Finally, when Mary was about to abandon Madame Dieupart and the endless repeating in the parlor, Madame Dieupart said, with only a light accent, “Very good. That is enough listening and sounds practice for the day.”
“You speak English?”
“Of course. I fled France during la Terreur and have been living here ever since.” Her eyes turned to the window. “I like to imagine that I can see past the ocean and back to my home. I have never returned, and with things the way they are, I could not.”
Mary did not know much about French politics or what would lead a French person to either sympathize with or oppose Napoleon Bonaparte.
Madame Dieupart passed Mary a book titled An Introduction to French Phrases and Grammar. “Lady Trafford said that you can read French?”
“Yes, Madame Dieupart.”
She instructed Mary to read a few sentences of a text and then translate them. Then she explained the general rules for pronouncing the sounds.
“Why did we not start with this?” asked Mary, annoyed.
“You have to be able to listen. You must be able to understand and create the sounds. This book will make it easier for you to study and practice on your own, but I do not want you to be overly attached to the page.” She paused, considering Mary. “You are much older than my normal beginning students.”
“I am only nineteen.”
“It is easier to learn the sounds when you are young. But we will manage. Lady Trafford has asked me to teach you for an hour and a half a day, five days a week.”
Mary was surprised. She had expected French to be like her drawing lessons, only twice a week. Seven and a half hours was an enormous portion of time spent with a single teacher. Apparently when Lady Trafford decided to do something, she did it thoroughly.
“In addition to your lessons, you should spend at least an hour every day practicing. You can practice the sounds and phrases from the book. Or, if you have a French speaker to converse with, that is even better.” She raised her eyebrows dramatically. “Mr. Withrow is fluent in French.”
“I do not think Mr. Withrow would agree to practice French with me.”
Madame Dieupart laughed. “Perhaps you are right. Or perhaps you would be surprised.” She paused. “I taught him, you know. And Lady Trafford’s children, Anne and James.”
“Where are they?” Mr. Darcy had mentioned Lady Trafford’s son, but besides that brief reference, no one had spoken of him. Mr. Withrow seemed to be responsible for running the estate, which meant Anne and James must either be absent, or have passed on. She rather suspected the latter.
“That is not my story to tell.”
Madame Dieupart left, and Mary rubbed her face with her hands. Her head ached from the lessons, particularly the French. Why ever had she told Lady Trafford that she wanted to learn French?
“Excuse me, miss,” said a voice. Mary lifted her face and saw the maid, Fanny, carrying a platter of food and drinks. “I thought you might like some light refreshment.”
Mary had not thought she needed anything—she would not have asked for anything—but suddenly it was exactly what she wanted. “Yes, thank you.”
Mary began on the tea and the pastries, eating more quickly than was normal for her.
While yesterday Fanny had been full of talk, today she stood quietly, waiting to be of assistance.
Mary finished the food, yet did not want Fanny to leave, so she spoke. “I do not know if I can do this. Drawing and French; it’s all rather overwhelming.”
“Things are harder when you are new,” said Fanny. “I have only been here three months, and the first fortnight was dreadful, trying to figure out my place and learn everything. But my mum always said you have to stick with something for long enough to give it a real chance. And things often start hard, don’t they?”
It was good wisdom, even though it was not expressed in the most sophisticated fashion.
“Has Lady Trafford returned?”
“Not yet, miss, and there has been no word on when she will.”
Fanny gathered the tray. Mary desired company, but she had no excuse to make Fanny stay.
It was strange being in such a big house, with only Mr. Withrow for company, and him not even here today. She was certain there were many servants, but she had only seen a few so far. At home, no matter how many of her sisters were gone, it had never felt quiet or lonely with Mrs. Bennet in the house.
Mary did not desire to draw or practice more French just yet, so she went upstairs and played the pianoforte until her fingers remembered what they were doing. Her fingers would be sore on the morrow.
She decided she best start on her drawing assignment, for diligence was the key to mastery. She wanted to start with a landscape, and so she wandered about the floor, looking out the windows for the most interesting view. Some of the spaces and proportions and sizes of the rooms surprised her, but she could not pinpoint what was off. She supposed it was due to the use of a circular room for the staircase and balcony inside of a rectangular structure. Each of the rooms were square or rectangular, which meant that there must be large gaps in the walls between the round landing and the rooms.
She thought she heard voices from the smallest drawing room, so she stepped towards that door. They were both voices she recognized—Mr. Withrow and Lady Trafford. She had returned. It surprised Mary that she had not sent a servant to find Mary and apprise her of the arrival—Mary was, after all, her guest, and they had not seen each other since Longbourn. Of course, this was also the
