Lady Trafford returned. In her hands were several loose letters as well as a letter box. Mr. Bennet’s letter box, the one Kitty had written was missing, the one her father had always kept locked and up on a shelf.
Mary set down her tea on the side table, accidentally spilling a little in her haste. “How do you have that?” She approached Lady Trafford, her hands extended, and received the items. Mary sat down again. She set the loose letters to the side and ran her fingers along the ornamental patterns on the metal letter box, along the vines and the animals and the fantastical creatures.
Mary and Kitty had tried to break into the box once. Mary must have been around six years of age at the time, and Kitty five. Their father had taken it away in a kind manner, but firmly impressed it upon their minds that there were some things that were their father’s business.
“Your father was also a spy,” said Lady Trafford.
Mary’s finger halted on the horn of a unicorn. “My father, a spy?”
“That was how we met: an assignment we were both given. We maintained contact over the years, both as friends and as colleagues. When Mr. Holloway visited Longbourn, testing you and your sisters was a secondary purpose. The primary purpose was to retrieve your father’s materials related to his work as a spy, including this box.” Lady Trafford held out a key. “Mr. Holloway was unable to find the key, which is why you discovered Mr. Withrow in your parents’ room.”
Mary’s fingers trembled as she took the key; she managed to insert it into the keyhole, and, for the first time in her life, opened the box.
Withrow stood and went to his desk. Lady Trafford gestured to Fanny and Mr. Stanley, who both took books off a shelf and began to read. Lady Trafford sat, close enough that she could see what Mary was doing, but not so close as to be intrusive. Mary appreciated the space, for she sensed that everything she knew was about to change.
Mary sifted through the pages, reading through a lifetime of Mr. Bennet’s work for the British government. She paused on records, in his own handwriting, of the things he had accomplished. Mentioned were the occasional arrest or unrest in Meryton over the years, and she saw, for the first time, her father’s involvement in these events. There were also clippings from newspapers, notebooks with logs of events, much like the one Mary herself had made, and letters—letters from Lady Trafford, letters from people whose names Mary recognized from the newspapers, and letters from many who Mary did not recognize. There were also pages that did not make any sense, which must be written in code.
Mr. Bennet had spent his life doing so much more than running an estate.
“You should read the other letters,” said Lady Trafford. “The ones that were not in the box.”
Mary picked up the letters, which were written on a fine paper that her father had used only for special correspondence. They had a complicated seal and locking method that had been broken. She opened one and inside found her father’s words to Lady Trafford, dated from 1805, when Mary was ten years old. “Dear Lady Trafford,” he began. “Your letter on your children puts me in a sentimental mood.”
He then described each of his daughters—Elizabeth, Jane, Kitty, Lydia, and Mary.
“Mary is now my greatest reader. She will read any book that is not tied down. She is a very curious and perceptive child, always attempting to figure out the place of things in this world. Sometimes others do not understand her, but that is their loss. Every time Mary sets her mind to something, she succeeds in doing it.”
There was a lump in Mary’s throat. She swallowed and blinked her eyes, trying to hold back an outward expression of emotion. Her father had written to Lady Trafford about her. He had also written about her sisters, but there had always been room enough in his heart for all of them.
She reread his words, the words he used to describe her. If he had had more time in his dying moments, maybe he would have said something of this sort to her.
If she could go back, there were still things she would change. She would do more to express her affection to him, and she would spend more time with him instead of always being caught up in her music and her books. She thought that some regret would always remain. Yet that did not need to overshadow her good memories with her father. For the first time since his death, she felt secure in his love for her. She felt whole.
“May I keep this letter?” asked Mary.
“Yes, you may,” said Lady Trafford.
Mary folded the letter carefully and set it aside. She read the other letters that had not been in the box; there were two more personal letters from Mr. Bennet to Lady Trafford. They contained nothing about her or her sisters, but they did demonstrate friendship and trust. Finally, she placed all of her father’s papers back in the box, locked it, and handed it back to Lady Trafford. “I believe you.”
“Mr. Bennet had no desire to lead or train other spies, as I have done, but he was a great spy. What you saw in that box represents only a small portion of his work over the years.”
“Did my mother ever know?” Mary asked, and then she shook her head. “Never mind. I know the answer to that. My mother would never have been able to keep it a secret.”
Lady Trafford called the others to attention, then turned back to Mary. “We would like to recruit you to be one of our number. To be a spy working to protect the British people, to preserve our liberties, our government,
