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

she had danced with was Mr. Collins, at the ball at Netherfield, and it had been a pleasant experience. He had been a skilled, attentive dancer. Despite her many goals for the evening, she could spare a few minutes for a dance, should she be invited.

The group dispersed, but before Mary could continue her search for Withrow, Miss Tagore pulled her aside and spoke quietly.

“Did you realize that Mr. Franklin wanted to ask you to dance?”

“No.” It had not seemed to her that Mr. Franklin was inclined towards her at all.

“That is why he asked you if you like dancing.”

“Oh,” said Mary.

“I believe he took your commentary on dancing as a refusal.”

“I see.” Mary sniffed, trying to hide her surprising sense of disappointment. Yet her main objective tonight was not to dance, and so it should not matter whether a man she had just met invited her to the floor.

They were interrupted by Miss Tagore’s partner for the first dance, who led her to the ballroom. Mary followed, a little behind. Miss Tagore and her partner took the position of the first couple; Lady Trafford must have invited Miss Tagore to open the first dance.

Mary walked around the perimeter of the ballroom, stopping once she discovered Mr. Withrow. He was leading his own lady to the dance floor, but her back was turned. Mary stepped a bit closer and waited until the dance began and the woman turned. It was Miss Shaffer, who looked lovely in a cream-coloured gown.

One of the women who Miss Tagore had introduced to Mary came up to Mary and spoke quietly. “Your friend, Miss Tagore. I have heard she stands to inherit her father’s entire fortune, three thousand pounds a year. Is that correct?”

“I do not know. I have never discussed it with her.” If it was true, it did not surprise Mary. The trouble with having a fortune was that everyone wanted to be your friend, whether or not they were even worth your attention.

“Why have you come to stay with Lady Trafford?”

“In part, Lady Trafford has been training me to become a governess.”

The woman’s eyes studied Mary’s dress, and then returned to Mary’s face. “I can see that that is what she believes you are suited for.”

Mary bit back a harsh reply. This stranger was not worth Mary’s attention, or her fury. “I hope you enjoy your time at the ball.”

“You as well, Miss Bennet.”

As the woman walked away, Mary’s fists clenched involuntarily, as if she were an angry schoolboy. She spread out her fingers slowly, trying to release the tension in her body. She had thought everyone in Worthing was kinder than those in Meryton, but she had been wrong. She looked down at her dress and its drab green. She hated to admit it, but maybe Fanny had been correct about her clothing. And maybe Fordyce was wrong. Maybe a simplicity and modesty of dress was not the grand moral issue he made it out to be. She certainly would not condemn all the other women here as having trivial minds due to their beautiful apparel. Lady Trafford’s dress was the epitome of ornamentation, and yet no one would ever accuse her of a trivial mind. Surely it would not have hurt to wear Fanny’s dress for one night.

Mary watched the dance, but she could not rid herself of the tension in her shoulders, or of the self-loathing she always felt, every single time that she was treated this way. Yes, she may have brought the comment on herself, but in some ways, that made it worse, for that made the insult justified. She blinked her eyes and sniffed her nose. The musicians were first rate, and Miss Tagore did a fine job choosing the sets, making them interesting, but not putting too many complex ones in a row. Mr. Withrow seemed attentive to Miss Shaffer, but also a bit reserved. She, on the other hand, was full of smiles and delight. But Mary could not watch more of the dance, could not stand here while the insulting woman stood not far away, glancing occasionally in her direction and laughing. It reminded Mary of her first ball, a public ball she had attended in Meryton when she was fourteen. She was one of the youngest people there—Mrs. Bennet had no desire to make her daughters wait to be out in society—and she had hoped to dance with the vicar’s son, Mr. Miles, for he had always been kind to her.

There was only one other girl her age there, a girl who shared the name Mary. Miss Mary Yalden. They had never really been friends, and Miss Yalden’s behaviour that night was likely due to Mary always correcting Miss Yalden in Sunday school. Miss Yalden had surely found her overbearing.

At the ball, Miss Yalden had approached her, and, without even giving a greeting, said, “You think too much of yourself.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Mary had replied.

“I see you watching Mr. Miles. You would not be suited for anyone half as fine as he is.”

Just then, Mr. Miles had walked in their direction, and Miss Yalden had said, loudly, “Whatever is that smell?” Then Miss Yalden, with an unpleasant expression on her face, had looked directly at Mary.

Mr. Miles had not asked Mary to dance. And Miss Yalden wore a laughing smile for the rest of the evening.

Mary tried, she tried ever so hard to balance both being herself and being an acceptable member of society. Yet she always failed. Always. Why could she not be different? Why did she always fall into the same traps, the same things that led people to undervalue and mistreat her? Yes, they were autonomous individuals who made their own poor choices in their treatment of her, but there was no reason for her to add to it or incite it. Yet over the years that was what she had always done, and she did not know how to stop. Even though she could