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

“There are no sensible women in Brighton, at least none near my age.”

“But you do like it?”

“Oh, I like it very much. You should come visit me.”

“I would love to come stay with you in Brighton!” Staying with a friend would be much better than living with strangers.

Maria’s face scrunched up in discomfort. “I think I misspoke. Unfortunately, I do not have the space to host anyone for any extended period of time. However, I would love if you came and visited for a day.”

Mary set down her fork and pretended to laugh. “Of course that is what you meant. I apologize for misunderstanding your words.” This was not the first time this had happened between her and Maria.

“Do not apologize! The fault is mine.” She patted Mary’s shoulder. “Someday you will leave home and have your own adventures.”

“I do not know if I am much suited to adventures.” Mary took a slow drink and considered her food. None of it looked very appetizing.

Maria put her hand on Mary’s. “You must be very sad about your father.”

Mary nodded, but could not bring herself to say anything.

“He was a good man. I am glad that I am visiting my parents, so I could be here today.”

“Thank you,” said Mary. She had never felt extremely close to Maria, but she felt as close to her as anyone, and they had spent much time together as children. It was a comfort to be seated next to her.

“I assume you are taking solace in the scriptures?” In her letters at least, Maria had become much more interested in the Bible since her marriage.

“Yes, I am.”

“One of my favorites is from Proverbs: ‘God is our refuge and strength.’”

Mary tried to resist correcting her, but she could not. “That is actually a verse from the Psalms.”

Maria laughed. “I always mix them up. You have a much better mind than I.”

After that, their conversation stayed on pleasant topics. Yet it was not to be a peaceful meal. A few minutes later, Mrs. Bennet was heard, her voice carrying above everyone’s conversations and down the table.

“I had my heart set on a night funeral.”

The rest of the conversations silenced, so Jane’s much quieter, conciliatory response could be heard. “Night funerals are almost never held out of London, and even there, it is not the standard.”

“No expense should have been spared,” insisted Mrs. Bennet. “You are not lacking, nor is Lizzy. Mr. Darcy is worth 10,000 pounds a year, and Mr. Bingley 5,000 pounds. Yet you mock me in my grief.”

Mary pushed her food around her plate with her fork, not eating any of it. It was important to be able to control one’s speech and emotions and make them appropriate for the situation. It was one thing for Mrs. Bennet to make these sorts of comments in private; stating them in public was entirely uncalled for.

The conversation resumed, perhaps to help cover everyone’s embarrassment, but a few minutes later Mrs. Bennet’s voice once again drifted down the table. “And the funeral only had one mute, when Mr. Bennet deserved at least two!”

It was a good thing, indeed, that women did not normally attend funerals. If Mrs. Bennet had, she would have been hysterical, and detracted from the proper solemnity of the occasion.

In fact, Mary suspected that Mrs. Bennet would be hysterical for months. Normally, Mary could tolerate, and even enjoy her mother’s presence, but not when she went on like this. If she could, Mary would travel by herself to stay with Jane or Elizabeth or the Gardiners. But no one had made her that offer. Everyone’s invitation was for Mrs. Bennet, and Kitty and Mary could come along as well. No one wanted her for herself. No one, except for Lady Trafford.

She was silent for the remainder of the meal. As everyone stood, the men to gather in the parlor and the women in the drawing room, she stopped in front of Mr. Withrow.

“Mr. Withrow.”

“Yes, Miss Bennet?”

She tried to gather up her courage to ask him her question. At least, now, it was not improper for her to speak to him. “I thought, a few minutes ago, that I saw you in my parents’ room, handling my father’s things.”

He seemed genuinely confused. “I was not in your parents’ room. When did this occur?”

“Immediately before the meal.”

“I was speaking with your sister, Catherine, until it was time to be seated. However, I would love to be of assistance to find out who you actually saw.”

He was smooth of speech and flawless in his denial. If Mary did not have confidence in herself and her perceptions, she would have doubted her memory of the event. Yet she knew what she had seen: it had been Mr. Withrow. Accepting his assistance to look for a supposed other person would not lead to any answers and would distract from the purpose of the occasion.

“Thank you for your offer, but it will not be necessary.”

He went on his way with the other men, and Mary found a quiet spot in the drawing room. Likely his lies covered some trivial transgression, but she disliked lies and wished she knew the truth of the matter. If she accepted Lady Trafford’s offer, it might put her in a position to find out. She felt some moral obligation to find and share truth, and yet, it was not her responsibility. What would her father recommend she do? She did not know.

Mary rotated the mourning ring around her finger, thinking of the way her father spoke, the way he stood, the way he looked intently on something, trying to remember and memorize every detail. She was seated only a few feet away from where the pianoforte had stood. She wished she could play a song in her father’s memory, one of his favorites. Whose pianoforte would she borrow when they stayed with the Philipses? Perhaps they had a neighbour. Or surely Charlotte Collins would allow her to come back to Longbourn and use the new pianoforte, once