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

at home. But of course, it was impossible for things to always stay the same. She had lost Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia to marriage. Elizabeth lived at Pemberley, Lydia with Wickham’s regiment, and Jane and Mr. Bingley had recently given up Netherfield Hall and bought their own property near Pemberley. With her father’s death, she had only her mother and Kitty to look forward to for constant company. It still had not been decided where they would live permanently after the funeral, but once they vacated Longbourn, they would live, for a time, with Mrs. Bennet’s sister, Mrs. Philips, in Meryton. Mrs. Bennet had been bedridden since Mr. Bennet had taken ill, and they could not possibly travel farther until Mrs. Bennet’s health improved.

If only Mary were married to Mr. Collins. When Elizabeth had rejected Mr. Collins’s offer of marriage, Mary had hoped that he would propose to her. But he had not, instead wedding their friend Charlotte Lucas. Mary still looked on the incident with some regret: Mr. Collins was a religious man, full of profound statements and insights, and if she had married him, the Bennets would not be losing their home and possessions.

Mary breathed deeply, then set her fingers back onto the keys. She resumed the funeral march from where she had left off, this time playing so solemnly and slowly that no one could possibly complain. If she were of a more curious nature, perhaps she would make further inquiries after the servant, but it was a matter of little import.

“I have a mind to join the funeral procession,” said Elizabeth.

Mary paused, and Jane and Kitty looked up. What a strange idea. Of course, there was nothing that prohibited a woman from joining the funeral procession, or even the service in the church if she desired, but it defied tradition and was not part of a woman’s duty.

Mary resumed her music but paid close attention to the words of her sisters.

“Are you sure?” asked Jane. “You will be the talk of the region.”

“What does it matter to me what the people of Meryton think?”

“That is easy for you to say,” said Kitty, “with ten thousand pounds a year.”

“If I do not attend the procession, the closest blood relation to father will be Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot imagine our father wanting that.”

“If you go,” said Kitty, “I will accompany you.” Every morning since their father’s death, Kitty’s cheeks had been raw and tear stained. Her outward expressions of grief seemed, for her, a necessary demonstration of her love for their father. Mary tried to keep her sentiments—which were just as strong—more contained within herself.

“What about you, Jane?” asked Elizabeth.

“I had best stay with Mama. She will need my support.” Jane’s voice sounded tired.

“And you, Mary?”

“It is not part of a daughter’s duty,” said Mary stiffly. She continued to play as she spoke, unwilling to stop, and unwilling to admit that the idea of joining the funeral procession had a certain appeal. “And besides, between the two nights I have already spent and tonight, I will have passed three nights watching his body. That is enough.”

“I think, in this situation, any of our choices are justified,” said Jane. She stood. “Now where were those mourning rings?”

The mourning rings needed to be sorted so they could be distributed as part of the funeral, one to each family member and friend who attended. It was a small token of appreciation, and something they could wear in remembrance of him.

“I put the case next to the gloves,” said Kitty. She and Elizabeth also stood. They lifted gloves, shifted letters, and examined every nearby surface.

“Did we leave them in the downstairs parlor?” asked Elizabeth.

“I know I carried them up,” insisted Kitty. “Mrs. Hill must have moved them.” The housekeeper had been in the room not long before.

But Mary suspected that Mrs. Hill would not know. She re-examined the last few minutes in her mind: the servant entering the room, the strange sound, the removal of the chair, and now the missing mourning rings. It was too much of a coincidence. Yes, they could find Mrs. Hill or Mr. Collins and assemble the hired men, but that would take time. And why require someone else to solve a problem when you could solve it yourself?

Without a word to her sisters, Mary stood and exited the room. The men would be taking the unneeded furniture out the back of the house and loading it into wagons, and so she headed that direction, in a manner that was a bit faster than was normally appropriate for young ladies (though she took care not to run). She rushed down a staircase and out the door. Her heart pounded and her lungs felt short of air.

The chair was strapped to the back of the first wagon. The wagon’s wheels began to turn.

Mary stepped onto the gravel. She hesitated, for it was never ladylike to raise one’s voice. But this was an urgent matter. “Stop! Wait!” she cried, waving her arms.

The wagon stopped, and one of Mr. Collins’s men stepped down from it. He was one of the original eight. “What do you need, miss?”

“I need to examine that chair.”

The man removed the ropes and lifted down the chair. She ran her hands over the back and sides and noted that the cushion was slightly dislodged. Beneath it she found the black velvet case. She undid the latch, opened it, and saw that it still held the rings.

By now her sisters had followed her outside. “I found it,” she called to them, holding up the case.

Mr. Collins exited the house. “What is all this commotion?”

“Someone tried to steal the mourning rings,” said Elizabeth.

“Yes,” said Kitty. “It was one of the servants. He placed them in that chair.”

Mr. Collins puffed up his chest. His hands closed tightly and then opened again, as if he was trying not to clench them. “How dare you accuse me of stealing the rings? I, who out of generosity and Christian benevolence,