Lady Trafford eyed her appraisingly. She fingered the fabric of Mary’s dress, then stepped directly in front of her, examining her face in close proximity. Then, to Mary’s great surprise, she laughed, and her laugh was long and buoyant.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“From the assembly of military men at Frankfurt…we think it reasonable to prognosticate that some grand operations are on the eve of being undertaken.”
–The Times, London, December 9, 1813
“WANTED, a Steady, Active, Young Woman…An undeniable character will be required.”
–The Morning Post, London, December 9, 1813
“Take a seat, Miss Bennet.” Lady Trafford gestured to an armchair. “Stanley, pour her some tea.”
Mary sat stiffly in the chair. When Mr. Stanley passed her a cup of the hot liquid, she held it but did not drink.
Lady Trafford poured herself tea and drank. “It is not poison, Miss Bennet.”
But still, Mary did not drink. She sniffed, feeling the cold of the room, and wishing this chair were closer to the fire. And then, once she had composed her words in her mind, she spoke.
“I will not let you get away with this. I will write a letter to Sir Pickering. And if you do not let me write, or if you lock me up, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley and my uncles will come looking for me.”
“What exactly is it that you think we have done?” asked Lady Trafford.
Mary stared in her teacup, then finally gave in and drank. The warmth filled her with determination. She set down the cup and stared straight at Lady Trafford.
“You asked Mr. Holloway to steal my family’s mourning rings. You tricked me into coming to Castle Durrington because you hoped to use me for your own purposes. We probably are not even related. You lie constantly about your trips and what you are doing. You entertain visitors in the middle of the night. You have been reading my letters. You are one of the leaders of a major criminal organization that is attempting to undermine the people and the government for your own economic gain. And your nephew has been meeting with one of Bonaparte’s soldiers.”
Mr. Withrow grimaced. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and refined, yet there was something underneath, a negative undertone. “If all of this were true, what makes you think we would give you a chance to share what you know with the world?”
Despite all that Mary had learned, she knew very little of how far they were willing to go to meet their ends. Why would they lock her up or risk her writing a letter when they could simply eliminate her and then tell her family there had been a tragic accident? Colonel Radcliffe might not be the only person willing to murder to keep his secrets. Almost all the servants were gone for the day, nothing could stop them from hurting her, and she was many, many miles from anyone who would know and care what happened to her.
She stood, stepped away from the chair, then dashed to the fireplace and seized the metal poker. Withrow immediately stood and stepped towards her. She pointed the poker in his direction. She would not last long, she knew—three against one, and with them trained criminals, she might as well be defenseless. But she would not suffer injury without at least trying to defend herself.
Mr. Stanley rose from his chair, his hands raised placatingly. “Now Miss Bennet, please set that down.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Mr. Withrow, taking a few steps closer towards her. “You will hurt yourself.”
“We have no intention of harming you in any way,” said Lady Trafford.
The poker shook in Mary’s hand. “You are going to kill me.”
“That would be quite counterproductive,” said Lady Trafford. “We do not want to kill you. We want you to work with us.”
“I would never work with you,” said Mary, pointing the poker towards Lady Trafford.
“This has gone on long enough,” said Withrow as he approached her, anger in his eyes. “Put the poker down, Miss Bennet.”
“No!” She swung the poker at him.
To her surprise, he lunged into her swing. He caught the poker with his left hand and her wrist with his right. His right hand slid up to her shoulder, and suddenly there was pain in her arm and he was twisting her—spinning her faster than in a dance.
He set her on the floor on her back and pressed his knee against her head. She gasped for breath. He stretched her right arm up towards the ceiling, applying pressure in a way that made it so she could not move it. He wrenched the poker from her hand.
“You are quite lucky that I do not intend you any harm, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Withrow said in a gruff voice, “or this would have ended much worse for you.”
Withrow stepped up and away from her, leaving her on the floor. He kept the poker in his hand and paced a few feet away from her, always keeping his eyes on her. Stanley also stood on the alert, and, despite how he had complimented her earlier, seemed disinclined to do anything to assist her.
Mary stayed there, staring at the ceiling, unwilling and unable to move. Her heart pounded in her chest and her fingers trembled. She had never felt so helpless in her life. She was the mouse, and she had been cornered by the barn cats and stood no chance against them. It had taken Withrow only two, maybe three, seconds to disarm her.
The door to the library opened and then slammed shut with great force as Fanny ran into the room, shouting. “Miss Bennet has been spying us. I found Mr. Holloway’s missing notebook in her room. She tricked me, and I think she may have reported Colonel Radcliffe to Sir—”
Fanny stopped as she noticed Mary on the floor and Withrow with the poker in his hand.
“It appears I’m late to this discussion,” said Fanny. She walked over to Lady Trafford, handed her Mary’s spy book and Mr. Holloway’s notebook, and took a comfortable chair, crossing one leg over the other.
“Not too late,” said Lady Trafford. She set down the books Fanny had given her and reached out her hands to Mary. “Come, Miss Bennet, let me help you to a more comfortable seat.”
Mary resisted Lady Trafford’s assistance at first, but Withrow glared at her, so she allowed Lady Trafford to help her to her feet and guide her to a large sofa. Lady Trafford positioned her in the middle of the sofa and sat at her side. Mary felt limp, like an old rag doll, unable to do anything against the capricious nature of its mistress.
“Stanley, more tea,” Lady Trafford directed. “This time, chamomile.” She set her hand on Mary’s knee, but when Mary flinched, she withdrew it.
Mary folded her arms across her chest.
“My dear Miss Bennet, let us start again, as if the past few minutes had not occurred.”
Mary did not feel Lady Trafford’s remark merited a response and had no interest in what Lady Trafford might have to say.
“I think—yes, a story will be just the thing,” said Lady Trafford. “Let me begin at the beginning. Or, perhaps more accurately, my beginning. When I was fifteen years of age, my older brother was killed by the French during the American War for Independence. It was due to faulty information planted by an enemy spy. I was angry, and I wanted to do anything I could to protect our country and our people so others would not lose a loved one the way I had. I spent years writing letters to different members of Parliament, and eventually I was recruited by the government.”
At this, Mary looked up.
“The British government. I work under King George III and the Prince Regent. Not directly, of course, but as part of—”
“You have said too much,” said Mr. Withrow. “She has not sworn an oath of secrecy.”
Lady Trafford waved her hand at him in a dismissive manner. “I work as a spy, as part of a network that seeks to fight against those who, knowingly or unknowingly, would undermine our country.”
Mary rubbed her neck. Lady Trafford was not the first person to claim to be a spy, or to claim to need Mary’s help. “You are a spy?”
“Yes, the mysterious trips, the midnight visitors, inundating myself with the local gossip—it is all part of my work.” Lady Trafford took another dr
ink of tea. “And you, Miss Bennet, are clearly also a spy, but you do not yet have any loyalties.”
“That may not be accurate,” interjected Fanny. “If you read Mary’s book, it appears that Monsieur Corneau recruited her to spy for him, but then she grew to distrust him.”
“Is that correct?” asked Lady Trafford.
Mary nodded. “I see no reason why I should trust you either.”
Lady Trafford shook her head in disapproval. “I knew Corneau was still angry at me, but I did not believe he would do such a thing.” She opened Mary’s spy book and spent several minutes reading its pages.
Mary’s eyes darted to the door, but with Withrow present, there was no way to escape.
“I can understand your distrust of me,” said Lady Trafford. “I did, indeed, ask Mr. Holloway to steal your family’s mourning rings. Of course, I had every intention of returning them. I simply wanted to see if you or any of your sisters might be a potential recruit.”
Lady Trafford raised Mary’s spy book. “I was correct in choosing you. Your investigation was thorough and went undetected by any of us. You orchestrated Colonel Radcliffe’s arrest masterfully. I assume it was you in the peasant cloak who tackled Radcliffe when he attempted to escape?”
“Yes,” said Mary, confused, for Lady Trafford had not witnessed the events.
“Sir Pickering told me of it. Yes, despite the show we put on of disliking each other, we work together quite closely. In terms of your other accusations and concerns, much of what you have observed me doing in the past months has been my own attempts to solve Mr. Holloway’s murder, as well as several other small investigations. For instance, Mr. Tagore and Miss Tagore are also part of my network. They were with us when Anne died, and became friends with Mr. Holloway at that time. Because of their friendship with him, they were well suited to investigate in Crawley. It was impossible for me to do it myself without raising suspicions, especially as Mr. Holloway was found so close to my property.”
Lady Trafford waved Mary’s notebook like a fan. “Mr. Withrow, would you care to explain your own behaviour to Miss Bennet?”
“Most certainly,” said Withrow. “Since it appears you are the individual who wrote the anonymous letter to Sir Pickering, I will address the concern you raised in that letter first. I was indeed trying to establish a better relationship with Corneau. I had my suspicions about his involvement in local anti-government movements and was attempting to infiltrate his operation, with the intent, of course, of stopping him.
“In terms of the French officer you saw me meeting with the in the Roundel, he is actually one of our operatives. He is a French officer with British leanings who has been reporting to us with important information that has aided us greatly in the war effort. He gives me the information, and I pass it along to London.”
Mary nodded. If all this were true, it explained their actions, and was in fact a noble effort.
“If you have spoken with Sir Pickering,” said Mary, “I am sure you are aware that Colonel Coates is a smuggler. I believe others in Worthing have been working with him. But it does not seem that anything has happened to Colonel Coates or others as a result.”
Lady Trafford shook her head. “Half the town is engaged in smuggling in some manner. It would be impossible to arrest everyone, and so Sir Pickering tries to keep the smuggling within certain bounds. French cheeses and fabrics have limited consequence, but when they lead to other crimes, he quickly intervenes.”
Mary had always thought of things in very stark terms: good and evil, right and wrong. She would need to ponder on this matter more later.
“I would like to invite you to join us,” said Lady Trafford. “Become part of our network. Work for the crown. Help us to defend our country against threats domestic and foreign. You have the spirit for it, the natural talent and propensity. Just think what you will do in service for a greater cause.”
“How do I know for certain that you are working for the government, and that this is not an elaborate story meant to fool me?” She had begun to believe Lady Trafford—it made sense, it felt right and true—but, after Monsieur Corneau, she could not be too careful.
“If you demand evidence, evidence you shall have.” Lady Trafford stood and walked over to the desk that Mary and Mr. Withrow had used for lessons. She opened a hidden drawer that Mary had not realized was there, then used a small key to unlock a book within. From that, she withdrew a letter which she handed to Mary.
The letter had a complicated paper locking method and an elaborate red royal seal.
“You can break it open. I have several others.”
Mary broke the seal and opened the letter. It was penned by the head of the Foreign Office and signed by him and the Prince Regent himself. It expressed that Lady Margaret Trafford was employed by the British government, though it was vague on any particulars, and granted her immunity.
“I do not know this seal,” said Mary. “I have no way to tell if these signatures are legitimate or not. What would prevent you from creating all of this as an elaborate hoax?”
“You are wise to be so skeptical of my story.” She looked at Stanley. “You could take a lesson from her on this matter.” Lady Trafford thought for a moment. “I do have something that I believe you will find more definitive. Please wait here for me.” She turned to Withrow. “I will lock the door.”
Once Lady Trafford had left, Withrow set the poker underneath the desk, and then sat beside Mary on the sofa. Mary shifted farther away from him.
“Never raise a weapon towards my aunt again. In any circumstance. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I am sorry. I will not do it again.”
“Good.” Withrow leaned back into the sofa. He crossed his arms and his legs, and looked quite unthreatening, but Mary was not fooled. She rubbed the spot on her head where Withrow had pressed his knee when he had forced her to the ground.
“I really did arrive late,” said Fanny. “If the two of you want to recreate your fight, I would love to see it.”
Withrow glared at Fanny, but Mary chuckled. Mary would have needed a much larger skill set for it to have been anything resembling a true fight. She picked up the tea and drank. The chamomile’s scent and taste were soothing.
The most convincing evidence was their knowledge of Mary’s letter to Sir Pickering. He must have shared it with them, and she did not want to believe that this region’s magistrate was corrupt.
Lady Trafford returned. In her hands were several loose letters as well as a letter box. Mr. Bennet’s letter box, the one Kitty had written was missing, the one her father had always kept locked and up on a shelf.
Mary set down her tea on the side table, accidentally spilling a little in her haste. “How do you have that?” She approached Lady Trafford, her hands extended, and received the items. Mary sat down again. She set the loose letters to the side and ran her fingers along the ornamental patterns on the metal letter box, along the vines and the animals and the fantastical creatures.
Mary and Kitty had tried to break into the box once. Mary must have been around six years of age at the time, and Kitty five. Their father had taken it away in a kind manner, but firmly impressed it upon their minds that there were some things that were their father’s business.
“Your father was also a spy,” said Lady Trafford.
Mary’s finger halted on the horn of a unicorn. “My father, a spy?”
“That was how we met: an assignment we were both given. We maintained contact over the years, both as friends and as colleagues. When Mr. Holloway visited Longbourn, testing you and your sisters was a secondary purpose. The primary purpose was to retrieve your father’s materials related to his work as a spy, including this box.” Lady Trafford held out a key. “Mr. Holloway was unable to find the key, which is why you discovered Mr. Withrow in your parents’ room.”
Mary’s fingers trembled as she took the key; she managed to insert it into the keyhole, and, for the first time in her life, opened the b
ox.
Withrow stood and went to his desk. Lady Trafford gestured to Fanny and Mr. Stanley, who both took books off a shelf and began to read. Lady Trafford sat, close enough that she could see what Mary was doing, but not so close as to be intrusive. Mary appreciated the space, for she sensed that everything she knew was about to change.
Mary sifted through the pages, reading through a lifetime of Mr. Bennet’s work for the British government. She paused on records, in his own handwriting, of the things he had accomplished. Mentioned were the occasional arrest or unrest in Meryton over the years, and she saw, for the first time, her father’s involvement in these events. There were also clippings from newspapers, notebooks with logs of events, much like the one Mary herself had made, and letters—letters from Lady Trafford, letters from people whose names Mary recognized from the newspapers, and letters from many who Mary did not recognize. There were also pages that did not make any sense, which must be written in code.
Mr. Bennet had spent his life doing so much more than running an estate.
“You should read the other letters,” said Lady Trafford. “The ones that were not in the box.”
Mary picked up the letters, which were written on a fine paper that her father had used only for special correspondence. They had a complicated seal and locking method that had been broken. She opened one and inside found her father’s words to Lady Trafford, dated from 1805, when Mary was ten years old. “Dear Lady Trafford,” he began. “Your letter on your children puts me in a sentimental mood.”
He then described each of his daughters—Elizabeth, Jane, Kitty, Lydia, and Mary.
“Mary is now my greatest reader. She will read any book that is not tied down. She is a very curious and perceptive child, always attempting to figure out the place of things in this world. Sometimes others do not understand her, but that is their loss. Every time Mary sets her mind to something, she succeeds in doing it.”
The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Page 28