Lady Trafford opened the book, took a minute to choose a page, and passed it to Mary. “Read this for me.”
Mary could feel the pressure of the woman’s eyes, as if she were being evaluated for some grand, mysterious purpose and found lacking.
She forced her eyes to the page. It was difficult to read in the candlelight, and her eyes were tired, but she would do it. She did not attempt to read the text aloud, for she knew her pronunciation would not stand up to any scrutiny, but she read a few lines to herself and attempted to translate.
“It is a political text which argues that the people who make laws should not be the ones to carry them out. Yet the normal person should not carry them out either. And there is the risk of corruption, by people letting their own interests influence public ones, and—”
“That is enough, child. Have you read this text before?”
“I do not believe so.”
“It is Rousseau’s Du contrat social; ou, Principes du droit politique.”
Mary tried not to betray the fact that she had not understood a word of Lady Trafford’s French.
“You truly cannot speak French,” said Lady Trafford. “The text is called, in English, On the Social Contract; or, Principles of Political Rights.”
“I am not familiar with it,” said Mary, self-conscious about her lack of knowledge on the subject.
“I see,” said Lady Trafford. “But your translation was adequate. French is such a useful language in these dreadful, dreadful times. What are your feelings on Bonaparte?”
Mary pressed her lips together. She glanced at Mr. Withrow and then back at Lady Trafford. It appeared to be a serious question.
“Your father read pamphlets, and the papers, I presume. How do you feel about Napoleon Bonaparte?”
She had never met a woman who spoke like this. Normally, politics was not seen as an issue for women, though it was often spoken of by men, behind closed doors, when the women were elsewhere.
“I oppose him, of course,” managed Mary. She took a large gulp of tea.
“Why?”
Lady Trafford’s question hung in the air while Mary attempted to prepare a suitable response.
“Is it not the duty of an Englishwoman to do so?”
Lady Trafford waited, as if to ask for more. Mary turned her head to see if Mr. Withrow’s eyes were also on her, but he was examining his pocket watch, so she turned back to her questioner. She had read some of her father’s pamphlets, but people typically did not ask for Mary’s opinion on matters such as this. She was both gratified and overwhelmed by the request for her thoughts, so it took her a moment to formulate a better answer.
“Bonaparte would have us all be French. He would take the whole world. But more than that, he seems to, he wants to…” Mary paused, having lost the force of expression that she had intended. Finally, it came back to her and she spoke quickly. “He seems to threaten the British way of life.” She breathed deeply, pleased with her answer and the way it had come out.
“You are well-spoken, and clearly an intelligent woman,” said Lady Trafford. “With training in a few areas, you would be quite prepared to be a governess.”
Somehow Lady Trafford managed to compliment her and point out her inadequacies in the same breath. Mary looked down at her hands and twisted the mourning ring around her finger. She liked the idea of being useful and independent, of solving problems, and being able to direct her own fate. Yet this woman had barged into her home—actually, Mr. Collins’s home—in the middle of the night and planned out a future for Mary without even consulting her.
“As a relative, I feel it my duty to provide you with some assistance. You could come to my house and I could train you for several months, provide you with tutors and such, and then help you find a place in a good household.”
Mary sat up a little more stiffly and looked at her father, laid on the table. He appeared dignified, even in death. Did Lady Trafford really think so little of her and her own resources?
“I do not need your charity.”
Both Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow looked affronted. Maybe she should have phrased it differently, more like Elizabeth would have. Elizabeth, her father’s favorite daughter. She pictured her sister in her mind, then knew the words to say.
“I mean no disrespect, but I would not impinge on your generosity in such a manner.”
“But you would rely on the generosity of your other family members?” asked Lady Trafford.
“That is different,” said Mary.
“How?” asked Lady Trafford.
Mary tried to answer, but words seemed inadequate for her sentiments. They would be completely reliant on the goodwill of the Philipses and the Gardiners, the Bingleys and the Darcys. Already, she did not like knowing that her entire future depended on them, though it was their familial obligation to support her, Kitty, and their mother. Deep down, though, it felt wrong to take the assistance of a complete stranger—even if a relation—who had found her so lacking, so inadequate for even the position of a governess. She could not consider such a proposition. Furthermore, for Lady Trafford to ask Mary such a thing, without consulting Mrs. Bennet, seemed illogical.
“I have no desire or need to become a governess.”
“I see,” said Lady Trafford, setting down her cup of tea. “If you change your mind, please send me a letter. I live at Castle Durrington, near Worthing, in Sussex.”
Mary did not deign to respond. She had no reason to change her mind once she had made it up.
Lady Trafford turned to her nephew, who stood, emotionless. “As much as I would love to stay longer, it is best we leave now. We have much travel left before our business in the morning.”
He helped her to her feet.
“Thank you for allowing us to interrupt your vigil,” said Lady Trafford. “Your father was a good man, and I respected him.”
Mary nodded, unsure how to respond to the
