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

invitation to see it, and it has been a month since it arrived at Castle Durrington.”

“I apologize for neglecting to show it to you,” said Lady Trafford. “Come, there should be time to view it before the meal.”

Lady Trafford led everyone to the hall that could be used as a ballroom. The large room, which was often left dark, was already aglow with candlelight; Lady Trafford must have predicted that they would visit the painting, or maybe it was lit anytime that guests were expected. Mary stayed near the end of the group, with Miss Shaffer. As they entered the ballroom, Miss Shaffer paused for a moment at the portrait of a man who had the same nose as Lady Trafford. Miss Shaffer spent longer gazing at the next portrait, a young lady not more than twelve or thirteen years of age, with a pleasant face and a warm smile.

Miss Shaffer turned away from the portraits and gestured that they should catch up with the others. “It is a pity you will never have the opportunity to meet Lady Trafford’s children, James and Anne. They were remarkable people.”

“Did you know them well?” asked Mary.

“Yes,” said Miss Shaffer sadly.

After a moment of silence, Mary realized that it would be appropriate to say something kind in response. But despite the fact that she herself was in mourning, no words came to her. She turned to what her sister Jane would likely say. “It must have been very challenging, for all of their friends and family.”

Miss Shaffer nodded, and they caught up with the others at a painting of a vase of flowers.

“This is a piece by Mary Moser,” said Lady Trafford. “I like the contrast of the dark background, with the vase and table almost disappearing into it, and the vivid brightness of the light on the flowers.”

Mrs. Shaffer leaned her head closer to the painting and then stepped back to take a fuller view of the work. “I think it is admirable when women paint,” she said, “but I do not believe that they should sell their paintings. It is better for them to develop their talents to serve their family members and friends, rather than place themselves in the public eye.”

“I like the painting,” said Mr. Shaffer. “But, like my wife, I do believe it leaves something to be desired.”

“I think it is marvelous,” said Miss Shaffer. “If I could paint like that, I would try to sell my work.”

“I do not doubt that you could succeed,” said Lady Trafford.

Mr. and Mrs. Shaffer did not seem pleased with that prospect.

Personally, Mary liked the painting. She herself had no accomplishments that would ever place her in the public eye, but if she did, she wondered if her mother would support her, or if her father would have when he was alive.

“Have you had any news from Charles?” asked Mr. Withrow, changing the subject.

Mrs. Shaffer stiffened.

Mr. Shaffer considered his wife, then spoke. “We recently received a letter, and Charles is doing well.”

“Conditions are terrible for the troops,” said Mrs. Shaffer.

“At least Charles has not taken ill,” said Mr. Shaffer.

“My brother is serving on the continent,” Miss Shaffer whispered in Mary’s ear.

“I am sorry to hear of it,” said Mr. Withrow. “We all hope something will change soon so this war can end, and the troops can return home.”

For most of Mary’s life, England had been at war with France. She could hardly imagine what it would be like for their countries to be at peace.

“How is Jacob?” asked Mr. Withrow.

“He is enjoying his studies,” said Mr. Shaffer.

“My eldest brother is in London,” whispered Miss Shaffer. Mary appreciated how Miss Shaffer provided context so she could feel part of the conversation.

Lady Trafford gestured them forward to another painting. “This painting is not new, but it has been in storage. I thought it time to display it again.”

It was a rather striking historical painting depicting John the Baptist’s head on a platter. Salome, who had requested his death, stood to the side, smiling. This painting had not been on display when Mrs. Boughton had given Mary a tour of the house a few days before, so Lady Trafford’s decision to display it must have been recent indeed.

“It is fascinating to consider the ugly things people will do when they think it best,” said Lady Trafford.

“I always find historical paintings very instructive,” said Mary. “Particularly those that take, as their focus, religious themes.”

Mrs. Shaffer once again stepped closer to the work. “It is well painted,” she said decisively.

“I was horrified when I heard of Mr. Holloway’s gruesome death,” said Lady Trafford.

Mary did not see the connection between Mr. Holloway and their current conversation. Mr. Withrow took one small step back, and all of the Shaffers’ faces looked as if they had just come across an unpleasant smell.

“Did you know that Sir Pickering and Colonel Coates think that Mr. Holloway may have been murdered on the eighth?” asked Lady Trafford.

“I had not heard the date,” said Mrs. Shaffer.

“Mr. Withrow met with him that very afternoon, here, on our property. Mr. Holloway told him he was headed to Worthing, but no one ever saw him again.”

“The eighth?” said Miss Shaffer. “That was the evening Mr. Holloway was supposed to dine with us. He never came.”

“Are you sure it was the eighth?” Mrs. Shaffer considered for a moment. “Yes, you are correct, it was the eighth. To think that he might have been murdered while we were halfway through our second course.”

Miss Shaffer put her hand on her father’s arm. “Father, are you unwell?”

Mr. Shaffer did appear rather pale. “I am fine,” he said briskly. “Quite fine.”

“Please, take a seat,” said Lady Trafford, gesturing to a chair. “I will send for something for you to drink.”

“It is unnecessary,” said Mr. Shaffer. He turned away from the painting of John’s head, but then turned back. “Mr. Holloway and I did not part on the best of terms the last time we saw each other, about a month ago. I