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

her movements. But the last few days she had not even been able to do that, for she had been kept at such a distance.

“It is a rather large decision, perhaps one that is best made in consultation with your family. Speaking of which, it has been quite some time since you have seen them. Your mother must be needing you, and surely you will want to be home well before the holidays.”

Now Mary understood the shift in Lady Trafford’s mannerisms since the ball. The woman had spent all this time trying to find a way to rescind her invitation for Mary to stay at Castle Durrington. Mary had not expected it to end like this, but she knew when she was no longer welcome.

“I will write my mother at once and make arrangements for my return.”

Mary rushed from the parlor. As she reached the hall, tears slid down her cheeks. She had planned to go upstairs and weep in her room, but as she reached the rotunda, wracking sobs shook her body and she collapsed on the floor next to the top of the grand staircase.

She truly had not realized that her actions at the ball had disgraced Lady Trafford, a woman who had done so very much for her over the past months. And Mary had never meant to make a spectacle of herself. Mary’s mind ran ceaselessly over Lady Trafford’s words, repeating them again and again.

Mary had thought that she recognized her flaws—she knew she could be cold and distant; she knew that she could be rude and too quick to correct. But this was more than just the walls she hid behind. It was as if there was a fundamental defect in her character, something irrevocably wrong with her.

She had to work much harder than other people to behave in expected, acceptable ways. She could never simply interact with the world around her; she had to intentionally process everything and consider how normal people would act in any given circumstance. It seemed, over the past months, that Lady Trafford had been trying to teach her to do this better, but despite Lady Trafford’s kindness and diligence, and despite Mary’s efforts, Mary had failed. And it felt inevitable that Mary would continue to fail.

She could not even hide behind her accomplishments, not any longer. Her perceived accomplishments, the things she had worked so hard to gain, must, in fact, be paltry. This was not Lydia or Kitty mocking her skills at the piano, this was Lady Trafford, a woman of superb taste. If Mary did not have her accomplishments, then what was she left with? She had no beauty, no money, no social competence…she had nothing.

Mary’s sobs quieted and her body finally stilled. She twisted the mourning ring on her finger, remembering her father’s dying breaths, how he had looked at her but said nothing. Elizabeth might have talked with their father at a time like this. But Mary had not had that sort of relationship with him. She had never had that sort of relationship with anyone. There was no one she could turn to with her emotions, no one who would give her any comfort.

Not a single one of her family members had mentioned Mary returning for the holidays in their brief, occasional letters. Mary had slipped out of their lives and they had hardly noticed. They certainly did not desire her return.

Mary pressed her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, grateful that no servants had come upon her when she was like this. There was a mottled light on the sleeves of her dress, and she looked up at the dome above her. Through it shone a cold, weak December light, providing a dreary illumination even at midday.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, accompanied by the voices of Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow. She stood quickly; she did not want them to see her tear-streaked cheeks. She considered fleeing up the stairs, but then they would hear her and what if they followed? Instead she stepped behind one of the curtains covering the panels, the same one she had hid behind before, the night of the midnight visitors. She urged herself to be perfectly still and quiet as they entered the rotunda.

“A plan must be decided upon,” said Mr. Withrow.

“I need to see the papers myself,” said Lady Trafford. “We will discuss this in the library.”

Their footsteps echoed as they descended the grand spiral staircase. At least they had not noticed her. She shifted under the curtains, bumping her elbow against the panel behind her. It made an almost hollow sound. She peeked out from the curtain to make sure no one was in the rotunda and proceeded to tap the panel. It was definitely a hollow sound, more like one would expect from a door than a wall. She pushed the panel, but it did not budge, even when she pressed her full weight against it.

She must be wrong, it was only a panel, but she remembered her initial confusion about the castle. This was a circular room surrounded by square rooms. There must be a gap in between.

Mary ran her hands along the intricate, decorative moulding around the edges of the panel. It was difficult to tell what she was feeling in the near darkness, and she could not throw back the curtain in case someone walked by, but it was probably raised and textured leaves and flowers. She did not find anything, so she examined each part again with her fingers, moving more slowly this time.

One section of the moulding drew her attention. It had the same texture and shape as the rest but felt slightly less firm. She fiddled with it for a moment until it loosened, and she discovered a hidden latch. She pulled on it and was able to swing the panel open.

Mary’s breath stopped. She had been right! There was something. She peered into the dark space revealed by the panel but could