Death by Equine by Annette Dashofy (booksvooks txt) 📕

–The Times, London, England, December 9, 1813

It had now been six days since the ball, and five days since the apprehension of Colonel Radcliffe, yet still the castle had not resumed a normal rhythm. The Tagores had left the previous day, but her lessons with Madame Dieupart and Mr. Linton had not resumed. But more than that, something had changed, something had shifted between her and Lady Trafford. Before, Lady Trafford had always treated Mary with focused attention. She had sought out Mary’s thoughts and ideas, and made her feel central to any gathering. Mary enjoyed their discussions and took pleasure in surprising Lady Trafford with new insights.

But now Lady Trafford treated Mary the way that everyone else always had. Mary regretted her rudeness to Lady Trafford the morning after the ball, and she had apologized for it a few days before. She still regretted not wearing the dress Fanny had made. But she did not feel that these two transgressions merited a response of this magnitude. Perhaps something else was troubling Lady Trafford and preventing her from giving Mary the same amount of attention.

She had found herself rather bored the past few days, with only books, the pianoforte, and drawing to occupy her, and no murder to distract herself with. In Longbourn, books and her music had always been more than enough for her, but she had become accustomed to a different pace of life, and now it was hard to return to the former. While she was still attempting to find out more about Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow, she had not made much progress.

Someone knocked at Mary’s bedroom door, interrupting her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called.

Fanny stepped inside. She had been very distant since the ball and seemed to be avoiding Mary. “You asked for me?”

“Yes,” said Mary. “I have something for you.”

Mary retrieved the package containing her purchase from the fabric shop. She laid it on the bed, untied the string, and opened the brown paper to reveal the blue fabric.

Fanny’s fingers went immediately to the fabric. “What is this?”

“It is silk taffeta. You know that of course,” said Mary, wishing for a clarity of speech that she did not often possess. “I thought that since you love designing clothing so much, you might like to make yourself a dress. At the shop they said that this was their newest fabric, and that you really liked it the last time you visited. They said that five yards should be enough, but I bought six to be sure.”

Fanny stepped back. She intertwined her fingers and pulled her hands against her chest. “Miss Bennet,” she said, “you do not need to, you should not—”

“Yes, I do.” Mary picked up the fabric and forced it into Fanny’s arms.

“Thank you.”

“You do not need to thank me,” said Mary. “You do not owe me anything, Fanny. I cannot make things right, I cannot fix what I have done, but at least I can attempt to do something.”

Fanny looked as if she might become emotional, and Mary was fully unequipped to deal with emotions, so she rushed out of the room and fled downstairs to the pianoforte. Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow were already seated in the large parlor, but Mary decided to play anyway.

Mary had begun her second song when Lady Trafford asked her to stop.

“Your music is lovely,” said Lady Trafford, “but I was attempting to converse with Henry. Maybe you could do something else right now, and come back and play later, when the room is vacant.”

Mary stood abruptly from the instrument. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Not at all, Miss Bennet, but I am rather tired today, and the sound is too loud for me.”

Yet Lady Trafford was not like Mrs. Bennet, with very sensitive nerves.

“What is it that I have done wrong?” asked Mary again. “Surely it is more than playing the pianoforte at an inconvenient time.” Mary could not help but feel that if she had told Lady Trafford about her role in discovering Radcliffe and Corneau then nothing would have changed: everything good about her stay at Castle Durrington would have remained the same. But she would not tell Lady Trafford, she could not.

Lady Trafford folded her arms across her body and looked at Mary with resolve.

“If you must know, you disgraced me and Castle Durrington at the ball. Despite all the lessons I have tried to teach you, you did not show humility or any manners or breeding. You left without saying goodbye to any of the guests and foolishly went off into the night. And you monopolized too much of the general attention towards yourself.”

“I—I was simply attempting to demonstrate my accomplishments,” said Mary, unable to address more than the final critique.

“You may have been the most accomplished girl in Meryton, but Meryton is a very small place, and you may find that your accomplishments are not so great when you join a larger company.”

Mary felt sick to her stomach and tears began to well up in her eyes, but she would not cry in front of Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow—she could not let herself do it. Withrow sat, not saying anything, but with a smug look on his face. Mary sniffled, then swallowed, trying to control her emotions.

Lady Trafford’s face softened. “I only meant that a bit more humility may be useful in large gatherings, but you truly have shown great progress in many areas over the past few months. I am quite pleased.” Lady Trafford paused. “I have been writing to various acquaintances, and I may have found someone who needs a governess not long after Christmas.”

Mary used her handkerchief to dab her eyes. She tried to speak with a level voice. “I am not sure that I am ready to be a governess yet. I still have not decided on that as my fixed course.” It had only been an excuse to draw closer to Lady Trafford so she could track