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

but her kindness seemed calculated, planned even. Jane’s kindness was always genuine and unstudied.

“If you do not think it appropriate to correct her, then why do you always correct me?”

“We have a different relationship, and I want to help you reach your potential.” Lady Trafford said it as if she had some distant goal for Mary, some grand vision that she had not chosen to share.

Lady Trafford paused thoughtfully. “I think your father would have appreciated your observation about her.”

“You do?” asked Mary. Besides stating that they had known each other in their younger years and that she respected Mr. Bennet, Lady Trafford had never said anything more about her father.

“Your father and I were once at the same very tedious dinner party. The host spoke for thirty minutes straight without pause. How he managed to breathe, I still do not know. The host told one story about Bicester, Oxfordshire, and every single time he said it as it is spelled, ‘Bi-ches-ter,’ instead of pronouncing it as it should be, ‘Bister.’ Finally the man paused for a drink and your father took the opportunity to interrupt.

“‘I take it,’ said Mr. Bennet. ‘That you have been to Bi-ches-ter many times?’ ‘Of course,” said the host. ‘At least three or four times.’ Mr. Bennet smiled and said, ‘I do love Bister myself. It has some marvelous old buildings.’ The host flushed as he realized his error, and it was all the rest of us could do to not laugh at him.”

“That sounds like something my father would say.” Despite not necessarily being related to Lady Trafford, Mary had assumed that Lady Trafford must have, in fact, known her father. Why else would she come to view his body or invite Mary as a guest? Yet a part of her must not have truly believed it, for Mary felt great surprise at hearing such a story from Lady Trafford. It was very specific, and on such an insignificant subject matter, that it did not make sense for it to have been fabricated. And it was in line with the way Mr. Bennet often spoke to those he found foolish. “How did you meet my father?”

“Oh, I cannot possibly remember when we met. With relations it is as if you always knew them.”

In this Lady Trafford seemed more evasive. But if she actually knew Mr. Bennet, what did she have to hide?

When they arrived in Worthing, Lady Trafford let Mary off on the main street, in front of the bookseller. Mary was about to enter but decided to visit the post office next door first. If she obtained her mail before it arrived at the castle, she could make sure no one read it, even if the sender used only a simple seal to secure it.

Three others were already in the post office: a seamstress and a shoemaker she recognized from church, and a short, well-dressed woman who, like Mary, wore black for mourning. The ribbon on Mary’s black bonnet felt tight under her chin, so she pulled out the knot and tied it again as the man at the counter helped the others.

Finally, it was her turn. “Do you have any mail for me?”

“What is your name, miss?”

“Mary Bennet. I am staying at Castle Durrington with Lady Trafford.”

The man went to the back room for a minute and returned with a stack of mail. “These two are for you. These others are also addressed to the Castle. Would you like to pay for them as well?”

Lady Trafford probably intended to come to the post office later, or more likely, have Mr. Tubbs do so. But Lady Trafford had given her some money for pocket expenses and had paid for the receipt of all of Mary’s letters during the course of her stay at Castle Durrington.

“Yes, please.” Another motivation, she admitted to herself, was the chance to see Lady Trafford’s correspondence.

The man spent a minute calculating the distances that the letters had travelled. “That will be eight shillings and ten pence.”

It was a huge amount—almost half a pound—and Mary almost did not pay it, but she had already agreed, and she was curious to see the stack of letters in the man’s hand. She removed the money from the pocket she had brought with her, counted it carefully, and handed it to the postman.

“Do you have anything you need sent?”

“Not today.” It occurred to her that rather than sending her mail with one of Lady Trafford’s servants, she could deliver it directly to the post office herself or leave it in one of the other post office boxes in Worthing.

She placed the stack of letters in her pocket, then she entered the bookseller’s shop. She had told Lady Trafford she would buy a book, and been given ten shillings for it, so despite the expense at the post office, she best spend money here as well. As she browsed, she heard the door to the shop open. The person who entered was none other than Monsieur Corneau; he must have seen Lady Trafford’s carriage and come to speak with Mary.

Corneau bowed at another man who was leaving the store. “Ah, Colonel, a pleasure.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you again,” the man said, and then he was gone. He was not dressed in uniform and was younger than Colonel Coates, so Mary guessed that it must be the new resident Ruth had spoken of, Colonel Radcliffe.

Monsieur Corneau approached Mary, gesturing towards the set of shelves at the very back of the shop. After a moment, Mary followed him there.

“J’ai plus des choses que je dois vous dire,” Mary said in a whisper.

“Let us speak in English, Miss Bennet,” said Monsieur Corneau, also with his voice low. “It will be easier.”

Madame Dieupart’s French friends made no complaint about speaking to Mary in French, and Mary’s French had improved to the point that she felt she could hold this conversation in it. Yet perhaps once you had habituated to speaking a particular language with a person,