“Speak, dear one,” she said in a tender tone.
Mary nodded and paused briefly before beginning, as if she wanted to prepare for a difficult task.
“One day, I took some French books from the library. I wished to see if I could read a whole volume without needing Papa’s assistance.”
“And what did you take?” Elizabeth hoped her sister had not chosen one of the more indiscreet works she had once stumbled upon.
“I took the plays of Monsieur Beaumarchais and then those of Monsieur Marivaux.”
Elizabeth sighed in relief on hearing the names of those monsieurs.
“Good. And what did you find?”
“In one of the books, I discovered a letter. I know it is wrong to read a private letter, but I could not resist.”
Mary was so distressed by her own trespass that Elizabeth laughed, not in mockery, but with affection.
“My dear, some rules may be broken now and then, provided no harm is done. This, indeed, is one of life’s secret pleasures—to stray a little from propriety and feel oneself free.”
She thought fleetingly that, had Mr Darcy attempted to kiss her, she would not have turned away. “It is not a sin, mydear. I might have done the same. I suppose this letter lies at the heart of your tale.”
Mary at last smiled, a complete and unguarded smile that entirely softened her features.
“You ought to smile more often. You are beautiful when you smile.”
“No, I am not. Jane is beautiful. You are beautiful.”
“Nonsense, Mary Bennet! You are our sister, and you resemble us. The difference lies in care, not countenance. Jane spends an hour before the mirror each morning, while you give your reflection scarcely a glance. But today your hair is well arranged, and your gown suits you—you are lovely. Only attend a little more to your appearance, and you shall see others take notice. Now—this letter?”
Mary nodded, touched by her sister’s kindness. It was the first such praise she had ever received.
“I meant to return the letter to its place,” she continued, “but the opening lines caught me. The writer spoke of the Gardiner girls. At first, I believed she meant Aunt Gardiner, but as I read further, I understood she meant Mama and Aunt Phillips.”
“She?”
“Yes, it is from a mother to a daughter.”
“Do you know to whom the letter was sent?”
“No. But it is addressedMa chère, and in French, that means the recipient is female.”
“Yes.Ma chère, for a lady. Who else could it be but Emmeline?”
Elizabeth recalled the ladies who had stayed at Netherfield. Only Emmeline could have received a letter in French. Mr Bingley’s sisters were out of the question.
“And do you know her mother’s name?”
“No. The letter is signed onlyMama. But she plainly knew Mama and Aunt Phillips. I am convinced it is Sophia Barrington. There are too many coincidences. And both speak French.”
“What did she say about Mama?”
“The letter was difficult to read. The writer’s spelling was poor, and the hand untidy.”
“Have you the letter still?” Elizabeth asked quickly. The matter was becoming not only interesting but alarming.
“I do.” Mary, colouring again, drew the letter from her pocket.
Elizabeth examined it, hoping to find a signature. There was none.
