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

they are.” Miss Shaffer led her to a secluded spot with three graves.

The largest stone was cut in the form of a cross and was almost Mary’s height. Words on the base showed that it belonged to Sir George Trafford. To the left was the headstone for James, and to the right a space, likely reserved for Lady Trafford when her time in this world ended, and then a headstone for Anne, covered with delicate carvings of flowers. There was a long crack which had been repaired near the upper edge of Anne’s stone.

“Lady Trafford has been hesitant to talk about their deaths,” said Mary.

“She still grieves for them,” said Miss Shaffer. “It was one loss after another for her, first her husband, then her daughter, then her son. She seemed lost for quite some time, but now she has found a way to move forward.”

“May I ask how they died?”

Miss Shaffer paused, considering, and Mary feared that she would not answer.

“It is simply because I want to avoid doing or saying anything that would offend Lady Trafford or cause her more pain.”

Miss Shaffer nodded. “I suppose there can be no harm.” She folded her arms against her body and shivered. “Sir George Trafford died of consumption. Anne—” Miss Shaffer wiped a tear from her eye. “Anne was only a year older than I. She was very ill for an entire year. Finally, she grew healthy and strong and lively again, and then there was the accident.”

“The accident?”

“The family was riding horses on a trail. Anne went up ahead with her horse. They were on a rocky ledge and the ground was unstable. Some of it broke under the weight of the horse and Anne and the horse fell. She died in the fall.”

Mary could picture it in her mind—a young girl falling, Lady Trafford screaming, maybe her older brother James jumping off his horse and running to her side, and no one, no one able to do anything for Anne.

“That is dreadful,” said Mary. “I can see why Lady Trafford does not like to speak of it.”

“It was quite tragic. Then with accidental deaths there is always an inquest, and I understand that it was quite hard on Lady Trafford.”

Miss Shaffer stared intently at Anne’s grave. Five years had passed, yet Miss Shaffer still grieved her friend. Perhaps grief was never easily, neatly resolved.

“Where did the accident occur?” Mary could imagine how hard it must be to pass that same spot again and again, to have the grief brought to the forefront every time.

“It was in Crawley.”

“In Crawley?” said Mary. “But that’s where Mr. Holloway—”

“Yes,” said Miss Shaffer. “Anne’s death was actually how Mr. Holloway and Lady Trafford met. Mr. Holloway was one of the local clergymen, and after the accident, he rushed to help and support Lady Trafford. He even personally accompanied Anne’s body to Worthing, then stayed for an additional week to be of further assistance.”

“Mr. Holloway sounds like he was a good man.”

“A good man, and a great one. Truly great. My father has always felt inadequate in comparison to him.”

“Mr. Withrow said that he could be rather theatrical.”

Miss Shaffer smiled. “Yes, indeed. He could pull a coin out of your ear at a moment’s notice, and he liked to hide things in unusual places. He could find nooks and crannies everywhere. When he was younger, he would enter the parsonage, be inside for less than two minutes, and during that time he would have hidden a handful of ribbons around the room. If I found them quickly, I could keep them.”

“Hearing of his death must have been hard on you too.”

“Yes,” said Miss Shaffer simply, and returned her gaze to Anne’s grave.

After a few minutes, Mary broke the silence. “What happened to James?”

“He died of convulsions.”

There were so many ways to die, so many reasons people died every single day. Yet when death came, it still felt unexpected.

Mary gestured at Anne’s headstone. “Was it damaged?”

“Vandals broke into the cemetery. It was not long after the stone was put in place.”

“Did they damage any of the other graves?”

Miss Shaffer appeared surprised at this question, as if it had never occurred to her before. “No. I do not believe they did.”

It seemed too random for vandals to damage only one grave, the grave of Anne Trafford. The family must have someone who wanted to harm them, but who? And why?

The deaths themselves did not sound suspicious, at least not from Miss Shaffer’s account. She wondered who else in Worthing would know more about the grave damage.

Yet she had to take care with whom she asked for stories about Lady Trafford. If someone knew her well enough to know about her past and the mysteries surrounding her family, then they likely had some sort of relationship with Lady Trafford. Mary’s questioning could easily be reported to the woman herself. To a certain extent that was unavoidable, but it was one thing for a single person to report back to Lady Trafford, for then it might be dismissed as the fruits of curiosity. But if three or four people reported Mary’s line of questioning, it could lead to trouble.

After a few minutes of more mundane conversation, Mary parted ways with Miss Shaffer. She returned to the inn and retrieved the old, smelly cloak, which she had left with Dusty. She prepared her disguise and visited the post office.

A letter from Maria had arrived. With chagrin, Mary noted that Maria had not sealed the letter at all, but simply folded it into itself. After leaving the post office, she found a private spot and read the letter.

Dear Mary,

It feels very unusual to be sending you a letter, addressed to someone else. I cannot imagine why it might be necessary.

I have spent a long time trying to find your information. Admittedly, I did many other things as well. I almost gave up, but then I finally discovered a few things that might be of interest to you.

First, there is no Brighton’s