The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet, Katherine Cowley [books successful people read .TXT] 📗

gasp. If she had not known better, she would have thought she had been instantly transported to another house somewhere else in the countryside, for the back of the house did not look anything like a castle. Gone were the turrets and towers she had seen on the front of Castle Durrington. There was no grey stone, nothing at all castle-like. Rather, she felt like she had stepped into an Italian painting. The house was grand, with yellow facing and beautiful, tall white pillars.

“I had asked Mrs. Boughton not to tell you in advance about the two styles of architecture of the estate. I much prefer if guests experience it for themselves.”

“I did not expect…” said Mary, but she found herself at a loss for words.

“My husband and I conceived of it together. He did not live to see it finished. It has taken twenty-three years, and there are still some improvements I would like to make.”

“What happened to your husband?” asked Mary. “And to your children?”

“You will find that it is not always best to ask extremely personal questions of new acquaintances,” said Lady Trafford. Despite giving correction, she did not look angry or ruffled. Instead she continued as if Mary had never asked. “I have always enjoyed architecture that combines very different styles in new and intriguing ways. To me, it is true to my experience of life, of people.

“I think sometimes we look at a person and we assume we know everything about them. We think we know all of their sides. Yet often there is more to a person than meets the eye. There is a side we have not seen, and until we see it, we cannot know them.

“The real reason I have brought you here, Miss Bennet, is I think there is more to you than meets the eye. I think people underestimate you, and so they do not see you fully. But I have confidence that you will surpass everyone’s expectations.”

No one had ever spoken like this to Mary before, and the words made her feel warm and hopeful inside. Whether or not they shared a familial connection, Lady Trafford had seen something in her, something of worth.

But it also made Mary wonder. Yes, Lady Trafford had been speaking of Castle Durrington and of Mary, but surely it must apply to the lady herself. What was hidden beneath the surface of Lady Trafford? If there was more to her, Mary was determined to find out.

Chapter Eight

“May the Cydads glide smooth, and the party be free

From that cursed of maladies, sickness at sea.”

–The Sussex Weekly Advertiser, Lewes, England, September 13, 1813

Lady Trafford unfolded a large piece of paper and laid it on the table in the parlor, nearly covering the entire surface. Her finger trailed along the fibers of the paper until it came to rest upon her own name.

“Here is where I am located on the chart. And this is my dearly departed husband.” Her finger traced upwards to his parents, and then down to a woman’s name, “Susan Trafford.”

“My husband’s sister married a Mr. Charles Withrow. You, of course, know their third child, Henry Withrow, who will inherit Castle Durrington and the estate.”

Mary nodded, eager to move past these basic facts and see how she and Lady Trafford were related. After all, it had been four days since Lady Trafford had promised to show her their familial connection, and Mary found herself growing impatient. Despite her lessons and meeting some of Lady Trafford’s friends, Mary would feel more firm in her position at Castle Durrington if there was a substantial connection between them.

Lady Trafford moved back to her own name. She traced up to her great-grandparents and then down to a second cousin once removed. She tapped on his name. “I believe this is where the connection occurs. Let us see your chart.”

Mary spread out the pages of her own family chart. They went through Mary’s records and discovered that Mary’s cousin’s aunt—who was an aunt by marriage and shared no blood with Mary—had married the man that Lady Trafford had pointed out on the chart.

Mary had been wrong. She had examined these relationships—and even remembered looking at this aunt’s name—the other night in the library. Yet in the family Bible, she had not seen her aunt’s name, and truly could not remember seeing her husband’s name. She must have missed his name and missed this connection even though it was really quite simple. The failure felt as strong and sudden as knocking over a shelf full of books.

They were related, tangentially. But it was clear that Mary did not have a strong claim on Lady Trafford as a relation and that Lady Trafford taking her in and providing her with lessons was truly an act of benevolence—and a supposed act of gratitude for preventing the thief from interfering with her cases. Mary must have made their day much more difficult by recognizing him, forcing Withrow to pretend to chase him.

“May I copy some of this information, for our family records?”

“Of course,” said Lady Trafford.

Mary fastidiously wrote out name after name, date after date. As she did so, Lady Trafford read newspaper after newspaper. Several seemed to be local, regional papers, like the Kentish Gazette, while others were from London—The Times, The Courier. There even appeared to be one from Scotland and another from Ireland.

She took a minute to consider the names closest to Lady Trafford’s. Her husband, Sir George Trafford, had died in 1805. Her daughter, Anne, in 1808, at only fourteen years old. And her son, James, in 1810, at the age of twenty. Mary twisted the mourning ring on her finger. Death could come to anyone, at any time, without warning. She was struck by a sudden sadness. She blinked quickly to keep her eyes clear and dutifully copied down the names and dates for Anne, James, and Sir George. That was a large amount of personal loss for Lady Trafford to suffer in a period of