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

people would care less if something happened to her, if, for instance, she was harmed or injured. Yet Mary was grateful they had chosen her. She would not want Kitty to have been placed in harm’s way, and Mary thought that she possessed the intelligence to keep herself out of their plans while gathering enough evidence to reveal them to the world.

Mary turned swiftly away from the library, almost dropping the books as she ascended the spiral staircase. Once in her room, she piled her books on the desk without further consideration. She could not read now, not in the light of the conversation she had heard, and especially not with all that she had learned in the past twenty-four hours.

It had occurred to her that once a letter had been opened, it had no security at all. Anyone who came across it could read it, without leaving any evidence.

She took the letter from Kitty and added it to her packet of letters that she kept on her bedside table. She loosened her hair and then yanked a strand from her head. Then she tucked the hair underneath the string tie and around the corner of the letter, so it appeared as though a piece of hair had simply fallen out and become snagged on the letters. She stared at the positioning of the hair and the exact placement of the letters on the table for several minutes. If someone removed and read any of the letters, she would know it.

She read the letter from her mother one more time. This letter, to Lady Trafford’s knowledge, did not exist, so Mary needed to make sure it could never be discovered. She put the letter into the fire and watched until every last fragment of the paper burned.

Chapter Thirteen

“A second French courier, who has to carry the Emperor’s letter bag to Paris, was attacked…by some of General Theilman’s partizans. This capture, in a military point of view, is of great consequence. We shall here confine ourselves to publishing some of the letters, in extracts.”

–The Morning Post, London, October 26, 1813

It was Mary’s first day of lessons with Mr. Withrow, and she was determined not to be intimidated. While Mr. Linton and Madame Dieupart gave her lessons in the parlor, Mr. Withrow had informed Mary that he would provide her with instruction in the library. She tried opening the door, but it was locked. She knocked firmly.

Mr. Withrow unlocked the door, and this time the comforting smell of paper and leather did not lift her spirits. With perfect manners, Withrow invited Mary to sit with him at his desk. He took the large, padded chair and she took a smaller wooden one on the other side.

Fanny followed Mary into the room and took a soft chair in the corner so she could act as their chaperone. She had a basket of bright yellow fabric with some needles and thread to occupy herself.

“At my aunt’s request,” said Mr. Withrow, “I have agreed to give you a cursory introduction to economics, politics, and mathematics.”

“It is my understanding that those subjects are not particularly suited to the feminine mind,” said Mary.

“If you are not capable of learning them, then by all means, let us halt these lessons now.”

Mary had been questioning their appropriateness, not her own mind. She wished she could say something clever and biting in response as Elizabeth would, but she could only manage, “I am sure I will be quite capable at whatever you choose to teach me.”

“We will see,” he said, passing her a piece of paper. “You have ten minutes to write an answer to each of these questions.”

Mary read the precise, small handwriting at the top of the page. “But I could spend days researching and writing a response for each one.”

“I am certain you could, Miss Bennet. But I want your thoughts, not the ideas of others, and I want them to be brief, and I want them immediately. So please begin.” He picked up a book on economics and left her to it.

Mary swallowed, wishing she was receiving drawing or French instruction instead. She reread the first question: “What is the ultimate goal in running an estate?” She thought of her father, the late nights he had spent toiling over the estate’s ledgers, and the way he had visited each of those he employed and kept himself aware of their concerns. She hoped Mr. Collins continued to do the same. She dipped her pen in the ink and wrote, “To make sure everything and everyone is functioning properly.”

Next question: “What are the benefits of charity on the recipient and the giver?” This was easier, for it was addressed by so many of the sermons and books that she read. The hard part of this question was restricting herself to only a few sentences. “Charity lifts the soul, ennobles the less fortunate, and provides relief to the suffering. Ultimately, it is key to gaining the approval of God.”

She turned to the final question: “What is at the root of civic unrest, and what is in the best interests of the government?” She knew almost nothing of politics and, despite straining her mind for an answer, could not come up with anything suitable. Mr. Withrow set down his book and said, “Finish whatever you are writing,” so in an effort to provide an answer, she wrote a single word, “Peace.”

Mr. Withrow reached across the desk, took her paper, and read her responses.

“The real answer to each of these questions is one word: money.”

“But—” said Mary.

“Hear me out,” said Mr. Withrow. “Your first response is not far off—everything and everyone on the estate must function properly, but that is not the goal, that is the means. The goal is money. If not, everything falls apart: the estate is lost or falls into ruin, the family becomes impoverished and dependent on relatives, all the workers and servants are thrown out into the world, with nothing to support them, often