“I have four.”
“It must have been wonderful, to always have so many companions,” he said with sincerity.
“I…suppose so.”
“You suppose?” he asked with such attention that she felt obligated to give a more detailed response.
“Well, my two elder sisters are such dear friends, as are my two younger, and I have always felt a little…” She trailed off, not wanting to express how it sometimes made her feel alone.
“It is always a challenge to be in between groups of people,” said Mr. Withrow. “Who are your elder sisters?”
“My eldest sister is Mrs. Bingley,” said Mary, grateful to move away from a discussion of her emotions. “She lives in Derbyshire with her husband. They recently purchased an estate there. The next eldest, Mrs. Darcy, lives near there as well.”
“I know Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Withrow. “He is a good man. What about your younger sisters? Are they still at home?”
“My sister Kitty—Catherine—is at home still, but my youngest sister, Mrs. Wickham, lives with her husband and his regiment.”
“I see,” said Mr. Withrow. “You mentioned a Mr. Collins to your servant. Is he a relation?”
Mary was beginning to find it unusual for someone to ask so many questions of her, but she supposed Mr. Withrow was simply trying to make conversation. Yet she had no obligation to divulge her entire life story. “He is a cousin.”
“A cousin?” he prodded.
She nodded.
“Has he come for the funeral?”
“Because of my father’s death, he has inherited Longbourn.” It seemed Withrow would pry out whatever information he wanted.
Concern filled his face. “And what will happen to you? To your mother? And your sister?”
“For now, we will stay with my uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Philips, in Meryton.”
“And then where will you go?”
“Why does it matter to you?”
“As a relation, I am naturally concerned about the well-being of you and your mother.”
She felt guilty for acting so resistant to his questions. “We can always stay with my aunt and uncle in London, or with one of my sisters in Derbyshire.”
“I see,” said Mr. Withrow. Then suddenly, all his concern seemed to disappear, and his voice became critical, almost cold. “You give a lot of personal information to people whom you know so little.”
“Thoroughness is typically seen as a virtue,” said Mary. “And you asked a great many questions.” She knew her statement could be seen as impertinent, especially to someone above her station, but she was bothered by Withrow’s behaviour and the way in which he pretended to care about her family and then withdrew all sympathy. She turned towards Lady Trafford just quickly enough to catch what might have been a brief smile, though it was difficult to tell in the candlelight.
Lady Trafford leaned towards her. “I am sorry if my nephew gave offense. We genuinely care about your well-being.”
The woman looked at Mr. Bennet’s body, and only when the silence felt full and heavy and uncomfortable to Mary did Lady Trafford speak again. “If Longbourn goes to Mr. Collins, then would I be correct in assuming that, in addition to the good will of family, you, your mother, and your sister must rely entirely on your mother’s fortune? Is it three or four hundred pounds a year for the three of you?”
Mary looked down at her lap. “Not nearly that, Lady Trafford.” She found herself heeding Mr. Withrow’s advice and not revealing everything. Their family had been living off of two thousand pounds a year, which, admittedly, included the running of the farm and the estate, but two hundred pounds was a pittance in comparison. Mary suspected Lydia and Wickham would still demand a portion; Mr. Bennet had promised them one hundred pounds a year. Even if Mrs. Bennet lowered the amount given to Lydia to fifty, Mrs. Bennet, Kitty, and Mary would truly be at the mercy of others for their very sustenance.
“Have you considered making something of yourself?” asked Lady Trafford.
Mary shook her head.
“There are things a woman of your standing can do to make herself independent. For instance, you could become a governess.”
Mary had not considered that possibility. Mrs. Bennet had always placed her entire focus on marrying her daughters.
“It would bring me great satisfaction to assist you,” said Lady Trafford. “I could provide you with tutors and additional training, which would make you more qualified for future opportunities.”
Mary sniffed. It had been said, several times, that she was the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood. “I have applied myself sufficiently to all of my studies. If I were to become a governess, I would not require any additional training.”
“You think rather highly of yourself,” observed Mr. Withrow.
“There is no virtue in false modesty,” asserted Mary. “I know my strengths.”
“I see,” said Lady Trafford. “How familiar are you with the classics? Are you well versed in Milton, Shakespeare, Donne, Alexander Pope, and Samuel Johnson?”
Mr. Withrow stood and began to pace the room, yet he managed to keep Mary always within his line of sight.
Mary gave her attention back to Lady Trafford. While it was common for visitors of the deceased to make conversation with their hosts, this was an unusual subject of discussion for the occasion. “I know Milton and Shakespeare, and a little Pope.”
“And the others?”
“I found Donne rather objectionable when I read the commentaries on his work. I have no interest in Samuel Johnson.”
“It is the duty of the governess to teach more than just the texts she likes the most. Do you speak French?”
“Only a little, Lady Trafford, but I can read it fluently.”
“You can read it but not speak it—however is that possible? What sort of French teacher would teach you only how to read French?”
“I had no teacher. I taught myself.”
Lady Trafford reached her hand out towards Mr. Withrow. “Pass me that book you were reading earlier.”
He stopped next to her, removed a small book from his pocket, and handed it to her. The words on the cover were too small for Mary to
