The Secret Life of Miss Mary Bennet Katherine Cowley (phonics reading books .txt) 📖

at least, she would have a better view. The six bearers, dressed in black, placed the coffin in the long black carriage designed for such a load. Everything was black and solemn as it should be. In addition to the coffin bearers, they had hired a man who was a mute and six page boys, all dressed in black. Even the horses were black; on their heads had been placed tall, glossy ostrich plumes, dyed a deep black and lending the group an extra measure of dignity.

First the family entered the carriages. In the position of honor, as children and spouses of the deceased, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, and Kitty entered the first carriage. Mr. Collins, Mr. Philips, and Mr. Gardiner entered the second. All the other guests—her father’s associates, people from the village, even a few friends from London—entered the rest of the carriages.

The women, excepting Elizabeth and Kitty, stood on the steps and watched as the funeral procession left the house and made its way towards Meryton. The carriages travelled at a slow pace as they were led by the mute, the bearers, and the pages, who were all on foot.

As soon as the procession was out of sight, Mary’s shoulders tensed. Maybe she should have joined Elizabeth and Kitty. She pushed the thought aside; it was not her duty, and attending the funeral would not eliminate the hollow feeling she felt inside. Besides, they had already left; it was too late to change her mind.

The women repaired inside and instantly Mrs. Bennet began to lament. “What will I ever do without Mr. Bennet? We shall be on the streets, with nothing to sustain us.”

“We have sufficient means, Mother,” said Mary. “Frugality is a commendable trait which will help us develop more sympathy for the less fortunate around us.”

“No one will think of us, and our misfortunes!” said Mrs. Bennet.

“Remember, dear sister,” said Mrs. Philips, “that you will be staying with me. You also have two well-established daughters who will surely see that no ill comes to you.”

“Of course, Mother,” said Jane. “You are always welcome in my home. And if Elizabeth were here, she would say the same of Pemberley.”

“But it is so very far away. I cannot possibly travel such a distance while I am in mourning. I wish you had not bought an estate, and that you still lived at Netherfield.”

“We understand that travel would be quite difficult for you at this time,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “But when you have recovered your nerves, you are also welcome to stay with me and your brother in London at any time.”

Mrs. Bennet nodded her acceptance of everyone’s offers, but then turned to other complaints. “I feel so alone. No one understands my sorrows.”

Yet Mary did understand her mother’s sorrows. And while she knew she should try to comfort her mother, she mostly wanted to ask her to be silent. Everyone else was in mourning as well, everyone else was in pain. Perhaps, though, she could both comfort her mother and provide her with a better way of thinking.

“It is important,” said Mary, “to recognize that the state of sorrow can be beneficial. Laurence Sterne speaks quite eloquently on why the house of mourning is more useful for our salvation than the house of feasting. He begins by quoting the book of Ecclesiastes, where it says—”

“I think that at this moment your mother needs rest more than anything else,” said her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner.

“But it is a very uplifting sermon, and it is short,” said Mary. “I have it memorized, and I think it would be beneficial for all of us.”

“You best save it for later,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “Your mother is exhausted.”

Mrs. Bennet let out a theatrical cry, as if to emphasize the validity of Mrs. Gardiner’s statement.

“You must be exhausted as well,” said Jane. “You did spend all night with Father.”

“I feel fine,” said Mary. “I do not need any rest.” She had the beginning of a headache, but that could occur even with a full night’s sleep.

“Then perhaps you might be benefited by taking a short walk,” said Mrs. Gardiner.

“It is such a lovely day,” said Jane. “I can take care of Mama. It will be several hours before they return from the funeral.”

“Very well. I will leave you to it.” Mary had always been able to tell when she was not wanted, and clearly no one wanted her presence right now. She turned around and walked out of the room slowly, counting her steps and focusing on her breathing so no one would notice her irritation, or worse, how much their dismissal stung. She always seemed to be least wanted when she tried her hardest to be involved: her family often shut her out when she tried to help them or show them that she cared.

Once outside the room, she leaned against the wall. The mourning ring felt tight around her finger. She took it off, rubbed her finger a little, and then forced the ring back on.

She almost went up to her room, but decided, at the last moment, to leave the house. Perhaps Jane was correct, and a walk would do her good. As she stepped into the sunlight and fresh air, it felt, suddenly, as if she had left a bit of the gloom behind.

Typically, she only walked if there were a particular purpose or an errand she needed to complete. It was not often that she walked for the sake of walking. There were always so many more important things to do.

Out of habit, she walked towards Meryton. The funeral procession had taken this same path, and if she continued through town, she would pass by the church. Despite her regrets at not joining, she would not, of course, interrupt. It might be permissible for a woman to ride in a funeral procession and to attend a funeral service, but an interruption would be grievous indeed.

As she walked, she considered the events of the previous night. Lady Trafford’s