Lady Trafford placed her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “I can tell that you loved your father very much.”
Mary looked away. She could not respond to this statement either, not when it brought her own feelings of inadequacy so close to the surface.
Lady Trafford removed her hand.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet.” Mr. Withrow’s charm from earlier had returned, as if it was a habit he could not shake.
Mary was not certain the visit had been pleasurable for anyone involved, so she did not return the approbation, but she did have something else prepared for this sort of statement. “Making new acquaintances is always a worthwhile activity.”
Withrow cocked his head and his brows pinched together.
Mary led them out of the room. Sarah had indeed fallen back asleep, and to make matters worse, she was snoring. Mary wanted to shake her awake, but that would be improper, so she pretended not to see Sarah and opened the front door herself. Lady Trafford and Mr. Withrow entered their carriage and drove off into the night. That was by far the strangest visit she had ever received. With the now-empty road, it was almost as if they had never been here.
She returned to the room with her father and sat, watching his body, for several minutes. She felt very alone and unsure of her future. She removed the mourning ring from her finger and rotated the bezel so the side with her father’s hair faced out. She walked to her father’s body and placed her hand on top of his dead hand, now dry and cold.
Mr. Bennet had passed on a night like this. His breath had grown labored and weak, and he reached his hand out to Mrs. Bennet. “You have been a good companion, my dear. And so have your nerves.”
Everyone chuckled.
Then he had turned to Jane. “You are so good, and so kind.”
His eyes met Kitty’s. “I hope you remain silly, and keep all your vigor.”
He looked at Mary. She swallowed, wondering what he would say to her.
Mr. Bennet coughed horribly, a deep, rattling, wheezing sound.
And then his hand had reached out to Elizabeth. “I will miss you. I will miss you ever so much.”
He breathed in, once, twice, three more times. He gazed up at the ceiling and his body went still. He was dead. He was dead, and Mary was the only one he had not spoken to.
That thought had crept through her mind again and again in the last week. Maybe he had nothing he needed to say to her. Maybe they did not have the sort of relationship that merited a final statement.
Logically, Mary knew that her self-pitying reflections were selfish. The cough had stolen whatever he had planned to say, and at least he had managed to say something to almost everyone before dying. Yet still she was filled with guilt and regret for what she did not have with her father, and for what she now could never have.
She forced her mind to the present, here, in this parlor, holding vigil for a corpse, for memories tied to the remains of flesh. She withdrew her hand from her father’s, but she did not sit down.
“I miss you,” she whispered into the night, and she stood in that position in a sort of trance until morning when she was relieved of her duty.
Chapter Three
“During the last week, the French fleet have been observed to venture farther out to sea than they have ever been in the habit of doing before; but as soon as the English fleet stands in towards them, a few of their ships lie-to, until we arrive within gunshot and a half of them.”
–Extract from a letter about the fleet off Toulon, in The Times, London, August 4, 1813
Despite her exhaustion, Mary attempted to be an example of dignified mourning. She sat, back straight and head high in her chair, focusing on needlework. The key was to regulate her emotions, to consider her actions before taking them. She would not disrespect her father by having an outburst. She would not feel sorry for herself. Restraint was essential.
On the other hand, her mother did not rein in her emotions at all. She sat in the finest seat in the room, somehow looking as if she would collapse even though she was not standing. At the moment she was focused on berating Elizabeth. “You must not be allowed to attend the funeral. How could I have such a daughter? If your father were here, I would make him stop you. And Kitty, why must you go along with her? Why will you not stay home, like Jane and Mary?”
“I feel I must go, Mother, to do my duty to him,” said Elizabeth.
Kitty looked conflicted, so Mary thought it appropriate to add her opinion. “The best way to honor your parents is to follow their advice in all things.”
“Why must you always be so certain that your way is the only right way?” asked Kitty as she glared at Mary. “I am going with Lizzy.”
Mrs. Bennet let out a sound that rather resembled a wail. “Mary is the only one with sympathy for my poor nerves.”
“I am sorry, Mother,” said Elizabeth, “but I will bring honor to both of my parents by attending the funeral today.”
The discussion was cut short; the time had come for the funeral procession. The family moved to the parlor, still draped in black, and watched as Mr. Bennet’s coffin was closed. Mary strained her neck to the side in order to see one last glimpse of her father’s face, but there were too many people in front of her, and all she saw was the case as it closed with an irreverent thud.
The coffin was carried outside, followed by the family. Mary pushed ahead so that in this,
