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

and actresses, that infested St. Petersburgh. Not only is the French drama a powerful instrument in infusing French principles into all ranks of society; but the chief performers, especially the females, have at times been too successfully employed as spies, and agents of political corruption.”

–The Times, London, November 29, 1813

The French officer unfolded the paper that he had removed from his overcoat. Mary wished she had a hiding spot closer to where the French officer and Withrow stood, because she could not make out any details, but it appeared to be a map.

The officer rested the map on a tree stump and moved his hands in different directions along it, gesturing, tapping certain spots, and pausing as Withrow asked him questions. She could not hear a word they were saying, but what she could see was enough. This was much worse than a dubious business deal meant to enrich Withrow and Lady Trafford, much worse than manipulations to bring Mary to Castle Durrington, much worse than a set of stolen mourning rings or searching her parents’ bedroom. Much worse than smuggling, and maybe even worse than the murder of Mr. Holloway. Withrow might, at this moment, be betraying his own country.

She shivered in her hiding spot. While she had become more accustomed to going out in the cold, it was more tolerable when one was in motion. It was a particularly bitter day, with a cold wind coming up from the sea, cutting through her cloak.

Her muscles tightened and she involuntarily shifted her body in response. A branch next to her cracked, and a pine needle poked her in the eye. She cut off her cry of pain, clamping her mouth shut and swallowing.

Withrow and the French officer stopped and looked up from the map. They had heard her. The French officer paced around the clearing. As he approached, Mary could see the fine shine on his boots. There was not a single blemish. Beneath his overcoat, attached to his belt, was a sword.

Mary’s eye hurt so much that she wanted to let out a sob, but she contained herself, watching, waiting for discovery. The sketches she had brought would not be sufficient excuse if she was discovered, not in this circumstance, hiding beneath a bush.

The French officer passed her hiding spot and returned to Withrow and the map. Yet while she wanted to feel relief, Mary could not. She could hardly breathe out of fear of making another sound.

Finally, the officer and Withrow finished with their conversation. The officer folded his map and placed it in his cloak, which he carefully did up so not a single glimpse of his uniform was visible.

Withrow embraced the man, and as he left, Withrow called out, “Be safe, my friend!” After the man left, Withrow stood for several minutes, waiting, and then he returned to the castle.

*

An hour later, Mary found herself at odds with Fanny. Mary had been playing the pianoforte, trying to calm herself and think rationally about Withrow’s meeting with a French officer, when Fanny practically dragged her upstairs to her room.

“Now sit on the bed, right there, and close your eyes,” said Fanny.

Mary sat on the bed and gritted her teeth, but did not close her eyes, one of which still hurt from the pine needle.

“Please, close your eyes, just for a moment.”

Mary complied, though she wished Fanny would tell her why she had felt a need to interrupt her. At Longbourn, the servants all knew better than to disturb her while she practiced music.

“Now open them,” said Fanny.

Mary did so, making her dissatisfaction clear on her face.

Fanny held up two dresses: a cream-coloured morning gown with intricate embroidery and a puce evening gown with copious amounts of lace. Mary was not particularly fond of puce, though Kitty, Lydia, and other fashionable young women adored it.

“What am I looking at?”

“The new clothes I made you, of course. This morning gown will be perfect for your complexion, especially now that your face has perked up from walking, and the evening gown should look stunning by candlelight.”

“I did not—”

“But what you will really like is the ball gown.” Fanny set down the gowns, turned, and lifted an elaborate, bright canary-yellow ball gown.

Mary sniffed in disdain. It was pretty—she would not deny that—but opulent, like sewing ten-pound notes onto your dress. The neckline was low, both in the front and the back.

“That is not what I asked you to make,” said Mary.

“Your request did not make any sense,” said Fanny. “You asked for another black mourning gown when you are almost done with mourning. So I made you what you need—a new morning gown for daily activities, and a new evening gown, especially useful when dining with visitors. And of course, you have no ball gown and we are about to hold a ball. I thought you would be pleased.”

“As I told you before, I have worn my green dress to every ball I have attended for the past three years. And I intend to wear it to Lady Trafford’s ball.”

Fanny held the new ball gown up to herself, as if trying it on for size. “And what exactly is wrong with this one?”

“I told you that any new dress had to have no lace, no beads, nor other adornment, and be an example of modesty in all aspects. This dress fails on all counts.”

“It’s as modest as all the other dresses the women will be wearing at the ball.”

“The fact that everyone wears something does not make it modest.” Her sisters all wore dresses like this to balls, but Mary would not. She had been profoundly impacted by Fordyce’s sermons—they had given her hope when she had felt none, and they helped her understand her place in her family and in the world when she felt lost. James Fordyce devoted an entire sermon to the subject of modesty of women’s apparel, and she had memorized a number of its passages. Fordyce warned against the wantonness of fashion; fancy dress could