The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet by Katherine Cowley (tharntype novel english txt) 📕

had hoped to be able to reconcile with him, but now I will not have that opportunity.”

Mary did not think Mr. Shaffer would openly acknowledge a rift between him and Mr. Holloway if he had been involved in the death, but their relationship was worth noting.

“I am so sorry,” said Lady Trafford. “There are many things I wish I had said to Anne before she was taken from us so suddenly.”

Suddenly, Mary was brought back to her own father’s final moments, to the things he had not said, and to the things, in the months and years prior, that she had never said. She was not good at expressing her emotions, and never felt as close to others as they seemed to feel to each other.

“We cannot dwell on regret,” said Mr. Shaffer. “We must learn to forgive not only others, but also ourselves.”

The conversation moved on to more pleasant topics, and remained that way, all through dinner. After dinner they returned to the drawing room, and Mary sat in a comfortable chair with a book. As Mr. and Mrs. Shaffer spoke animatedly with Lady Trafford next to the fire, Mary overheard Miss Shaffer and Mr. Withrow speaking, almost in a whisper.

“It must have been terrible for you to see Mr. Holloway’s body in such a state,” said Miss Shaffer.

“I was rather shocked,” Withrow admitted. “I had very much come to rely on him. Now, I feel as if I must share the blame for his death.” Mary wondered if he, perhaps, had been involved—after the meeting with Holloway, instead of taking care of matters of the estate, he could have gone to Worthing. Yet surely he would not confess such a thing to Miss Shaffer. Mr. Withrow continued, “He would not have been in Worthing if it were not for his meeting with me.”

“You cannot blame yourself,” said Miss Shaffer. “That is what I keep telling my father. He has kept pacing, back and forth, back and forth in his study, ever since he heard the news yesterday.”

Miss Shaffer glanced in Mary’s direction, and Mary pretended to be reading her book. Miss Shaffer and Mr. Withrow did not discuss Mr. Holloway again, but Mary had already gathered plenty from this evening’s conversations that she could report to Monsieur Corneau.

Chapter Eleven

“On Saturday, J.F. Spur…underwent a final examination, charged on suspicion of stealing a Bank of England note, for ten pounds, from the General-post Receiving-house….[A] number of letters that had been put into Mr. Miles’s receiving house, in Oxford-street, particularly…letters with which the postage had been paid, and which contained bank-notes or bills, had not reached the persons to whom they were directed.”

–The Kentish Gazette, Kent, Surry, and Sussex, England, October 22, 1813

Dear Jane,

Thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear that you are feeling ill. I can only recommend good books as an antidote to your struggles. While they may not resolve physical ailments, they do enrich and uplift the mind, helping people to feel less burdened.

Thank you for informing me that you and Elizabeth have declared an end to the formal mourning period. However, I still feel it important for me, at least, to continue to wear black and not engage in any frivolous behaviour.

I am much recovered from the incident of finding the deceased clergyman on the beach. Do not worry about me on that account. They have yet to find the responsible party.

This is Lady Trafford’s ear. Can you not see the progress from my letter a few weeks ago? I have drawn features of every single servant in the house and the main stables (there are twenty-two). Lady Trafford even sat for a full portrait. Mr. Withrow is the only person I have not drawn, but I do not think I will ask him.

It is getting cold here, and the wind from the sea makes it feel even colder. We have also had much rain. Both facts are unfortunate because Mr. Linton has prohibited me from doing landscape drawings inside, looking out the window. Most days I am forced out of the castle.

My French is also improving. I can now understand a fair amount of spoken French and speak a fair amount. Twice this past week I met Madame Dieupart in Worthing and was able to practice with other French speakers. Madame Dieupart finally admitted that the years I spent reading French are helping me learn the language faster. She does complain that I sound too much like a book, but there are much worse things than sounding like a book.

Some days I am very tired, but I simply remind myself that it is better to live with a knowledge of one’s shortcomings and be able to improve upon them than to continue in ignorance.

I know I mentioned that Lady Trafford seemed a bit unusual. Whenever we have guests, the next day she likes to analyze their word choice and movement. Other times she gives me advice, like moderating how much I speak when someone asks me a question, or asking what she calls reciprocal or counterpoint questions. She has taken several more charity trips, one of them unplanned. It makes her seem a bit eccentric and a little too willing to help people at a moment’s notice. None of the trips have been to Brighton, or I would have gone with her and visited Maria.

I hope your illness does not prevent you from enjoying your visit to Pemberley next week. Give my love to Elizabeth.

Faithfully yours,

Mary Bennet

Mary reviewed the letter and, satisfied, she folded it to make it smaller. As always, for the final fold she made sure that the top piece of paper only went halfway down the rest of the letter to leave room for the seal. She melted a bit of wax, savoring the pleasant scent of flame and wax, dripped the wax onto the letter, pressed her seal on it, then wrote out Jane’s address.

Lady Trafford, who had been writing her own letter on the