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

the other women in the dance and did not appear to have witnessed her near fall.

“Have you developed many friendships here, since you arrived?” Mary asked, drawing his attention back to her.

“I have met many people, but it can take time to form strong relationships. Have you made any strong friendships since you arrived, Miss Bennet?”

Mary was taken aback by the question. She knew many people here, but her tutors, Corneau, Miss Shaffer, Lady Trafford, none of them were friends, truly. “Perhaps friendships matter less than the difference we can make in the lives of those around us.”

She felt as if she had not discovered any information about any of the things Lady Trafford wanted her to discover. “Have you seen the beach?”

“Of course. It is impossible to miss if you set foot in Worthing.”

“Do you like the ocean?”

“I am impartial,” he said, but did not elaborate.

“I had never seen the ocean before coming here.”

“It is quite large.”

“Have you ever been on a boat?” asked Mary.

“Yes.”

Elizabeth would know how to draw out a lengthier answer for questions like this, but it did not come naturally to Mary. She began formulating some sort of question or statement, perhaps about a personal desire to ride a boat, but then something hot hit her shoulder.

Immediately her hand went to her shoulder, where she discovered a drop of wax. It must have dripped from one of the candles in the chandelier. It had burned a small spot of her dress, but not entirely through the fabric.

“Are you distressed, Miss Bennet?” asked the colonel.

“No, it was only a small bit of wax.”

“Perhaps we should withdraw from the dance and give you time to recover.”

Mary’s shoulder stung, but she recognized that the colonel wanted any excuse not to dance with her, and she refused to give him one.

“I would like to continue. Besides, the dance is almost complete.”

They caught up with their neighbouring couples, and Mary suffered through the final few minutes of the dance. She had lost her train of thought and found herself unable to converse at all.

The dance finally finished, and the couples descended the grand staircase to the dining room. Fortunately, Colonel Radcliffe knew the protocol and that he should sit with Mary at supper, because if she had to force him to do it, she would not know how to make such a request in a polite manner.

Normally Mary would sit at a table that included her family, but none were here. Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow sat on the far side of the room, and Miss Tagore and her current dance partner sat with her parents and several others. Finally, Mary and the colonel’s table filled, with Monsieur Corneau taking the last seat and giving Mary a brief smile.

Colonel Radcliffe helped serve all the ladies their food. He analyzed the dishes and told the woman on his other side about his favorite meals and where they had been served. It seemed to be a purposeful slight, and his easy conversation stood in stark contrast to their conversation during the dance. Almost every new acquaintance this evening had decided to take a strong disliking to her, and she knew that she had only herself to blame.

Despite the delicacies before her, Mary did not eat very much. She wished she had not danced with Colonel Radcliffe, wished that Lady Trafford had not given her such a ridiculous task. She would rather be sitting near Withrow and Lady Trafford and listening in on their conversation than be banished over here. And if things continued as they were, Colonel Radcliffe would pass the entire supper without speaking of anything besides the food.

Mary grew tired of the pretense, of attempting to encourage someone to discuss a subject without mentioning the subject.

“Colonel Radcliffe,” said Mary, interrupting his conversation. “I have always wanted to sail in a boat, and I heard you have your own private boat. Do you use it for pleasure trips, or is it strictly business?”

There was a moment of silence, and if she was not mistaken, Colonel Radcliffe flinched slightly. He spared the briefest glance around the table before saying smoothly, “You must have me confused with someone else. I have never owned a boat, and do not much enjoy sailing.”

Colonel Radcliffe returned to the previous conversation as if she had not interrupted. He strummed his fingers on the table when he was not eating and glanced occasionally at Mary. He was clearly hiding something; Mary’s best guess was that Lady Trafford was correct and he did not want his boat ownership to be publicly known, because of requests from smugglers, or from individuals like Lady Trafford. Or perhaps, like Lady Trafford, he was engaged in manipulations and deceit.

Mary started a conversation with Monsieur Corneau about French poetry. He examined his pocket watch several times, but otherwise seemed engaged. Mary wondered if his meeting with Mr. Withrow was soon.

After the meal they stood. Colonel Radcliffe bowed and thanked Mary for both the dance and the supper. “It was my pleasure,” said Mary, because it was the sort of thing one was supposed to say, though in truth it was a lie: she had taken very little pleasure in either activity. Why did mere participation in polite society require telling so many untruths?

The colonel left the room quickly. Perhaps he was avoiding someone, which was suspicious in its own right, but Mary had more important matters to attend to. Withrow lingered, as did Monsieur Corneau, who once again examined his pocket watch. They must be having their meeting soon. She considered trying to secret herself in Withrow’s room, but there was no guarantee that they would meet there again, and entering his room would cause a scandal of Lydia-like proportions should she be discovered. It would be better to wait and follow them discreetly, but standing here next to the table was starting to feel conspicuous.

Miss Tagore was about to leave, but Mary touched her on the arm. “I was hoping you would tell