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

looking down at the entry to the house below, but did not see anyone. She wondered if Lady Trafford had been notified of the middle-of-the-night visitors.

She heard footsteps coming down a hall—the hall with Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow’s rooms—and panicked. She felt as if she were in one of Kitty’s silly Gothic novels. She had read one of Kitty’s novels, only with the purpose of more fully understanding and condemning the pettiness of the world. But now, all the terrible possibilities presented in the novel came to the forefront of her mind.

In Kitty’s novel, the main character had been caught eavesdropping on an illicit liaison and been thrown out of the estate in the middle of the night.

Mary could not let herself be seen. She had no way to defend herself and very little money. If she wrote to her family, someone would come fetch her, but it could take several days for her letter to arrive. While Colonel Coates had promised to help her should the need ever arrive, she had no desire to walk to Worthing in the middle of the night and attempt to find him.

She stepped back from the balcony and hid behind a curtain covering one of the decorative alcoves. There was a gap, just large enough for her to fit. She pressed herself flat against the wall panel, and once again found herself wondering at the castle’s design and the empty, walled-off space that must exist behind this panel.

She peered around the edge of the curtain and watched as Mrs. Boughton, Lady Trafford, and Mr. Withrow descended the grand staircase, carrying candles. Mrs. Boughton must have let the visitors in and come to fetch Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow. Mary waited a minute and then followed them down to the main floor.

A faint light shone from underneath the door of the library. She stood in front of it, considering. She had no justifiable reason to barge in, and if she stayed here, she could be discovered. Unlike the domed balcony room above, the circular entryway had no easy place to hide, so she stepped into the parlor next to the library. From here she could still see the entryway but was unlikely to be seen.

Mary pressed her ear against the wall of the sitting room that adjoined the library, but she could hear nothing, so she resigned herself to kneeling behind a sofa, peering out at the entry hall. She recognized the absurdity of the situation, of attempting to spy on her hosts, yet at the moment, spying seemed like the only course of action before her. Ordinary people did not hold middle-of-the-night meetings if there was another alternative. It could be an under-the-table business affair, a plan to defraud someone, an illegal shipping agreement, or countless other clandestine possibilities.

After not more than a minute or two, Mrs. Boughton passed through the entry hall from the direction of the kitchens. She carried a platter of tea and bread and entered the library.

Mary tiptoed back to the circular entryway. The library door was cracked, and she heard voices; they must be seated at the chairs near the entrance.

“We questioned everyone,” said a woman’s voice, “but it was futile. Either no motive, or, if they had motive, no possible way they could have been in Worthing to perform the deed.”

Mary tried to fix the words in her mind, to remember every detail. She could analyze them later.

“I was able to search the parsonage, and I found most of his materials,” said a man’s voice. He had a slight accent, but Mary could not place it. “Several key notebooks were missing.”

“We could lose more than Holloway if we do not recover them.” This voice Mary recognized. It was Lady Trafford. They were talking about Holloway’s death, as if he were a lost notebook! Mary felt pity for the poor man.

“He must have had them with him,” said the man.

Now, Mr. Withrow spoke. “There was nothing on him when Miss Bennet discovered his body, if she is to be believed.”

“She would not hide something like that from us,” said Mrs. Boughton, and her voice seemed to be getting louder. “She does not have the skill.”

Mary backed away from the library door and into the parlor, and not a moment too soon, for she heard the library door shut.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She had almost been caught, almost discovered. At the very least they would accuse her of eavesdropping, though they might take it to the logical conclusion and realize she was spying on them.

She curled up on the sofa, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her, but it did not stop the cold that she felt. Her mind leapt around the snatch of conversation that she had heard. They had searched a parsonage, but she did not know where. It could be here in Worthing, or anywhere really, but if it held Holloway’s papers, perhaps it was in Crawley. Questioning people in Crawley made sense as they knew Holloway but would not have been in Worthing to kill him. It surprised her that multiple people could have wanted to kill Holloway—he had been a clergyman—but now that she was involved in a murder investigation, it was time that she ceased to be surprised by such possibilities.

A sound interrupted her thoughts. Perhaps the swinging of a door. She sat up, raising her head just above the edge of the sofa so she could see out into the circular entryway.

Into the entryway stepped Mrs. Boughton carrying a candelabra, followed by Lady Trafford, Mr. Withrow, and their two mysterious guests. They had dark brown skin—though not as dark as Fanny’s—a regal air, and fine clothing. The woman appeared to be about Mary’s age, and Mary guessed that the man was her father. The woman embraced Lady Trafford and said, “I wish we had time to visit the church. We will on our upcoming visit.”

“It is just as well,” said Withrow. “At this time of night you would be