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

books. What other secrets have you been keeping from me all these years? This creates all sorts of possibilities. Imagine if we read the same novel every month and then did as we are doing now, attempting to act out the characters through our letters. I think it would provide splendid entertainment.

In terms of what I have discovered, it is for your ears only. Do not show this letter to anyone, or the consequences would be dire! (I think I could make a living writing Gothic novels, and it would oblige me greatly if you agreed.)

In terms of my revelations to you, we shall start from the smallest and move to the largest. First, I asked Mother if she had ever heard of Lady Trafford before Father’s funeral. She answered affirmatively, but upon further questioning I have concluded that Mother wishes she could have remembered knowing of Lady Trafford but had never actually heard of or met her before.

Revelation the second. I have gone through the letter box that Father used to keep on his desk. In it I found one—only one!—letter from Lady Trafford, dated January 1809. A lengthy part of the letter discusses the weather and other trivialities. Then she mentions the death of her daughter and calls it “tragic.” (I did not know that Lady Trafford had a daughter—you shall have to write me and tell me more of it!) Apparently, her daughter’s gravestone was damaged and had to be repaired. Finally, Lady Trafford requests that Father return her request for information. Interestingly, she gives no details on what sort of information she is demanding, which leads me to conclude that she had written him other letters on the subject.

Revelation the third. Prepare yourself to be shocked. The locked letter box that Father kept on the shelf is missing. No one can remember seeing it since before the funeral. We did not bring it with us to the Philipses’, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins have not seen it at all. After speaking—discreetly—to an extensive number of people, I have concluded that the letter box is most definitively gone and probably disappeared within a fortnight of Father’s death.

I hope you have a splendid week. There is a public ball, and since I am no longer in mourning clothes, I will attend. It will be my very first ball alone, with no sisters by my side, so I hope you think of me there, and imagine me dancing with as many men as possible.

Yours always,

The Incomparable Kitty Bennet

Mary reflected on Kitty’s “revelations.” It did not surprise her that Mrs. Bennet would pretend, when questioned, that she had known of Lady Trafford; after all, Lady Trafford was a woman of importance. The second was more interesting. Lady Trafford had indeed known Mr. Bennet, at least well enough that he had kept one of her letters. But if Mary remembered correctly, Lady Trafford’s daughter Anne had died in June 1808. Lady Trafford only informed Mr. Bennet of the fact in January 1809. If they had a close connection, the correspondence would have been sent more quickly after the event.

Mary folded Kitty’s letter and hid it in her stocking. She removed the beggar’s cloak, wrapped it, and tucked it within her own cloak. Then she used her handkerchief to clean her face as well as she could.

She returned to the stable at the inn where she had left Dusty. She saw a reflection of herself in a piece of glass and grimaced. She asked a stable lad for a wet rag and scrubbed at her face and her hands. Once she finished, she was about to ask for help mounting the horse when she paused. How had Mr. Holloway come to Worthing anyway? From the maps she had studied in Castle Durrington’s library, she knew it was a lengthy trip, over twenty-five miles. Perhaps he had taken a public carriage, as she had. Or maybe he owned his own horse or carriage.

“Did you know Mr. Holloway?” asked Mary.

“The dead man you foun’?” said the boy. “Course I did.”

She did not like being so strongly associated with Mr. Holloway, but it did serve its purpose. “Did he have his own horse or carriage?”

“Oh yes, his own ’orse. I always puts her in the back stall. He wouldn’t let us keep her anywhere else.”

“The day he came to Worthing and then died—did he bring his horse here?”

“Certain sure he did.”

Mary smiled. Her intuition had been correct. “What happened to the horse?”

“Well, the ’orse had been here for most of a week, and we were wonderin’ why, but then the magistrate came and got her. I think he sent her back to Crawley.”

Mary deflated a little. She felt rather silly about her excitement for her brilliant realization, a realization that had occurred to Sir Pickering weeks ago.

“Did Holloway have any bags with him that day?”

“I dunno. If he did, the magistrate took’m.”

It was no use; there was nothing more she could learn here. The horse had been gone for weeks, taken by Sir Pickering along with any other evidence there might have been. But still, she could not resist asking, “Can I see the stall?”

The boy led her back. The stall was empty, but she stepped inside and asked for a moment alone.

This was the stall where Mr. Holloway had left his horse, an ordinary, smelly stall, with hay and dirt and wooden walls. She had seen Mr. Holloway with Mr. Withrow, and then Holloway had come here, and then he had met with someone, and then he had died.

She found the stable boy again, and he helped her back into Dusty’s saddle. As she approached Castle Durrington, she realized she needed to hide her new—well, old—cloak. She would need it again, but with how it smelled, she could not possibly bring it in the castle. She found a hollow in a tree, tucked it inside, and hoped the animals stayed out of it.

After returning the horse she rushed to her room, cleaned herself more