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

potted tree. They had not completely shut the door; Mary pushed it open a crack farther and peered down the hallway. Withrow used a key to unlock his own door. He gestured to Monsieur Corneau. The Frenchman paused, shrugged, then entered. Withrow followed, closing the door tightly behind them.

Chapter Eighteen

“Swiss Confederation.—The war, which was lately far from our frontiers, is approaching our country, and our peaceable dwellings.”

–Saunder’s News-Letter, and Daily Advertiser, Dublin, Ireland, December 3, 1813

Mary pressed her ear against the bedroom door. Corneau and Withrow were speaking rapidly in French. With the muffling through the wood, she could hardly understand a word they said, and yet still she stood against the door, trying to make something out.

She glanced down the hallway, praying that all the servants were busy elsewhere and no one found her here, in this position. She tried placing her ear next to the keyhole, but she still could not understand them.

After another minute, she almost gave up and returned to the ball, but then she heard the voice of Monsieur Corneau, louder and more clearly. “Non. Nous en reparlerons plus tard. Je dis plus tard.”

She heard the key as it was inserted into the door and dashed back down the hall and into the drawing room. Several people looked at her askance, so she tried to calm her breathing as she walked through the room. She needed to leave the space, for it was likely that Monsieur Corneau and Withrow would return to this room. If they saw her breathing heavily, they might be suspicious.

She passed through the other rooms, taking a slow, meandering route to the ballroom, rather than going through the domed balcony room to get there more quickly.

Mary repeated the words of Monsieur Corneau in her mind. “No. We will talk about this later.” But what would they talk about, and why ever was it so important? Was Mr. Withrow working with or reporting to Corneau in some way?

The couples now danced the second dance. Miss Tagore had a new partner, and though she had opened the first dance, her energy did not seem to flag. Mary wondered if, like Lydia, Miss Tagore would manage to dance the entire night.

Mr. Tagore approached Mary and bowed. “Miss Bennet.”

Mary curtsied in reply.

“Dancing is one of the few things my daughter enjoys full-heartedly.”

“She is quite skilled at it,” said Mary. “And does not seem to lack in partners.”

“People see us as a novelty, and often do not take the effort to see us as anything less or more.”

“A sign of true character is being able to see past superficialities.”

Mr. Tagore nodded. “You are quite correct. And how are you finding the ball?”

“It is quite elaborate,” said Mary. “I have never seen the preparations for a ball first-hand. For weeks every single servant has been dedicated only to this event. And the number of additional staff that have had to be brought on for today’s event is almost shocking. So much expense has been applied to the music, the decor, and the food, and all the guests have commissioned the finest apparel, and many probably hired a carriage for the evening. I have concluded that rather than hold balls it would be much better to alleviate suffering and help the poor.”

By the end of her pronouncement, a number of those standing nearby had turned to listen to her words. She hoped that they would reflect on them even after the ball. Mr. Withrow was nearby—he had returned from his secret meeting with Corneau—and he gave her a hard, cold look, which Mary found completely unwarranted. She only spoke the truth.

Mr. Tagore leaned towards her ear and spoke so only she could hear. “You would do well, Miss Bennet, to show gratitude and loyalty to your hosts, both privately and publicly.” His censure felt sudden and fierce, like a burn from touching something hot. Louder, so everyone could hear, he said, “I agree that more should be done to help the poor, but the occasional frivolity has its place, and many of the funds directly pay, and thus help, members of the community.”

“You are correct, of course,” said Mary quickly. Even though Lady Trafford and Withrow had ordered the theft of her family’s mourning rings, even though Withrow had met with a French officer, she was still their guest and did owe them at least a certain amount of outward respect. Furthermore, Mr. Tagore’s financial argument had merit.

Sir Pickering approached. “Mr. Tagore, Miss Bennet.” He focused on Mary, speaking directly to his point. “It has been a while since we have spoken. Have you recalled anything else from finding the body, or noted anything else since then, which would be useful in assisting my investigation?”

Clearly none of what she had reported to Corneau had made its way to Sir Pickering, or, if it had, not with any credit to her. There was so much she could tell him, so many observations and suspicions. But she could not tell him now, not here, at the ball, not here, with Mr. Tagore at her side and Mr. Withrow a few feet away. She would not cause a scene, especially not when it meant she might prevent the discovery of the rest of the truth.

“Unfortunately, I have nothing more to tell you,” said Mary. “How are you finding the ball?”

“Quite capital,” said Sir Pickering. “If you will excuse me, I have others I need to speak to.”

After Sir Pickering left, Lady Trafford approached with none other than Colonel Radcliffe.

“Mr. Tagore, Miss Bennet, this is Colonel Radcliffe,” said Lady Trafford.

Mary curtsied and prepared to speak, but before she could say anything, Colonel Radcliffe turned to Mr. Tagore.

“Mr. Tagore, I heard you work for the East India Trade Company.”

“I used to be employed by them,” said Mr. Tagore, “but now I work with them, and with other organizations involved in trade.”

“I would love to speak to you about it,” said Colonel Radcliffe. “Perhaps over cards?”

“I am sure you will have plenty