“Perhaps it would be better if you played after the tour. There should be time before dinner.”
“I have not had the opportunity to play these past five weeks. I should not neglect it now.”
Mary did not have many pieces memorized, but she had been working on one before her father’s death. She set her hands on the keys and relaxed in a way that she had not been able to at any point during her long journey here. This pianoforte had a different sound than she was used to, a little deeper. The first few measures brought her pleasure, but after five or six she stumbled to a halt. She could not remember what came next. She started anew, hoping it would come to her, and she managed an extra measure, but the notes after that were jumbled and dissonant.
Mary took her hands from the keys and stood up promptly. “I need to see my music.”
“There will be plenty of time for that later,” said Mrs. Boughton, as if Mary’s desires should be remedied and corrected. Elizabeth would take such a tone with her at times, as would her father, when alive. They said these sorts of things politely, but it always seemed that Mary was getting in the way of their plans, the way they envisioned the world best working.
“Very well,” said Mary stiffly.
“And now,” said Mrs. Boughton, “for my favorite part of the tour: the south terrace and the lawns.”
Mary did not want to continue the tour with Mrs. Boughton, but she knew it would be impolite to refuse. People like Elizabeth always managed to do things that were impolite, yet in a way that did not give others offense. Perhaps Mary would try it. She pictured her older sister in her mind and decided on the proper phrasing.
“I would truly love to see the terrace, but I am feeling great fatigue from my long journey. Perhaps we can continue it another day.”
“It is well worth seeing the back of the house. I can make it a short excursion.”
Mary had seen plenty of backs of houses. They were typically a duller version of the front.
“I need to lie down,” Mary said flatly.
Mrs. Boughton looked like she was about to protest but then thought better of it. As the grand staircase did not lead to the second floor (it was covered by a dome) they went up the smaller spiral staircase. Even though Mrs. Boughton had agreed to continue the tour another day, she would not stop talking. There were over a dozen rooms, with one section reserved for visiting relatives. Mrs. Boughton pointed out her own room (“it is close to yours, and I will act as a chaperone until Lady Trafford returns”), and the nursery (“should Mr. Withrow ever choose to marry and produce heirs”), and then she finally brought Mary to the room that would be hers during her stay. Her room was on the north side of the house, the side from which the carriage had approached. From her windows, besides the clearing in front of the house and a glimpse of the road, all Mary could see were trees, some with a few leaves turning their fall colours.
After Mrs. Boughton verified that all of Mary’s cases had been brought up, she left so Mary could rest.
As soon as the door was closed, Mary opened the case with her music and found her error. It was an easy part—how could she have completely forgotten the opening movement? She wanted to return to the pianoforte but stopped herself short of the door. She had used the excuse that she was tired to free herself from the rest of the tour, but now that prohibited her from using the pianoforte. Next time, she should come up with a different polite reason. And next time, she would not decline refreshment after travelling.
Mary lay down on the bed, holding her music to her chest. This castle—no, house—was grander even than Netherfield, where Mr. Bingley had lived for a time. And compared to the residence of the Philipses—well, she should not compare her aunt’s house to this place. Perhaps she should have stayed there, in a place that was familiar, with people who were familiar. At least there she knew her place in the world. Here, more seemed possible, yet it also made her future feel more uncertain. But there was no use in looking back. Her decision had been made, and she would make the best of it.
She set her music to the side and tried falling asleep, but too much afternoon light shone through the window. She rose and walked to the window; instead of closing the curtain, she gazed outside at the walk and the trees. She removed her mourning ring. She read her father’s name and date of death, then flipped the bezel to reveal the clip of hair. She pressed the translucent stone to her lips. Change was inevitable, and death, as the philosophers liked to say, was but a natural part of life. While she would suffer through it with resolve, that did not mean she had to relish her suffering.
A movement—or perhaps a light—caught Mary’s attention. She peered out her window. There, in the trees, a red light flashed, two more times. A minute later the light flashed again, three times. What even made a red light, strong enough to be seen through trees in the daytime?
She waited, but the light did not flash again. Yet a minute or two later, someone walked away from Castle Durrington, towards the light. She recognized his clothes and hair. It was Mr. Withrow.
She tightened her fingers around the fabric of the curtain. Withrow could be engaged in business for the estate, but then why the mysterious red light? It seemed like a signal, a secret signal that most people were not meant to understand.
What he did was none of her concern, yet she could not stifle her curiosity. This was
