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

Then she practiced her new song on the pianoforte. Playing always helped her relax and brought clarity to her thoughts.

“That is a very nice piece.” Lady Trafford had entered the room so quietly that Mary had not realized she was there.

Mary smiled. “I bought it when I went to town today.”

Lady Trafford listened for a few minutes and then excused herself to attend to other business.

A part of the song caused Mary to stumble. She stopped, worked out the correct fingerings, and then played those measures ten times in a row to help herself grow more used to the movement. Once she was finished, she started the piece from the beginning. This time, the challenging section did not cause her any trouble.

As she lost herself in the music, she realized that there was one additional point of interest in Kitty’s letter: the broken gravestone. It seemed that a private visit to the church was in order.

Chapter Fifteen

“Wednesday morning, Richard Hucknall, William Hughes, and Thomas Foss, for forgeries; and Joseph Sylvester, for highway robbery, were executed in front of Newgate. Hucknall was formerly a stockbroker and had contrived to elude discovery for a considerable time. The unhappy men met their fate with becoming fortitude and resignation.”

–Kentish Chronicle, Canterbury, England, November 12, 1813

The church was empty and quiet, and the stillness felt unnatural compared to the fullness it held on days of worship, the constant movement and energy. Mary’s steps echoed on the stone floor as she walked through the sanctuary, examining the windows, the paintings, the pews.

The middle-of-the-night visitors had mentioned that they did not have time to visit the church, which implied that there would be reason to do so. Yet Mary could see no secrets in these walls, and unless they had some sort of dealings with Mr. Shaffer and his family, she could not discern a purpose for them to visit.

Of course, Withrow had said that if they visited in the middle of the night they would be suspected of grave robbing. Perhaps it was less the church they wanted than the adjoining cemetery. Which brought her back to Kitty’s letter and its mention of the damaged gravestone.

Mary left the building and entered the cemetery. It was a cold day with a strong wind, and soon her feet, her ears, and her nose were chilled. The ground was damp, and as she walked between the rows, mud gathered on her shoes and the hem of her dress. Her eyes scanned the names and dates on each of the headstones, searching for Lady Trafford’s children and husband.

In the middle of one row was a patch of freshly turned soil. A recent grave. Maybe even from the last few days. No headstone had yet been placed, no grass yet grew.

This grave was not the purpose of her visit, yet she found herself unable to walk any farther. A few days after her father’s funeral, she had visited his grave and it had appeared just like this.

A wave of emotion took her, like the waves Withrow had described which could carry even the strongest swimmer out to sea, and then Mary was drowning, drowning in her sorrow, drowning in her loss. She was back, back to her father’s dying words, back to his dying breath. Back to the nights spent keeping vigil over his body, wishing it was not true, willing to trade anything just to see him, speak to him, reassure him that she loved him and hear him express the same for her. Back to feeling his dead cold hand in hers.

Mary sank to her knees, getting mud all up her dress, but she paid it no heed. Her body shook, and it took all her strength just to breathe in the frigid air. What did life mean if it always ended like this, with a body in the ground, subject to worms and decay? What did life mean for those who loved the deceased the most, and were then left alone in the world?

She pictured his hand when it had reached out to her, weak and pale in its last moments. Then Mr. Bennet coughed, and his hand went not to Mary, but to Elizabeth. But now his hand, decaying and bereft of life, was beneath the ground. She had not even attended his funeral.

She tried to control herself, tried to pull herself back to the present moment, but the more she resisted, the more her emotions dragged her under. So she let them. She submersed herself in the ragged sense of loss until sorrow surrounded her entire being and became every fiber of her.

Gradually, the intensity of it slipped away. The pain was still present, like a fresh bruise, but it no longer consumed her. She removed the mourning ring from her finger and rotated it so the lock of her father’s hair faced out. As she slid the ring back on her finger, she realized that Miss Shaffer stood nearby, watching. Mary wondered how long she had been there.

Mary rubbed her face with her hands, certain it was not presentable.

“You must miss your father terribly,” said Miss Shaffer kindly as she approached.

Mary nodded.

“It is a hard thing, to lose a family member. I can tell that you loved him dearly.”

Mary sniffed, and then tried to stand. Miss Shaffer helped her to her feet.

“Come, walk with me,” said Miss Shaffer. She linked her arm with Mary’s and led her up and down the rows.

Finally, Mary regained her voice. “I apologize for my behaviour and…”

“You do not need to apologize. The church and these grounds should be a safe place to feel what you need to feel, to express what you need to express.”

“Thank you,” said Mary. Miss Shaffer made her feel that she did not need to be ashamed.

After a few more minutes of walking, Mary remembered her original purpose. “I know that Lady Trafford’s husband and children died not too many years ago. Are they buried here?”

“Yes,