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

She examined the other objects in the hidden compartment. Tucked inside another man’s coat, she found a knife in a sheath. She slid it carefully out. It was longer and sharper than a kitchen knife, and might be the knife that had stabbed Holloway, though if it was, it had been cleaned. There was also a wrapped package that contained papers. She browsed through them, discovering detailed plans of how Bonaparte could attack and subdue this region of England; this was proof of what she had heard the night of the ball. Mary wondered what Sir Pickering had thought of her letter, and if an anonymous letter would be enough for him to take action against Colonel Radcliffe and Monsieur Corneau. She carefully placed all the items back as she had found them and secured the hidden compartment.

She heard voices on the pier. If she was not mistaken, it was the dockmaster and Colonel Radcliffe.

Her eyes darted left and right, searching for a place to hide. She could not swim, and they were on the pier, so she could not leave the boat without them seeing her. But there were no rooms or compartments inside the boat where she might hide herself and remain undiscovered should someone come aboard.

She climbed into the chest and crouched down amongst the clothes, pulling the lid closed on top of herself. She could hardly breathe, and the fabric pressing against her was cold and rough.

The footsteps were above her, and then the door to the staircase creaked open. The men were on the boat.

“I assure you,” said the dockmaster, “nothing was taken from my office, nothing was missing. I am sure it was one of the village boys again. I will catch them at it before long.”

“Has anyone asked if I own a boat, after the original search?” said Colonel Radcliffe.

“Not at all, sir, not at all.”

There was silence, and the footsteps came closer and then stopped, very close, perhaps even next to the chest in which she hid.

Mary was struck, suddenly, by the knowledge that this was how Mr. Holloway had died, this, or a very similar way. He had snuck on board to try to find something, some piece of information. Colonel Radcliffe had boarded, and Holloway hid himself. Radcliffe had sailed off to sea, discovered Holloway, and known that Holloway knew too much. He had then stabbed Holloway and pushed him overboard. The same could happen to Mary. Her body would wash ashore, the truth she knew would be lost, she would be mourned by her family and a few family friends, and then, she would be forgotten.

“I have heard Sir Pickering is still in Worthing, and asking questions,” said Colonel Radcliffe. “If events go…unpleasantly…I will need to leave in haste. Make sure my boat is ready for me.”

They bid their farewells, but it seemed, from the footsteps and other sounds on the boat, that someone had stayed. After a few minutes, Mary feared suffocation more than she feared discovery, so she cracked the lid of the chest a little for more air. But she did not leave, she could not, not for many long minutes until there were no more footsteps, no more noises.

Mary climbed out of the chest, promising herself that she would never again use such a dreadful, cramped hiding place. In fact, she would prefer if her life went back to normal and she never had to hide anywhere again. Better to embrace the tedium of embroidering to the sound of her aunt’s gossip than risk life and limb for the sake of a dead man who had attempted to harm her family.

The boat appeared different than when she had boarded—the sails and ropes were all in different positions. She did not know anything about sailing, but, based on the overheard conversation, she assumed that the boat was now ready for a voyage. She pulled the ragged, smelly cloak tighter around herself, made sure it covered most of her face, and then leapt off the boat onto the pier.

She landed with a thud, and for a moment stayed crouched down, sure she had been heard, but the dockmaster did not come. She stood upright and walked slowly across the dock, and then more quickly once she neared the end of the dockmaster’s office.

The dockmaster stepped out and called to her, but she ignored him, hastening her pace.

“Who goes there?” the dockmaster shouted. She glanced back and saw him shake his fist. Then he began to chase her.

In that moment, Mary abandoned everything that she had been taught as a woman of proper breeding: she ran.

She could remember distinctly the last time she had run, at seven years of age. She had been playing a game with Lydia and Kitty, she had tripped and fallen, and after that decided she was too old for that sort of game.

Mary’s shoes hit hard on the wooden docks, and then on the stone cobblestones, and still she ran until she was out of breath, ran until she no longer heard the sounds of the dockmaster behind her. Despite the pain in her lungs, her side, and her legs, there was something surprisingly agreeable about running. She looked back and saw no sign of the dockmaster. She did not believe he had seen her clearly, especially with the size of her hood, and hopefully he did not realize that she had been near Colonel Radcliffe’s boat, but there was no help for it now, nothing to do but to keep moving on the path she had set for herself.

As she walked down the streets of Worthing, it began to rain. There was a gathering of people outside the inn, so Mary approached.

“What be happenin’?” she asked a woman, remembering to speak in a way that matched her cloak.

The woman stepped back from Mary, eying the cloak with distaste. “It appears that Sir Pickering is inside, speakin’ with Colonel Radcliffe.”

“What about?” asked Mary.

The woman pretended not to hear her question