Mary took the small spiral staircase down two flights, all the way to the main floor. A servant stood at attention in the front entryway.
“Would you please open the door?” she asked.
He did so, asking, “Where are you going, miss?”
“I need a bit of fresh air,” said Mary. She should not need to justify her movements to Lady Trafford’s servants.
“Are you in need of any assistance?”
“No. I am quite independently minded.”
As she stepped away from the castle, she realized that the servant might report to Withrow that she had left the house. She did not want the servant to know that she was following his master, so she veered to the left, as if she was headed to the side of the house. After a minute she turned back, towards the place in the trees where she had seen the light.
As she neared the trees she slowed. She stepped over branches and around fallen logs, keeping as quiet as possible. She heard voices, not truly audible, and as she neared them, she crouched down into some shrubbery.
She pushed aside a branch and peered at the two figures who stood a bit farther forward. One was unmistakable: it was Withrow. The other took her a moment to place, in part because his presence was so unexpected. The man had a mustache and a beard, which changed the look of his facial structure, and his hair was now a darker colour, but despite these changes, Mary recognized him.
Mr. Withrow was meeting with the man who had attempted to steal her family’s mourning rings.
Chapter Six
An extract from a letter from a British officer in Spain, to his friend in Glasgow, written after a British victory: “There was a great deal of plunder taken, and a considerable number of prisoners, among whom, as I went along, I observed two French officers, as I thought, a young one who was wounded, and a middle-aged man, unhurt, with his arm round the young one’s neck, and comforting him the best way he could. The soldiers observed that they must be brothers; but it turned out that they were husband and wife—the woman dressed in men’s clothes.”
–The Courier, London, September 8, 1813
Mary had always felt that thoughts were like feet: a lady should keep them at a steady, controlled pace. But now Mary’s thoughts were running in all directions, and she could do nothing to stop them.
Mr. Withrow was talking to the thief. Did he know the man was a thief? He must. It would be too great a coincidence for the thief to be here at Castle Durrington and back at Longbourn. He clearly knew the man, and he must know of his business.
The thief was quite animated in his discussion, and Mr. Withrow laughed, loud enough that it carried to Mary. She could not hear their conversation, but it was clear that they were comrades.
Mary’s breath sounded loud in her ears, and she feared that at any moment they would notice her. This man was a criminal, and who knew what bodily harm he would do to her if she were discovered? She had read several descriptions in the newspapers of evil men forcing their way into dwellings, dragging women off, and, though the papers never actually stated it in words, raping the women. Mary shuddered at the thought of that awful word. She did not know that the thief was that type of evil man, but he did look strong, and there were plenty of other descriptions in the papers of highway robbers and men causing physical injuries to their victims, breaking bones and the like. She tried to breathe quietly and slowly, and to keep her body from shaking, but it was difficult to do.
Perhaps only Withrow knew the thief, and Lady Trafford was ignorant of the whole affair. Mary found herself disappointed in him. Withrow knew Darcy, and Darcy respected Withrow. Their acquaintance should have prevented something such as this.
When Mary had caught the thief in Meryton, fiddling with Lady Trafford’s cases, she had assumed he was trying to steal them. She reconsidered the events of that day, drawing up the details in her mind. He must have been helping them with their cases. But when Mary had called him a thief, Withrow had chased him. Of course, Withrow could have chased him for the show of it, to maintain a facade. During their conversation in the carriage after, neither Withrow nor Lady Trafford had made mention that he was their acquaintance or servant. They must have already known that he had stolen the mourning rings, and perhaps even tasked him with it. They would not have expected Mary to walk to Meryton at that moment.
Mary’s legs began to cramp. She watched impatiently as Withrow and the thief traded letters. The thief wrote something in a small notebook, and then placed it in his jacket pocket. Withrow said something, the thief responded harshly, and for a minute, Withrow gesticulated angrily. But then their faces and their mannerisms became cordial again.
She looked down at the mourning ring on her hand, considering how abruptly Withrow and his aunt had come into her life. While the theft of the mourning rings could have been orchestrated by Withrow alone, the middle of the night visit was clearly led by Lady Trafford, and she had put a great amount of effort into persuading Mary to come to Castle Durrington for lessons.
But what benefit would Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow gain from stolen mourning rings? They would not be able to use them, and they certainly did not need the money that could be made by selling them. Had she foiled their plan
