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

the castle. Even this mars the view a little, though there was no helping it.”

They left the garden from the south door, emerging into the apple orchard.

Withrow examined his pocket watch. “Have you been to the beach?”

“No,” she said. “Not once in my entire life.”

“You have been here for five days and you have not visited the water?”

“I have had no opportunity or reason for doing so.”

“I had planned a short visit, and you may accompany me.” He began walking south, through the trees.

“I do not know that I want to visit the ocean—it is a long way away!”

“It is only a mile, Miss Bennet, and you have no choice in the matter,” he said without turning around.

She was not sure what he meant by that. But, after he had walked a few steps, she decided to follow him. It might provide her with more insight into his character and motives.

The walk to the beach, in Mary’s estimate, was actually longer than a mile. As they approached, she saw the tiny village of Goring-by-Sea—a cluster of houses, really—off their path, further east. The smell of the sea gradually increased, plants and fish and salt all mixed together. Gulls squawked to each other, and several flew overhead. The closer they came to the ocean, the larger it looked. Water extended in all directions, farther than the eye could see, a rolling, shifting, unstable backdrop. Its immensity made her feel very small and insignificant. It could carry her away in a moment and no one would notice.

She peered out across the water. If her understanding of geography was correct, this was not actually the full ocean, but rather the English Channel. “Can you see France from here?”

“If it is a clear day, you can see it from the cliffs at Dover. But not here. Yet even though it is never visible, France is only a few miles away.” Withrow continued his walk forward and she followed him.

There was not an exact moment when the grass shifted to sand and pebbles, but as the sand overtook the grass, Withrow stopped. He crouched down, untied his shoelaces, and removed his shoes and socks.

“What are you doing?” asked Mary, feeling rather scandalized. She had never seen a gentleman with bare feet before—not even her father.

“I have no desire for my shoes to fill with sand. You could remove yours as well.”

She looked away so she did not see his feet. “I will be fine as I am.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and he walked down into the sand, not bothering to see if she followed.

He turned and walked parallel to the water. By the time Mary caught up with him, her shoes were indeed filled with sand. Grains of sand had somehow crept within her stockings and ground between her toes. With every step her feet sank into the sand, and with every step she had to fight against the sand to pull them free again. Withrow, with his bare feet, did not seem to have the same difficulty, though she could not tell whether it was due to the lack of shoes or to the fact that he walked on damp sand, lapped at by the waves.

She looked at Mr. Withrow’s profile against the backdrop of the ocean. His face seemed less guarded than she had ever seen it. They walked in silence for a few minutes before Withrow spoke.

“I would always come here, as a child. Sometimes I would visit for a few months, other times for a year. Whenever the opportunity arose—or whenever we ran away from tutors—my cousins and I would come down to the beach and play in the water.”

He rolled up the fabric of his trousers, exposing the bottom portion of his legs. Mary felt that if he had not before, now he had certainly overstepped the bounds of propriety. It struck her that they were unchaperoned and that she did not, in fact, know Mr. Withrow very well.

He stepped out into the water.

It was not very deep—the water only came to his ankles. But then he stepped out farther.

A sudden gust of wind bit through Mary’s clothes. The day went from feeling mild for September to very cold. The wind seemed stronger here than at the house. She walked away from the ocean and sat on a grassy patch. She watched as Withrow stood in the water. He always seemed to be in motion, even when seated at a desk, and yet now he embodied stillness. Mary did not know what to make of it, could not imagine how something as tempestuous as the ocean could calm him so.

A wave approached, much larger than the others. It rushed towards the shore, yet Withrow did not move. Maybe his eyes were closed; maybe he did not see it.

“Mr. Withrow!” she cried out in alarm.

The wave hit him, and she closed her eyes. When she opened them, he was still standing. She breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned around. His trouser legs were wet a little above the knees, but besides that he seemed unharmed. “Whatever is wrong now, Miss Bennet?”

“That was a huge wave! I thought it would carry you away, and I did not know what I would do.”

He laughed again, and this time he did not stop when she glared at him.

“Do you know anything, Miss Bennet?”

Her cheeks flushed in anger and she felt her jaw drop. She began preparing a rebuttal, but she was never as good at a quick response as her sister Elizabeth and before she could speak, he spoke again.

“That was a little wave and could do no harm to anyone.” His voice was less sharp, but she still took offense.

“So the ocean is not a thing to be afraid of?”

“Not today. It can be frightening. It can be dangerous. You have lived a very protected life, Miss Bennet, but everything and everyone can be dangerous, given the correct circumstances. You would do well to remember that.”

Mary swallowed. The way he said everyone made