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

hear so many better melodies in her head, this was the only melody she actually knew how to play, and she could not stop playing it.

Her heart pounded, and blood rushed to her head as every snub and insult from the past flashed through her mind. No longer did she feel only the emotions of the moment; she was wading through the muck of every barbed insult she had ever received: all stinging wounds, as fresh as they had been on the days they were given.

Mary found it difficult to breathe. She needed to leave, but Lady Trafford would surely not approve if she fled to her room, and she had much she needed to do tonight. She must find a way to move past this, find a way to set it aside. Instead of fleeing, she walked to her favorite drawing room. Playing the pianoforte could often calm her and help her set aside the judgment and censure of others.

Unfortunately, the pianoforte was occupied. Mary had no compunction about asking someone to let her have a turn, but the lady was at the beginning of what Mary recognized as a very long piece, and Mary thought it most polite to interrupt in between pieces rather than in the middle of a piece.

Perhaps if Mary demonstrated one of her other accomplishments, it would have the same calming effect as playing the pianoforte. Last night, Lady Trafford had instructed her to spend more time at the ball establishing relationships rather than demonstrating accomplishments, yet in situations like this Mary struggled with casual conversation and often found that demonstrating an accomplishment provided for subsequent topics of discussion. Further, after such a demonstration, she was more likely to be treated as a person of worth and value. Mary made her way over to a gathering of older women, along with a handful of younger women who had not been asked to dance, all seated near the side of the room. She knew several of them, including Mrs. Tagore, but even if she had not, at a private ball it was more permissible to speak to whomever you liked.

Introductions were made and, after a few minutes of niceties, Mary informed them that she had memorized several poems in the French language of an inspiring, religious nature, and expressed her hope that they would not mind if she recited one or two.

She pressed her hands together, stood tall, and recited the first poem, making sure her enunciations were precise and raising and lowering the timbre of her voice at the appropriate moments. There was light applause at the end, so she undertook a second poem, after which their compliments were so enthusiastic that she decided to set all advice from Lady Trafford aside and recite a third poem. She had a fleeting thought that she might be indulging in the same bad habits that always led her to trouble, but she pushed it aside.

There was less applause and fewer compliments after the third poem, and she wondered if she should switch to English and recite one of the sermons she had memorized, but before she began Monsieur Corneau approached.

“Brava! C’est l’un de mes poèmes préférés.”

“Je vous remercie,” Mary replied.

He gestured her towards some chairs, and they sat. Mary’s recitation had calmed her; it had allowed her to forget most of her troubles, but now, she felt an edge of nervousness. She had been avoiding Monsieur Corneau since her discovery of the newspaper articles about his nephew.

“Votre français a vraiment progressé, mademoiselle,” he said.

“Merci,” said Mary.

“It has been a while since we have spoken,” said Monsieur Corneau, switching back to English. “Colonel Coates has been disappointed not to hear more of your reports.”

“I have been so busy with my studies, and I have not discovered anything of note,” Mary lied. Her falsehood felt justifiable: asking her to spy for him had been a grand deception on his part, from the very start.

“That is unfortunate,” said Corneau. “Sir Pickering seems to think he is close to finding the murderer. With your help, who knows what could be discovered?”

“I will keep watching and listening,” said Mary. “That is all that I can do.”

Corneau rested his hand on his chin and looked at her thoughtfully. His eyes shifted to where Mrs. Tagore sat with some of the other women. “In one of your reports, you told me of the middle-of-the-night visitors. Did they happen to be the Tagores?”

“No,” said Mary, hoping her tone of voice and her facial expression did not give away anything. “The visitors looked quite different than the Tagores.”

Mary did not know why she felt she must protect their identity, but now it felt imperative.

Corneau sighed. “Alas, you truly do not have more information for me. Please, let us meet more regularly in the future.”

“Of course,” said Mary, and she was relieved when he left to converse with someone else.

After a minute or two of steady breathing, she felt ready to return to her self-assigned tasks, so she returned to the ballroom. The music seemed to be drawing to a close, so she positioned herself near where she thought Withrow would be when it stopped. She was not quite correct, but not far off. She followed, at a distance, as he led Miss Shaffer back to her parents and then meandered through the rooms. He was clearly not going to dance the second dance, and while his path seemed aimless, Mary sensed a hidden purpose. She stayed as far behind him as she could without losing sight of him, and stopped several times to smell fresh flowers, purchased from a hot house.

Withrow paused as he entered the smallest drawing room, the final public room on this floor, next to the hall which led to the master bedrooms. He strode in quickly, with purpose.

Withrow placed his hand on Monsieur Corneau’s upper arm and led him out a small door behind a potted tree. They had entered Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow’s hallway. Mary stepped behind the same