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

November 23: Lady Trafford left early this morning, unannounced. No word on where she went.

November 24: Lady Trafford is still gone. Withrow was absent the entire day as well. He returned before dinner but ate by himself in his room. I spoke with Colonel Coates, and after telling him that I had never been on a boat but always wanted to, he gave me a tour of his boat. There were no signs that led me to believe that Mr. Holloway was killed on his boat, but there were no signs of smuggling either, and I know, at the least, that Colonel Coates has participated in the latter.

November 25: Lady Trafford came back in time for dinner. Apparently it was a short trip to Chichester to visit a friend.

November 26: I wore my disguise to the post office, and Maria has not replied to the second letter for information that I sent her.

After visiting the post office, I cleaned myself and returned to the stable at the inn so I could ride Dusty back to Castle Durrington. I went back to the stall where Holloway always kept his horse. I remembered that Miss Shaffer said that Holloway liked to hide things, and so I looked to see if there were any good hiding spots. It took several minutes—fortunately, the stable boy was not in the stable at the moment—but I found a board on the side wall that appeared slightly loose. I was able to shift it, and behind it I found one of Mr. Holloway’s missing notebooks. I have spent hours reading it. What I have discovered is that it is actually half of a book; it is as if half of his sentences were written in this book and half in another, and in order to understand what is written, you would need both books. Even though Corneau said that if I heard anything about the missing notebooks, I should report to him immediately, I am not going to. He had said I was spying for a worthy cause, but I do not know what cause he is really supporting, and so I will do it for him no longer. Now I seek to find the truth not for others, but for myself.

November 27: Everyone is focused on preparations for the ball.

November 28: Nothing of note. If the pattern holds, tomorrow Withrow will meet with someone in the Roundel. Today I partially completed several landscape sketches there so if I am caught, I have an excuse. I will try to secret myself there tomorrow before the meeting.

*

The next day, during her French lesson, Mary went back and forth with Madame Dieupart, practicing conversations, a bit impatient the whole time because she knew she would need to cut the lesson short. She felt guilty as this was her last French lesson before the ball; between now and then, there would be no time for lessons due to all the preparations for those who would be arriving early as well as for the ball itself. But she needed to know with whom Withrow was meeting.

Mary kept watching the clock. Once a full hour had passed, she rubbed her face with her hands, then she tried to look apologetic as she expressed that she was feeling ill. “Je regrette, Madame, mais je ne me sens pas bien. Pouvons-nous finir notre leҫon tôt aujourd’hui?”

“C’est vrai que tu me parais distraite aujourd’hui. Eh bien! Mais j’espère que tu te sentes assez mieux demain pour continuer notre leҫon. Sinon, demande à Madame Trafford d’envoyer un servant me laisser savoir dans la matinée.”

Mary felt terrible for feigning illness. Kitty sometimes did this to get out of unpleasant tasks, and Mary wondered if her sister felt this same guilt each time. Yet, despite the guilt, it was surprisingly easy to do. The ease of the act felt like a betrayal to Mary; it should be more difficult to act out a falsehood.

Yet Mary did not call Madame Dieupart back to apologize or stop her from leaving. Her desire to find the truth was stronger than her desire to tell the truth, and though she felt ashamed of herself, she stayed in her room, discreetly watching from the window.

Once her instructor was out of sight, she gathered her drawing supplies and went downstairs. She stood outside the library and listened through the open door; someone, likely Withrow, paced back and forth. Mary exited out the front door, and then took a leisurely, meandering walk, which eventually took her to her destination. She secreted herself inside a large evergreen bush in the middle of the Roundel; this seemed an ideal position from which to spy on Mr. Withrow during his weekly meeting.

After a few minutes, her legs began to hurt. Several branches jabbed into her arms, and pine needles itched her face, but she did not dare push them out of her way. She would stay the course and discover what Withrow was doing.

There was a rustling from one end of the grove, and then from the other, and Withrow and another man met in an open patch of dirt. Withrow smiled and patted the man on the back.

The man wore short black boots, light, whitish trousers, and a large brown overcoat that covered everything else, even his neck. He wore nothing on his head.

The man undid his overcoat and reached for something inside one of its inner pockets. Mary stiffened. Under the cloak, she glimpsed a military uniform. It was white and blue, with a gold gorget around the neck and a white shoulder belt stretching from his shoulder to his waist. From the cut and ornamentation, it was likely an officer’s uniform. But it was not the uniform of a British officer—it was the uniform of a French officer from Napoleon Bonaparte’s army.

Chapter Sixteen

“When the war broke out with Russia, the Emperor Alexander wisely packed off the whole tribe of French actors