Chapter Text
Mary sat at her desk in the little annex at the top of the Gardiner’s house and gazed vacantly out to the view of London. She had done this many times since moving here, but this past week everything looked brighter, more beautiful. A week ago, she was happy with her lot, though she could have always been a little happier. But since that day in the park, she could not believe her blissful, some might say incandescent, happiness.
Tom Hayward loved her.
He saw her, he knew her and he loved her. Mary never imagined that she would marry, let alone marry for love. In her time, she had seen enough miserable marriages to resign herself to the simple (but not inferior) life of a governess. That was until she gained a Mr Hayward as a friend, then all ideas turned on their head. He was gentle, and kind, and sharp-witted; a lover of poetry - that could be forgiven when one was the receiver of his poetic declarations as Mary delighted in being. The idea of spending her life with a man such as that was sometimes too much joy for her to bear. Tom had been a frequent visitor to Gracechurch Street since that day. Mr Gardiner joked that they saw more of the boy now than they ever had, even when he lodged there himself. Mary smiled as she remembered the way the Gardiners' faces had lit up when she and Tom entered the room, the joy and the love she had never dreamt to be the subject of. And at that thought, her smile faltered, a small cloud covering the sun. There was someone she needed to inform of her betrothal.
‘My dear Mary, you look as if you’re a criminal waiting for execution with that frown. What on Earth is it?’
Mrs Gardiner stood in the doorway, a pile of fabric in her hands. She moved in the room, placed the fabric on Mary’s bed and came to rest at the side of the desk, crouching to look Mary in the eye. Her niece turned her head and sighed.
‘It is my mother. I need to tell her about Tom.’
Mrs Gardiner pulled a face quite unladylike and made a sound in her throat that Mary only heard when her mother was mentioned.
‘Mary. You do not need to worry yourself about that now. Please, enjoy the love and affection of that man and leave all thoughts of your mother alone. She need only know when you have settled on a date, and even then,’ Mrs Gardiner paused to smile at Mary, ‘she need only be told as and when you wish to tell her. Perhaps, if you must tell somebody, one of your sisters might be better. Someone to share in the excitement and advise you better than I can.’
‘There is no one better at advising me than you, Aunt. You know that.’
Mary returned her aunt’s smile and took a deep breath. Family relations were complicated, especially if one belonged to the Bennet family. Nothing was ever done in the right way. Nothing that Mary ever did was right, anyway.
‘You’re doing it again, my dear. I suggest you write to a sister or leave it alone and come downstairs for some tea. I hear we are to expect a special guest, again.’
At that, Mrs Gardiner placed a kiss on her niece’s head and left the room.
As for Mary, she got up and began to pace – a bad habit she’d developed in her years alone at Longbourn, one which wore down her mother’s nerves (as, frankly, did everything Mary chose to do). She stopped by her looking glass and looked at herself. Since moving to London, she had grown to love herself. She loved the way her hair curled in front of her face, the way her eyes were large and round and interested, the way her spectacles permanently perched at the end of her nose. But now, thinking of her mother, she could only see her faults. She could only see the way her eyes did not sparkle like Lizzie’s, her hair was not golden like Jane’s, her smile not as wide or as welcoming as Kitty’s and, well, she would not compare herself to Lydia at all. Mrs Bennet had perhaps not meant to pit her daughters against each other, but Mary certainly only saw her sisters as everything she was not. Absent-mindedly she rubbed her ring finger, thinking of how even her brothers-in-law only gained affection in her mother’s eyes because of their social standing, and how one man - though worthy in a thousand other ways – would be looked down on. Mary thought and thought, her brow becoming more and more furrowed. This was another habit from her time at Longbourn – she simply could not control her thoughts where her mother was concerned.
In the end, it was Tom who interrupted her thoughts by coming through the door at the bottom of the house and loudly greeting the children, who were always there waiting for him.
Mary smiled to herself. Smoothing down her dress subconsciously, she quitted her bedroom and descended the stairs to where her betrothed (her betrothed!) was deep in conversation with George about whether or not horses had feelings. He looked up on hearing footsteps, and his expression softened, his eyes (such beautiful eyes) sparkled and his mouth (such a beautiful mouth) formed a smile – the one he always saved just for her.
‘Good evening, Miss Bennet.’ He said, bowing to her. Mary couldn’t stop herself from admiring him once again, looking him up and down with such delight. This man loves me, she thought, in an attempt to cast aside her earlier worries.
He caught her eye and raised his eyebrow, suggesting that oh yes, he knew she was appreciating him. Tom Hayward had that special skill of understanding someone from just a look, so he knew Mary utterly and completely and she relished in that. He took a proper look at her too, a grin tugging at the side of his mouth, until he got to her eyes and noticed lines of concern. With this, his face darkened and he looked at her questioningly. She shook her head. Not now, it suggested, not in front of our Gardiners.
‘Tom,’ pleaded George. ‘Please carry on. You were saying how sometimes you like to recite poetry to your horse, to soothe him.’
Mary laughed out loud at that – of course he did, what a foolish and wonderful man.
Tom smiled sheepishly and turned away to continue his conversation in private, but not without casting one last look of concern over his shoulder at Mary and smiling encouragingly at her.
The evening was, as always, delightful. Mary revelled in the warmth and comfort of being with her loved ones. Tom was especially attentive, smiling at her so much it was almost overwhelming, cracking jokes just for her, making sure she was comfortable when they sat by the fire to play word games. If she hadn’t been preoccupied with thinking of her family, the guilt of not telling them yet coupled with the fear of what might happen when she did tell them, she would have ascended to the heights to be treated in such a way by such a man. But instead, she picked at her fingers, chewed the inside of her cheek and constantly adjusted her spectacles. Tom looked at Mrs Gardiner imploringly, begging her for some explanation as to why his precious fiancée would be acting in such a way. She in turn responded with an eye roll and Tom, as Tom did, understood it all.
After the children were taken to bed, Mrs Gardiner called her husband over to discuss ‘household matters’, as she called it. This left the two young people on the sofa, Tom not taking his eyes off his Mary, and Mary staring off into the distance.
‘Mary.’
Tom spoke in soft, hushed tones, allowing himself the liberty and the honour of using her name to bring her back to herself.
‘Mary, please tell me what is wrong. Whatever it is, we will be able to work it out I promise you.’
He took her hand boldly, and clutched it trying to convey such comfort that he almost hurt her (but he would never do that).
‘It’s my mother. I find I do not know how to tell her about us,’ Mary said simply, putting her hand over his and looking with desperation at him.
They sat like this for a few silent minutes. Sometimes, you can meet someone who will understand you without question and without restraint, and you will be able to sit with them in silence and communicate everything you could not attempt to in words. It was so with Tom and Mary. Two people so aligned in thinking that they need only be together and all was understood.
‘Why don’t you write to your sister? Write to Mrs Darcy, she will understand, she can handle your mother,’ suggested Tom, still speaking quietly, leaning in to catch Mary’s eye before she could look away again. He loved to look her in the eye, her eyes were so full of wonder and interest, so bright with intelligence.
Mary thought for a few moments before nodding.
‘Yes. You are right, of course. I will write to Lizzie in the morning. We shall have to wait and see what her suggestion is,’ Mary smiled wanly at him.
So that is what Mary did.