Yes, you can wear this dress while you say goodbye to him.” She paused. “I would not be surpr
ised if Lady Trafford has me take it apart to use the fabric scraps for something else.”
“Thank you,” said Mary. She looked again at herself in the mirror, pictured herself intercepting Mr. Stanley, and her face fell. She could wear a beautiful dress, but it would not be enough to change how people saw her or what she was able to accomplish.
“Whatever is wrong now, Miss Bennet?”
“I wish my face and my hair… I wish they matched the dress.”
“There is no crime to being plain,” said Fanny. “And you are more attractive than you think. But if you want to look different, there may be something I can do.”
Fanny left and returned a few minutes later with an array of items Mary had never seen before. “I sent for your horse to be readied, so we don’t have much time.” She waited, as if expecting Mary to do something. “Sit down,” she directed, pointing to a chair. She turned the mirror away so Mary could not watch and proceeded to apply powders and creams to Mary’s face.
“I do not want to look like a, like a—” Mary found no other way to say it, so she blurted out the words, “—fallen woman!” Even saying it made her feel unclean.
Fanny did not stop her work. “Well, you would if I put on lip paint or added things to your eyes. But what I am doing will not be obvious—no one will be able to tell I have applied anything to your face. I am simply hiding some blemishes.”
“But if I can see it, will you take it off?”
“Of course, Miss Bennet. But don’t you worry, I have done this many times before.”
Mary noted that Fanny possessed a full array of tones, both to match her own skin and a lighter skin like Mary’s. Meanwhile, Mary’s stomach began to feel uneasy. Maybe intercepting Lady Trafford’s guest was not the best plan after all.
Fanny began working on Mary’s hair, a process that seemed ridiculous in length. Lady Trafford would be expecting her to leave, and she needed to do so quickly. Mary had always believed that putting energy into one’s appearance truly was a waste of time, and this only confirmed it. She drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair.
Finally Fanny finished and turned the mirror towards Mary.
Mary stood in front of it, confused. She did not look like herself. Now it was not just the dress that might capture someone’s attention, but her face. Even her neck and her facial structure appeared different, and her skin looked perfectly clear.
“Now pinch your cheeks,” said Fanny.
“Pinch my cheeks?”
“To get a little redness in them.”
When Mary did nothing, Fanny pinched her cheeks for her, a little harder than Mary thought necessary.
Fanny nodded. “Now walk around the room.”
She did not understand the direction, but she followed it.
“You must hold yourself like you belong in this dress.”
“I cannot. This is something one of my sisters would wear.”
“Then pretend to be one of your sisters.”
She pictured herself as Jane, confident, beautiful, almost regal.
“Yes, that is much better,” said Fanny.
Mary stopped in front of the mirror. With this dress and the cream and the hair it was like putting on a disguise, becoming someone different. She wondered if her family would even recognize her.
“Please do not tell anyone that I am dressed like this,” said Mary. “I do not want Lady Trafford, or anyone else, to know that I am meeting someone.”
“I will keep it our little secret. But take good care of the dress.”
Mary agreed. She donned her heavy cloak and wrapped it tightly around herself, trying to cover as much of the dress as possible and putting the hood over her head.
Fanny adjusted the cloak slightly, then shepherded Mary through the halls, once hiding her in a closet so the housekeeper, Mrs. Boughton, did not see her.
Finally, they made it out of the house. Mr. Tubbs stood outside, horse ready. He checked the sidesaddle, paying particular attention to the saddle girth straps that ran underneath the horse, then lifted Mary’s right foot as she sprang upwards with her left leg.
She adjusted her legs on the left side of the horse, noting that this dress revealed more of her ankles than her normal dress did. She tried to pull down the dress a little more, but it did not make any real difference, so she would need to do her best to ignore it.
From Castle Durrington, she turned east towards Worthing, in case anyone from the house watched her departure. After a minute or two, she looked around to make sure no one was on the road, and then turned the horse north into the forest. She went forward, over branches, around logs, between trees, until, looking back, she could no longer see the road. Then she turned west, travelling at a slow pace until she thought she must be far past Castle Durrington, before turning south and rejoining the road.
Now she travelled west on the road, at a slow trot in the direction of Arundel, which Withrow had mentioned. She passed Patching Pond and the village of Ham-pot, which was only a handful of small houses.
After a few more miles she stopped. If the map she had always looked at in the library was correct, the road would split into two paths, which would both lead to Arundel. Since she did not know which road Stanley would be taking, it would be better to stay and wait for him here, because whichever direction he chose, he would pass by.
She contemplated the next part of her plan, which was not much of a plan at all. Lydia had sometimes managed to introduce herself to men without a formal introduction, but Mary did not want to do anything improper, and she could not simply hail a passing rider on a horse and start a lengthy conversation. Based on analysis she had made from Lydia’s accounts, dropping a handkerchief tended to work only about one in four times. Mary needed better odds.
Maybe she could find a reason that she would need a gentleman’s help. She attempted dropping the reins so she could pretend she could not reach them, but since they had a buckle they fell on the back of her horse’s neck and it was easy for her to pick them back up. If she undid the buckle, she could actually lose the reins, but then she might lose control of the horse, and there was no guarantee that she would manage to lose control at the perfect moment, just as the mysterious gentleman approached.
She could fall off the horse and get her foot caught in the slipper stirrup just as she saw the gentleman approaching, but she could not bring herself to do something so idiotic. Finding out what Lady Trafford was up to was not worth risking her neck. She could attempt to get her horse stuck in the mud—if she could find any mud immediately next to the road, but she had promised Fanny she would not get the new dress dirty. She found that despite her father always calling her a silly girl, she could not bring herself to do something genuinely stupid, even if it would provide an excuse to talk to Mr. Stanley.
Maybe she could tangle the horse’s reins in some branches. She dismounted the horse—not in the most graceful manner, but there was no one watching—and twisted the reins into a low-hanging tree branch, which was bare of leaves except for a solitary brown one that hung on with all its might.
Mary stepped back to examine her work. This would fool no one.
She tangled the reins into the branches a little more. This time it looked a little better, but still not convincing, and Dusty pulled herself free. She attempted a third time but gave up. What an ill-conceived idea.
She decided to remount the horse, but then realized that in her entire life, she had never mounted a horse by herself; she had always mounted with a groom or a mounting block. She ran her fingers through Dusty’s mane. While the help of a groom must make it easier, she could surely do it on her own.
She raised her right hand up, gripping it on the saddle’s fixed head. She used both legs to leap up with all her might.
She did not get anywhere near the needed height.
After several more failed attempts she realized that leaping would not do. She lifted her leg and carefully placed it in the single slipper stirrup on the left side
of the horse. She gripped the saddle head with her right hand, leaped with her left leg, and pulled herself up onto the saddle, but as she did so her weight pulled the saddle down, off the top of the horse and onto its left flank. She hung there for a second or two, hand still on the saddle head, until she managed to extract her foot from the saddle stirrup.
It took Mary several minutes to fix the saddle and adjust the girth straps. She had to remove her gloves and her hands grew icy cold.
She tried to mount once again using the slipper stirrup, this time putting less weight on her foot, but once again received the same result. After extracting herself, again, and fixing the saddle, again, Mary stood, contemplating the saddle’s design. Men often put a foot into the stirrup of a saddle and mounted, but a man’s saddle had a superior design. The girth straps, along with the weight of the stirrup on the opposite side, made it not shift as much during mounting. Even if it did shift, it could shift back easily, by virtue of the man putting one leg on each side of the horse, providing balance. But on a woman’s sidesaddle, the woman’s weight was almost entirely on the left side of the horse. With the saddle’s design, it would be near impossible to ride it like a normal saddle, and that was even if she could get up on it.
The cold bit at Mary’s nose, which filled with moisture. She dabbed her nose with her handkerchief, which she then folded and returned to her cloak. What a ridiculous design—to create a saddle that one could not mount by oneself.
She led the horse to a fallen log on the side of the road and attempted to use it as a mounting block, but it was a rather skinny log and did not have the necessary height.
Finally, she sat down on the log, making sure her cloak was positioned to protect the dress. She pressed her gloved fingers against her temples. She supposed she could wait for Mr. Stanley and ask for his help. Warmth bloomed within her chest: she had finally discovered something that required a gentleman’s assistance. Of course, she had intended to need his help for something a little more interesting or dire than mounting her horse. If this was one of Kitty’s novels, a pack of wolves would attack. But there were no wolves, and really, this would do just as well.
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 26