The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet by Katherine Cowley (the reading list book txt) 📗

*

All through breakfast, Mary expected either Lady Trafford or Mr. Withrow to say something—anything—about the mysterious visitors, but they did not. Of course, Mary never had told her family about Lady Trafford’s middle-of-the-night visit before her father’s funeral, so perhaps it was not too surprising.

As Mary rode the carriage to town with Lady Trafford, Mary said, “I trust you slept well last night.”

Lady Trafford smiled serenely. “Quite well. And what about you, Miss Bennet? Did you sleep well, or did anything disturb you?”

Now it seemed that Lady Trafford was trying to extract information from Mary.

“I always sleep soundly.” The taste of sour milk filled Mary’s mouth. She had given a direct lie and felt terrible for it. Honesty, after all, was one of the prime virtues. But what if someone was doing something that might not be honest or straightforward? What then? Should she tell the whole truth? Mary did not want Lady Trafford to know that she had been spying on her. She wanted to find out what Lady Trafford was doing, but without endangering her position at Castle Durrington.

She decided to attempt a different line of questioning that might draw out a reference to the night’s events. “Are we expecting any guests?”

“The Mulberrys will be joining us again; they will dine with us on Sunday. Why do you ask?”

“I enjoy the stimulation of varied conversation which naturally results from having guests at Castle Durrington.”

“You will be pleased, then, to know that a number of guests will be staying with us, starting several days in advance of the ball. Did Fanny mention it to you?”

“She did. I look forward to increasing my skills at reading conversations.”

Mr. Tubbs, their driver for the day, stopped the carriage on the outskirts of town at a small, dilapidated cottage.

“What are we doing?” asked Mary.

“I have a small gift for the woman who lives here.”

They exited the carriage and knocked on the door. It was cracked and warped, and most of the paint had chipped and peeled. It was not the neglect of a year or two, but decades of insufficient time or means devoted to the upkeep of the cottage.

An older woman opened the door. Her clothes were dirty, stained, and even had a few rips and tears. She smelled as if she had not bathed in quite some time. When she saw Lady Trafford, she smiled and the movement of her lips added to the wrinkles on her face, almost threatening to split it in two. She was missing a number of teeth, and of those she had, several were pointed at unusual angles.

“My dear Ruth,” said Lady Trafford. She gave the poor woman a shawl, several loaves of freshly baked bread, and a basket of fruits and vegetables, then asked after her family.

“If my son ’adn’t gone abroad, I wouldn’t be so lonesome.”

“Abroad?” asked Mary. “Where does he live?”

“In Devon.”

“But Devon is—”

“It is so very far away,” interrupted Lady Trafford. Mary had been about to say that Devon was only a few counties away, still on the southern coast of England, and not very far at all.

“I heard,” said Lady Trafford, “that a new gentleman has taken residence at Edgeworth.”

“You ’eard right. It’s a Colonel Radcliffe,” said the old woman with glee. “He’s visited afore, but now he’s ’ere for good. He’s not with the regiment—he fought a while back, I bluv. And he’s in business.”

“What sort of business?” asked Lady Trafford.

“Well no one’s said, but I knows. Hisn family owns property, in the north. My friend Lucretia works for ’im. She told me all about it.”

“What sort of household does he run?”

“Well I’m not one to yabble, but I can tell you a little summat.” Ruth told them a story about the sugar running out in the kitchen and then a scandal over missing candlesticks. Colonel Radcliffe had already dismissed two servants due to their behaviour. After at least ten more minutes on Colonel Radcliffe’s household, Ruth began gossiping about everyone else in the area. Between those she knew personally and those she knew from the stories of others, she seemed to know absolutely everyone. Mary had always felt that gossip degraded the mind and assisted no one. She found herself growing impatient with both the old woman and Lady Trafford. Mary wanted to continue on to Worthing so she could visit the bookseller. She wondered what benefit this relationship served for Lady Trafford, or if she did it simply out of charity. But if for charity, why not leave the items without holding a long conversation? Or why not give the items to an organization that would distribute them to many people who were in need? She must take pleasure in the gossip, and this knowledge left Mary disappointed in Lady Trafford, who she had assumed was above such things.

After at least fifteen more minutes of gossip, some of which Mary found difficult to follow because of Ruth’s dialect, they returned to the carriage.

“What do you think of her?” asked Lady Trafford.

Mary almost said something cruel that probably would have offended Lady Trafford but stopped herself short. She did not need to be petty, like Lydia sometimes was. She thought for a moment before delivering her response. “She does not have the best grasp of geography.”

“It is true,” said Lady Trafford. “I hope you will excuse me for preventing you from correcting her. What you were about to say was accurate and might have instructed her in geography. But what would be the advantage of so doing? What would really be gained? You could correct her but at the same time hurt her feelings and make her less likely to talk to you, or to me, again. Unless there are urgent circumstances or a disbelief is causing harm, I attempt to use kindness and an awareness of others and their needs as a guide for what is acceptable conversation.”

Lady Trafford might have kind feelings towards the old woman,