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

would visit next. Quite a ways southeast was a barn, but she had seen barns before. From here she could also see all the land south of the castle. The castle was more elevated than the land south of it, which explained why, though several miles away from it, you could see the beach. The area south of the castle had a long, sloping plain, but the plain was interrupted by a rounded circle of forest—which looked intentional enough that it might be a Roundel—as well as an orchard and a strange walled structure.

Mary walked across the plain, down mild slopes and around occasional rocks and oak trees until she reached the walled structure. It was made of red brick with regular pilasters breaking up its flat surface and was a little over two times her height. She walked slowly around the perimeter of the space, dodging the occasional shrub and counting her paces. It was rectangular, and a huge area—approximately 300 feet on the long side and 180 on the short side.

On the north side, facing Castle Durrington, were several flues, as well as several other structures jutting out whose entrance must be on the inside. There had been a door on the south side, facing the orchard and far beyond it, the beach. There was also a door on the north side. She leaned with her ear against it. She could hear noises—unknown things hitting other things, grunts and moans, some talk and even some laughter. She wondered what could possibly be the source of all that, and why it was on Lady Trafford’s land—for she must still be on Lady Trafford’s land. It was such a strange walled space, and she suspected that if she had paid more attention, she would have been able to see it from the house. Even stranger was the fact that no one had mentioned this wall or what was housed within.

She pulled her ear from the door and, wondering if it was unlocked, put her fingers on the handle.

“Miss Bennet!”

Mary cried out in alarm. Her shoulders bunched up, involuntarily, towards her ears.

She whipped around towards the sound of the deep, sharp voice.

It was only Mr. Withrow. She breathed in and out slowly, attempting to calm herself. “You startled me,” she managed to say, with a bit less dignity than she intended.

“I can see that.” Mr. Withrow chuckled.

“Are you laughing at me?”

His emotion slid from his face like water off a roof. “I would not attempt to laugh at someone as serious as you, Miss Bennet.” He scratched his ear. “What are you doing next to the garden?”

“This is a garden?”

“Yes. What did you think it was?”

“That was what I was attempting to ascertain when you came upon me without any warning.”

“Do you make it a habit of prying about other people’s property?”

“I thought I was a guest here,” said Mary. “I have done no wrong. And I believe it is quite appropriate to familiarize oneself with one’s surroundings. As long as curiosity is kept within certain bounds, it can be quite a productive character trait.”

Withrow shrugged noncommittally. “If you will excuse me, I need to open this door.”

Mary felt anger rise within herself, but she could not pinpoint why or justify the emotion, so she stepped aside.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside a space brimming with green. The smell reminded Mary of home, of Longbourn and the fields behind the house. Withrow turned back to her. “I am going to check with the workers on their progress. If it would please you, you are welcome to join me.”

“I would like that,” said Mary as she followed him inside.

Withrow walked quickly through the space, pausing only when he saw one of the workers. He would stop for a moment, check if they needed anything, and ask about their progress. He would often give them a few words of encouragement. They appeared to be collecting some of the final harvest of the crops—beans and onions and tomatoes.

Withrow did not speak to Mary, which she found preferable. It let her lag a little behind and experience the garden at her own pace. As a young child she had spent some time in her father’s fields, but as she had grown older she had stopped, though she could not remember why. This area seemed about half the size of her father’s—no, no longer her father’s—Mr. Collins’s crops at Longbourn.

“Would you like a tomato, Miss?” asked one of the women, holding out a small, yellow tomato in her hand. Mary was still feeling a bit jumpy, so she had to bite back her surprise.

“I think I will be fine,” Mary began to say, but then she saw Withrow shaking his head with his lips pinched together. “Actually, I would like it, thank you.”

She knew that tomatoes were not poisonous, as had long been believed, so she took the tomato and, as the woman watched her, rubbed off a bit of dirt with her finger and put it into her mouth. She had never particularly liked the texture of tomato seeds, but she chewed and swallowed, as that was clearly expected of her. “Thank you.”

Withrow gestured for her to join him and led her around the rest of the garden. “Why is this space walled?” Mary asked him. “Will that not prevent the plants on the outer perimeter from receiving as much sunlight?”

“Unfortunately, this is the only area of the estate with the ideal soil and light for crops. In the first few years there were incidents of animals and vagrants getting into the crops. Because this area is so far from everything else, the most practical solution was to build a wall.”

“Why not build the workers’ dwellings next to here?”

Withrow answered with not a little impatience, “First, many of their cottages were built before planting the gardens. Second, it is easier for the workers to live near the road. And third, we have no desire to disrupt the entire view of the ocean from