Mary waited for what seemed like a very long time, and as she waited her mood shifted from pleasure at finding an excuse to speak to Mr. Stanley to despair. She did not even know what Mr. Stanley looked like, whether he was tall or short, young or old, whether he came by carriage or by horse. But he certainly did not come, for the road was empty. She wished she had a pocket watch so she would know for how long she had waited in the frigid cold. Her cloak was quality and would have been enough for riding into Worthing, for she would have spent most her time in shops. But it was an unusually cold December, and her cloak was not enough for spending hours outside.
She did some calculations in her mind. Her conversation with Lady Trafford had ended at one thirty. With the time she had spent with Fanny, she probably had not left Castle Durrington until quarter past two. Then she would have spent at least twenty or thirty minutes riding the horse, and a solid thirty minutes first failing to find a reason for needing a gentleman’s help and then attempting to mount the horse. She supposed she had spent approximately forty-five minutes waiting, which put the time close to four o’clock. Stanley was meant to arrive at Castle Durrington at three o’clock.
Maybe he was late. She counted aloud to two thousand, growing progressively colder as the numbers grew higher.
Finally, she concluded that Mr. Stanley must have come by a different road, from a different direction, or she had missed him somehow, perhaps when backtracking through the wood. Or maybe when Withrow had said three o’clock, he had not meant today; he could have meant tomorrow.
Mary stood and led her horse back down the road towards Castle Durrington. She regretted riding so many miles, but there was nothing to do for it but walk. She gritted her teeth and tried to maintain a positive disposition. Though she had done more of it in the past few months than in her entire life, Mary did not like walking.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Bonaparte is affecting an air of perfect security and ease. He is hunting, attending the opera, and inspecting manufactures. All this, however, must be merely for stage effect, and we have no doubt that he finds it a painful piece of acting, since it is impossible he can be without apprehensions.”
–Perth Courier, Perth, Scotland, December 9, 1813
After quite some time, Mary came across a wooden fence on the side of the road. This reached much higher than the log she had used earlier, and she thought it possible she could use it to mount the horse.
She positioned the horse as close to the fence as possible while still allowing her the space to climb. She was halfway up the fence when she heard a friendly, unfamiliar voice.
“Excuse me, my lady, but may I be of assistance?”
She looked up. Astride a horse was a young man of noble bearing, with a handsome face and a kind smile. She did not know whether or not this was Mr. Stanley, and while her original plan had been to only accept help from him, at this point she would accept help from anyone.
“Why yes, thank you,” she said, trying to employ the ease of manners used by her sisters. “I did not bring a groom, as I planned to take only a short ride. Unfortunately, I needed to dismount, and I have found it quite impossible to get back on.”
“It would be my pleasure to serve you,” said the man. He dismounted his horse, bowed, and extended a hand to help Mary off the fence. She was not used to men giving her this sort of gentlemanly attention, and she wondered if he was this courteous to everyone, or if it were only her dress and her hair that induced this behaviour.
“May I ask your name?”
“I am Mr. Stanley, at your service.”
“Mr. William Stanley?” she said with the sort of silly interest Lydia might express. Inwardly she smiled. She had managed to intercept her prey before he arrived at Castle Durrington after all.
“Why yes. Should I know who you are?”
“Not yet, but you soon shall. I am staying with Lady Trafford at Castle Durrington, and we have been expecting you.”
“How charming.” He raised her gloved hand and kissed it. No gentleman had ever kissed her hand before. “Please, I beg of you, a name.”
“Miss Mary Bennet,” she said automatically, then realized it might have been better to defer him or give a false name. She reached for more words, something she could ask that might lead him to reveal information, but her mind came up blank. Before she could say anything to prolong the conversation, Mr. Stanley spoke.
“Let me assist you onto your horse, and we can return to Castle Durrington together.”
“Of course.”
They led the horse away from the fence. Unlike the groom, Mr. Stanley did not check the saddle or the girth straps, but Mary had just done so, so it did not matter. She positioned her right hand on the fixed head of the saddle and raised her skirts slightly with her left. She lifted her right foot, placing it on his hands, and he smiled up at her in a way that led her to wonder if he really was a gentleman.
“Ready?” asked Mary.
“Ready.”
She sprang with her left foot and Mr. Stanley lifted up her right foot, but he did it with much greater speed and strength than a groom had ever done. She found herself crying out as she gripped her hand on the saddle head. She tried to land, as she had always done, on the horse, but her posterior never quite connected with the saddle and she felt herself slipping, flying, right over the top of the horse and over the opposite side. She barely had time to register that she was falling before she landed on the dirt on the other side of the horse.
“Miss Bennet! Are you injured?”
The horse made a concerned sort of snort.
For a moment, Mary could not breathe. She blinked, confused by the clouds above her. Finally, she drew in a breath, assessing her situation. She had fallen off the horse and onto her back. Her entire body ached. In particular, her posterior had never been in so much pain in her life, but that was not the sort of injury one mentioned to a gentleman.
In part, she wanted to cry, out of both pain and embarrassment, but she would not betray herself with this sort of expression of emotion. She had already cried once today, and that was more than enough.
Mr. Stanley reached out to grab her hands. “I am ever so sorry,” he said as he attempted to help her to her feet. She wanted to push him away, to say something bitter about his lack of competence at performing a basic task, but she stifled the urge. She needed information, and anger was unlikely to draw it out.
She allowed Mr. Stanley to help her to her feet, though it probably would have been easier to do it on her own. As Mr. Stanley continued to apologize, she brushed the dirt off her gloves and her dress, contemplating what she should say as she attempted to ignore her throbbing posterior. Her cloak had come undone, and as she rebuttoned it, she smiled at him.
“No harm done, Mr. Stanley, I am perfectly fine.” That was the sort of forgiving thing that Jane would say. And now, ideally, she would say something a bit flirtatious, but not silly, maybe what Elizabeth might say to Mr. Darcy, now that they liked each other. “Though you may be in my debt for a very long time. I will need to decide how to extract payment from you.”
“Of course, Miss Bennet. I hope you will give me the opportunity to make it up to you.”
The perfect thing to say came to her, based on the fragment she had heard of Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow’s conversation. “I am sure the opportunity will present itself. After all, we will be working together in London, as partners.”
Some emotion passed over his face, though exactly what, Mary could not tell. “If you are working with us, then you are not a woman to be trifled with.”
She did not understand that comment, so for lack of a better response, Mary smiled again. “You are obviously a man of great strength. Shall we try again?”
He nodded. Mary made a point of checking the saddle. It had shifted slightly, and she fixed it and adjusted the girth straps. Then Mr. Stanley helped her mount, this time without mishap.
Mr. Stanley mounted his own horse—she envied t
he male saddle—and started his horse at a trot. But that would not do, not at all. She needed to be able to talk, so she could question him.
“Mr. Stanley! I prefer if we keep the horses at a walk. I am feeling a little stiff from my fall.”
“Of course.” He stopped his horse and waited to proceed until Mary was beside him.
“How long will you be staying at Castle Durrington?”
“Probably only a few hours, though I will do as Lady Trafford directs.”
“And then will you return to Arundel?” That was the village Withrow had mentioned.
“No, back home to Chichester, at least until I go to London,” said Mr. Stanley. “What is our assignment? Who are we tracking this time?”
This was the trouble with pretenses: Mary did not have the least idea. Rather than confessing her ignorance she said, “I will let Lady Trafford tell you of it. She will explain it much better than I can.”
Her throat felt almost strangled by the fear that he would discover her. Mr. Stanley, Lady Trafford, and Mr. Withrow were clearly part of a large criminal organization, with agents in London, and in France. If he realized that she was not part of the same group, it might not go well for her. She had told no one of her location and she was completely unchaperoned, with a man who was strong enough to throw her over a horse and likely do much worse physical harm.
To Mary’s relief, he nodded and did not question her answer.
They were silent for a minute, and then Mary’s desire for knowledge overcame her once again. It was like having a book and knowing that it might be dangerous to turn the pages, but turning them anyway, because she could not resist.
“Do you always work with Lady Trafford?”
“Well, she is over this region, so when I am here, I do. Though in London I report directly to Mr. Booth.”
She tagged the name in her mind. She wanted to ask for Mr. Booth’s first name but thought it would be suspicious, so instead she asked, “Where do you normally stay in London?”
“In my parents’ townhouse. We often live there for the season. They do not know many of the things I am really doing; they just want to see me wed, but a search for a bride provides ample reason to attend every social event in town, and my family’s investments make visiting places of business and government natural. What about you? Where will you stay?”
“I have an aunt and uncle in London, or my sister and her husband may be staying for the season.”
“Who is your sister?”
“Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.” He had turned the questions to her, which she did not like, but she felt obligated to respond. Lady Trafford always said that a conversation, to be lively to both partners, must have equal participation and interest on both sides.
They neared Castle Durrington. Lady Trafford might be watching from the front of the house, waiting for Mr. Stanley to arrive. If she rode up with him, she would be discovered.
“I told Lady Trafford I would check on one of her tenants, a woman that is feeling ill, so I will leave you here.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet.”
“And you as well, Mr. Stanley.”
She waved to him and rode off on a smaller trail that led through the woods to another part of the estate. Then she rode into the trees, approaching as close to Castle Durrington as she could without being seen.
Lady Trafford, Mr. Withrow, and Mrs. Boughton came out of the house to greet Stanley. Mr. Tubbs took his horse, and they quickly went inside.
Mary tied the reins of her own horse to a tree. She did not want anyone in the house to know she had returned, and if she needed to flee, she could run into the trees and make a quick escape. Of course, she would still need to find a way to mount…if it came to it, maybe she could climb a tree.
Staying in the tree cover, she walked as close to the castle as she could. Thankfully, no one was outside, and hopefully those inside were too occupied with a guest to be looking out the windows. She walked quickly across the uncovered space, staying close to the side of the house, crouching as she passed by windows, then made it to the front door.
It was locked.
If she knocked, all would be revealed. She continued on to the east annex and entered the servants’ door to the kitchen. It was rather empty, and she only had to hide once, when a servant came for a selection of teas and hors d’oeuvres.
She snuck behind the servant, who rapped on the library door and delivered the food.
Mary slipped up the smaller staircase, made sure no one was in the rotunda, and darted across to the curtained wall. She did not have time to remove her cloak or change her clothes, did not even have time to retrieve a candle. They were in the library, and she would hear what they had to say.
She found the hidden latch and pushed open the door, taking a deep breath before she stepped into the dark and shut herself in. She stumbled around in the dark, trying to find the trapdoor. She bumped into the crate covering it, making a small thump. Her heart raced and she stayed as still as possible. Hopefully no one had heard her. She moved the crate and opened the trapdoor. Climbing down the ladder, in this dress, in the dark, was laborious, and she feared that she was missing important things they might be saying, but finally she made it down and sank to the floor next to the grate.
“I am glad your family is doing well,” said Lady Trafford. “And now, to matters of business.”
“I wish Miss Bennet was joining us for this conversation,” said Mr. Stanley.
“Miss Bennet?” said Lady Trafford sharply.
“She is my partner for the job in London, is she not?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Stanley?” asked Mr. Withrow.
“I met Miss Bennet on the road on the way here. She needed my assistance mounting her horse…and I…well…I accidentally threw her over her horse. Our second attempt at mounting worked better, and then we talked a little on the way here. She seemed to know a lot about our plans, and I assumed she was one of us.”
“Miss Mary Bennet?” asked Mr. Withrow.
“Yes,” said Stanley. “She was beautiful and charming and witty. Will someone tell me what is going on?”
“Miss Bennet is a distant relation,” said Lady Trafford. “She has been staying with us for the last several months, and I was attempting to train her, but she failed all our tests, and so we did not bring her into our ranks. Please, describe the woman you met.”
“She was about this tall,” said Mr. Stanley. “With stunning hair, a smooth complexion, and a delicate nose. She had piercing eyes and a regal manner of bearing. She wore a lovely cream-coloured gown.”
“That cannot possibly have been Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Withrow. “Someone has been spying on us and has decided to use Miss Bennet’s identity to extract information from you.”
“Oh God,” said Mr. Stanley.
“What did you tell her?” asked Lady Trafford.
“I mentioned where I was from, and when I am leaving. I said that you were the head of this region and…and I mentioned Mr. Booth.”
There was a sigh, that sounded like it must be from Lady Trafford. “A woman, waiting for you on the road. She puts you in her debt, and then tricks information out of you. You are supposed to know better than this, Stanley.”
“I am so very sorry.”
“What is most important right now,” said Mr. Withrow, “is finding this impostor. I will have the groom prepare our horses.”
“Wait,” said Lady Trafford. “If she is still on a horse, she could be miles away in any direction, hiding countless places in the woods.”
“We can check all the inns. Get in touch with our contacts.”
“We may need to do that,” said Lady Trafford. “But first, let us take a moment to think before we act. Who could possibly be imitating Miss Bennet, and, more saliently, how would this woman know when and where to intercept Mr. Stanley?”
They were quiet, and Mary had a chance to process her thoughts. She had hoped to learn more by
eavesdropping, but instead everyone was trying to figure out her identity. She really should not have given her own name—that was a huge mistake. Now they would check to make sure she really had gone to town, and of course, no one would have seen her there.
“Fetch me my tool set, Henry,” said Lady Trafford, and Mary leaned closer to the grate to try to figure out what they were going to do. But they said not a word.
A minute later there was a quiet, twisting sound, though she could not tell what it was. Despite the fact that it was quiet, it was very close, as if right outside the grate.
Mary inhaled suddenly. They must know where she was—they must be opening her hiding place.
She stood and grasped for the rope ladder. She climbed as quickly as she could, heedless of the noise it caused. Silence did not matter now.
As her hands reached the top of the ladder there was a creaking noise, and a large, strong hand grabbed tightly onto her ankle.
“Whoever you are, come down here, right now,” said Lady Trafford.
“Or I will drag you down.” That would be Mr. Withrow.
She could kick and try to force her way up, but Withrow could easily overcome her. Even if she did get out of his grasp, Lady Trafford would know the exit. They would find her; there would be no escaping.
“I will come down,” said Mary.
Withrow did not release his grip on her ankle until he had grabbed a hold of her arm. She slowly descended.
The only way out of the space from this direction was a hole near the floor that had held the grate. “Ladies first,” said Withrow gruffly. She could not see his face or his expression at all, but she still felt humiliated as she crouched on the ground and crawled through the hole into the library.
Upon exiting, Mary tried to stand tall and composed, with her chin held high as Elizabeth did, always managing to be impervious to the judgment of others.
“Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Stanley, and she thought she saw a quick smile.
Mr. Withrow crawled through the hole and leapt up. His face was drawn and angry. His eyes lingered on her face and then moved down her dress. “What have you done to yourself?”
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 27