Mrs. Boughton curtsied to Mary. She was a tall, greying women, with sharp edges to her facial features, and to her elbows. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennet. Throughout your stay, please let me know if there is any way I can be of assistance to you.”
“I am sure my stay will be quite suitable, thank you. Before the tour, I would like to see my trunks up to my room.”
“No need to worry yourself over that, Miss Bennet. The footmen will bring them up.” Mrs. Boughton nodded at several of the servants.
Mary watched with consternation as they removed her trunks from the carriage. She was accustomed to servants handling her things, but she did not personally know these servants and did not know what care they would give her belongings. Her entire life was in those cases: almost all of her worldly possessions, her books and her music, her black mourning clothes, and her normal ones, too, as she did not know how long she would be a visitor here. She watched the men as they carried the case into the house, memorizing their faces, their heights, their builds.
“Now shall we begin?” asked Mrs. Boughton.
“Yes. I have never toured a castle before.”
Mrs. Boughton smiled. “Which raises the first point of interest. Castle Durrington is not, by strict definitions, a castle. Construction began twenty-three years ago, in 1790, by the late Sir George Trafford. While this north side does use a Gothic, castellated style, its fortifications are visual only, and not designed to withstand an assault. I pray every night that fortifications never become necessary, especially because we would need them on the south side, not on this one. Should Bonaparte cross the channel, he could choose to land in Sussex. We would be overrun by French soldiers before we had time to flee.”
Mary’s visions of the castle withstanding an attack disappeared like morning mist. She hoped she never saw Bonaparte, or any of his troops. He had not yet dared to land on the British Isles, but there was always speculation as to when or where he might attack, if the British forces did not do well enough in battle.
Yet despite Mrs. Boughton’s purported fear of invasion, she seemed quite able to forget her concerns and redirect her attention to the tour. She pointed to the right section of the castle. “That section, with the rounded towers, is the stables, and there, on the left, is the kitchen and dairy and servants’ quarters. As there is a cool breeze today, we best go inside.”
The last remaining servant opened the door, and Mrs. Boughton gestured for Mary to enter first. Mary stepped inside and immediately stopped. Despite herself, she found herself impressed by the grandeur.
The entry hall was a round room, and at its centre was a grand staircase that seemed as if it was suspended in the air. The stairs had a slight curve and drew her eyes upwards, to a glass dome far above their heads.
Mrs. Boughton cleared her throat, and Mary stepped forward so the door could be closed.
“The entirety of Castle Durrington was designed by the architect John Biagio Rebecca. It is said that this dome is the only of its kind in a private residence in Britain.” As Mrs. Boughton pointed out the different kinds of pillars used in the entry hall, Mary could not help but conclude that this was a rather pompous display of wealth. Not only was there a grand staircase in this main entry area, but a smaller spiral staircase as well.
Mrs. Boughton led Mary through the rooms on the main floor which were off of the entry hall—first two dining rooms, then two parlors. She pointed out a final door. “And this is the library.” She put her finger to her lips to indicate that silence was needed, then gently twisted the door handle. It was locked. “Mr. Withrow must not be able to spare time for an interruption, so you will be shown the library later.”
Mary swallowed her disappointment. The library was one of the rooms she most wanted to see. Withrow had known Mrs. Boughton was giving her a tour, he had known that Mary loved books, and yet he had locked the door.
They left the main floor behind, ascending the grand staircase to the first floor and to what Mrs. Boughton called “the rotunda, or domed balcony room.” It was a large, circular room directly below the dome. It contained a series of different alcoves. Some were covered by curtains; of these, some were simply decorative, covering blank paneled walls, and one hid the small spiral staircase which led both downstairs to the main floor and upstairs to the second floor. The other alcoves contained doors with hallways to the rest of the rooms.
Mary wanted to sit and rest, but she did not say anything. Fortitude was a virtue to be prized in the face of great odds. She lagged half a dozen steps behind as Mrs. Boughton showed her a long gallery filled with paintings that could be used as a ballroom, and four grand drawing rooms. One hallway led to Lady Trafford’s and Mr. Withrow’s rooms, but they did not visit them. The housekeeper kept pointing out the way different architectural styles had been combined. But Mary was not here to learn about architecture. If she wanted to learn about it, she would read a book.
Many of the rooms faced the back, south side of the house, and featured large windows, from which you could see the ocean, a faint blue line on the horizon. As they stepped into another drawing room, which also had a view of the ocean, her attention was drawn instead to the pianoforte.
“May I play this instrument?” she asked.
“Lady Trafford enjoys music, and I am certain she will encourage you to increase your skills.”
Mary sat down at
