The saying was familiar enough. She had read it many times and had even copied it into her book of extracts. But as it ran through her head, she realised that she had never really absorbed its meaning. It had made no impact on the way she thought of herself. In that respect, her mother’s ideas still loomed larger than those of Aristotle. She had been unable to free herself from Mrs. Bennet’s conviction that happiness arose from drawing the winning tickets in the lottery of life, especially those of a pretty face and a graceful figure.
Then she arrived at Gracechurch Street and everything changed. There she saw what true happiness looked like; and for the first time in her life, she understood what it felt like to be wrapped in its embrace. At Pemberley, she had been an observer, watching the contentment of others from the margins, but in the Gardiners’ home, she was included, invited in, and immersed in their kindness. For a while, she had allowed herself simply to bask in such an unfamiliar pleasure; but it had not been long before her enquiring mind awoke, and she began to look around Gracechurch Street with a questioning eye, asking how the Gardiners had achieved their happy state. It was only now that she finally grasped how it was done; as she saw, with a flash of comprehension, that Aristotle had a far better idea of how happiness was to be achieved than Mrs. Bennet.
The happy contentment which defined life at Gracechurch Street was not the product of beauty, wealth, or luck. It was true the Gardiners enjoyed some marks of good fortune—a comfortable income and good health chief amongst them—but none of them was outstandingly handsome, and they possessed no broad acres or rolling parklands. In fact, thought Mary, it might be argued that many of the same advantages from which they benefitted had been equally bestowed upon Longbourn—but without producing a comparably happy state. No, she decided, her ideas solidifying in her mind—the difference was that the Gardiners worked hard at the business of happiness, exerting themselves tirelessly to coax it into being. They did not consider happiness a matter of chance or destiny. Instead they did everything in their power to cultivate it, prizing generosity over petulance, preferring kindness to umbrage, and always encouraging laughter rather than complaint. The result was the happiest home Mary had ever known. If anyone might be said to have made their own happiness, she concluded, it was her uncle and aunt.
She sat up straight, alert and thoughtful. If her uncle and aunt could do it, why should she not follow their example? She was a good scholar—and surely this was only a different kind of lesson that she could train herself to learn? She might begin by adopting some of the habits of mind that served them so well. None of the Gardiners were ashamed of themselves. Perhaps she could persuade a little of their confidence to attach itself to her? She could try and smile more and frown less, telling herself that not everything she said was dull and awkward. It would not be easy to shift the inclinations of a lifetime; but she was sure she was ready to try.
Excited, she walked to the window and pushed up the sash, leaning out into the darkening evening. The lights of the Gracechurch Street shops glowed yellow and the smell of coal smoke hung acrid in the air, but she did not mind. She had never expected she would grow to love London. But its sights and sounds, which had once seemed so overpowering, now seemed exhilarating and full of promise. She could not remember when she had last felt so eager, awake, and ready for something new. She took a deep breath of the cool air and closed the window. The most important habit to conquer was the habit of misery itself. Nothing was so inimical to happiness as the settled conviction it was not for her. It was a conviction that ran very deep in her; but she knew she must fight to rise above it.
As she passed the mirror, she caught sight of herself, her dress hanging loose at her shoulders, her shawl wrapped untidily around her, her face a little flushed from the night air. She cut a dishevelled figure, she thought, picking up a fold of the glittering gold dress and running it gently through her hands. The delicate silk felt pleasurable to her touch. If she was to open herself up to the possibility of happiness, where better to start than with the purchase of some new clothes? She would write to Lizzy tomorrow, signifying her readiness to accept her kind offer. She would make sure it was a cheerful letter. She would begin as she meant to go on.
Chapter 52
When their carriage pulled up outside a magnificent stuccoed building with a tall, pillared entrance, Mary was convinced the coachman must have mistaken the address.
“Can this be right? It looks more like a palace than a shop.”
Mrs. Gardiner gathered together her cloak and gloves, eager to begin.
“That is exactly what you are supposed to think. But I promise you, it is a shop—although a very grand one. Mr. Gardiner always says there is nowhere in the world quite like Harding and Howell, and I do not argue with him. If we cannot find what we want here, it is simply not to be had.”
As an established Londoner of some three weeks, Mary imagined that in her walks around Cheapside, she had already encountered the most lavish displays of goods the capital had to offer; but, as she followed her aunt through the shop’s great doors, she realised she could not have been more wrong. She had never seen anything like Harding and Howell. In both size and magnificence, it was incomparable. Room after room opened out before her, each with its own distinct offering of beautiful things. Mahogany counters shone in the light that poured in from high windows. At some, gentlemen stood examining cravats; at others, ladies looked closely at stockings.
“We did very well to come so early,” said Mrs. Gardiner as they strode past a display of hats. “If you arrive after eleven, the queues are intolerable.”
When they arrived in the fabric hall, the sight was even more splendid. Every wall was lined with wide shelves reaching up to the ceiling. Upon them, bolts of every kind of cloth were stacked: cottons, poplins, muslins, and lawns. Long swathes of silk hung from tall poles, showing off their colours and patterns to glorious advantage. On a table in the centre of the room were spread out the most beautiful paisley shawls Mary had ever seen. This shimmering palace of fabrics could not be more different from the dark little haberdasher’s at Meryton.
“It is magnificent, is it not?” whispered Mrs. Gardiner as they sat down at one of the broad counters. They were attended to by a very superior assistant, whose immaculate clothes made Mary painfully conscious of the shortcomings of her own. She thought she saw his eyes flicker over her unremarkable outfit; but once reassured by the amount Mrs. Gardiner intended to spend, his manner was quickly all consideration and attentiveness.
They began with muslins. Mary could not believe how many were laid before her, all miracles of lightness and delicacy. At first the sheer extent of the choice seemed to make it impossible to decide, for there was always something more to see; but gradually, she found her eye and began to discover what she liked. With growing confidence, she decided first upon a spotted pink and then a rich, glowing cream. The cottons proved more difficult, for they came in so many colours and patterns; each fresh example seemed as alluring as the one before. Eventually, she fixed upon a yellow-and-white stripe and a lavender ground decorated with cream leaves; though, for her final choice, she could not decide between a design of green and gold or one of blue and grey.
As she turned over the samples, Mary could not quite credit how much she found herself enjoying an occupation she would not long ago have dismissed as frivolous. How was this to be explained? Part of it, she thought, was simple. She had closed her ears to her usual scruples and allowed herself to enjoy the physical pleasure of handling such beautiful things, running them through her hands and admiring the texture and feel of them.
But she knew she would never have dared attempt it if her mother or Lydia had been there to witness it. They would have laughed at her change of heart. Mrs. Bennet would have been scornful, and Lydia could never have resisted the opportunity it offered for a good tease. In London, however, there was no-one to judge her. Here, she thought, she might alter everything about herself if she wished to; and if t
hat meant finding satisfaction in handsome cottons, then so be it. Soon she was so absorbed once more in comparing the different patterns that, until he was almost upon them, she did not notice a young man making his way towards their counter, his hand raised in greeting. Mrs. Gardiner sprang up, delighted to see him.
“Mr. Hayward! Whatever are you doing here?”
“Nothing very particular, I’m afraid,” the young man replied, with a polite bow. “I left home with the definite intention of buying myself some gloves, but so far, I’ve done nothing but saunter about.”
Mrs. Gardiner laughed.
“Men have so little sense of urgency when it comes to the business of buying. We, on the other hand, have set ourselves diligently to the task and have already acquired a very respectable number of purchases.”
“You have begun as you mean to go on, then?”
“Indeed we have.” Mrs. Gardiner turned to Mary, who looked up a little uncertainly, but did her best to produce a welcoming smile.
“Mr. Hayward, may I introduce my niece Miss Mary Bennet? When not leading me astray amongst the muslins, she is staying with us at Gracechurch Street. Mary, this is Mr. Thomas Hayward, the son of a cousin of mine—a good friend of all us Gardiners, and a frequent guest in our house.”
Mr. Hayward was tall and broad-shouldered, with a shock of dark hair. He was not particularly handsome, but his expression was so affable and amused that by the time this fact was noticed, it was too late for it to matter.
“I am proud to be both distant relative and close friend,” he declared, “for one might be said to have led to the other. Are you up from the country, Miss Bennet?”
Mary made herself speak up clearly, determined to allow no hint of a blush or a mumble.
“Yes, sir, I am quite new to town.”
“And how are you enjoying it?”
“I was a little overwhelmed at first, but the better I get to know it, the more I like it.”
“Exactly the right answer! I am a great advocate for London and hate to hear it criticised. After all, where else could we find ourselves in such a building as this? Where the best that commerce and industry can afford is offered to us, all under one roof?”
His enthusiasm was so open and infectious, his expression so encouraging, that Mary found it easy to reply.
“Yes, sir, I must admit I have never been anywhere like it. They have cottons and silks in every colour of the rainbow, including some so extraordinary they have yet to be given a name.”
“Perhaps we should set ourselves to supplying that deficiency,” mused Mr. Hayward. “It is very inconvenient not to be able to ask for exactly what one wants. What do you think of ‘coromandel’ for that fiery shade between red and orange hanging over there? Or ‘jonquil’ for the rather queasy tone of yellow to your left?”
“Now, Tom,” said Mrs. Gardiner severely, “you are not to inflict your whimsy on poor Miss Bennet before she has had a chance to know you. She will not know what to think.”
Unabashed, Mr. Hayward drew up a chair and seated himself at the counter beside them.
“You are quite right,” he replied, with a good-natured air which suggested this was not the first time Mrs. Gardiner had scolded him in this way. “I promise to conduct myself hereafter in a manner that will neither surprise nor entertain. I shall be exactly as dull as politeness requires.”
“I am sure there is some happy medium between the two,” observed Mrs. Gardiner.
“Then I shall certainly endeavour to find it.” He smiled at her aunt, and Mary saw immediately how fond they were of each other.
“So, Miss Bennet,” he went on, in a more formal voice, “you are in the very best place to find materials of every kind. The quality here is excellent. May I be allowed to see what you have chosen?”
“Really, sir?” asked Mary, puzzled. “Do you honestly wish to see what I have been looking at?”
“Indeed, I do,” insisted Mr. Hayward. “I’m reckoned an excellent judge of cottons and muslins. Though not silks. Silks are not my province at all.”
Mary glanced at him to see if he was making game of her; but obediently, she passed him the book of samples she had been examining.
“We cannot decide,” she said, “between the blue and the green.”
It felt very strange to be discussing such matters with a man she had barely met; but Mr. Hayward was not disconcerted. He looked at both swatches closely and felt them between his fingers.
“You should take the green. It will wear better.”
“Now you are teasing me, sir.”
He closed the book, as if all was now decided.
“Well, perhaps a little. But you really should choose the green, on grounds of beauty if not of utility. It is a very handsome pattern. I think it would suit you.”
Mary felt herself begin to blush and looked down once more at the swatches.
“How did you come to know so much about cottons, sir?” she asked. “Are you in the trade yourself?”
“Oh, no,” he said, laughing a little. “But I had a very good apprenticeship. With four sisters, all older than me, it was impossible I should not learn something about the intricacies of dress. I grew up surrounded by hems and flounces!”
“An excellent qualification,” remarked her aunt, “but is it enough for us to take his advice?”
Mary hesitated. She was not sure she wished to be so easily influenced by a man who was quite unlike anyone she had encountered before.
“I see I may have confused matters by giving my opinion too decisively,” said Mr. Hayward soothingly. “Please let me make amends. May I offer you some tea? There is a refreshment room here with an admirable view of the Park. Miss Bennet can reflect on the contesting virtues of her cottons over a toasted tea cake.”
“In the circumstances,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I think that is the very least you can do.”
Chapter 53
Mary and her aunt made their excuses to the shopman, who promised to keep the samples in readiness for them until they returned; and together with Mr. Hayward, they made their way through a series of colonnaded rooms until they arrived at a salon, whose tall windows overlooked the trees and lawns of St. James’s. Once they were settled, with tea and cakes laid out before them, Mrs. Gardiner turned to Mr. Hayward with an enquiring look.
“So, Tom, are you writing anything just now? It’s a while since I’ve had the pleasure of reading something of yours. Is there a work ‘on the stocks,’ as I believe you writers say?”
Mary put down her cup, suddenly alert and interested.
“Are you an author, sir?”
“Indeed he is,” replied Mrs. Gardiner. “He has written several extremely interesting pieces.”
“Your aunt is very kind,” said Mr. Hayward, laying down his slice of fruitcake, “but I fear ‘author’ is a title I don’t really deserve. It suggests far too much. I have contributed a few articles to magazines—but as a reviewer of the work of others, rather than producing something original of my own.”
“But that is not to be dismissed,” ventured Mary. “The work of the critic is essential to the formation of correct taste. And it must be a wonderful thing to support yourself by your pen.”
“Yes, Miss Bennet, I’m sure it is. But I cannot lay claim to such distinction. I am a lawyer, ma’am.”
He poured himself another cup of tea and returned to his fruitcake.
“And a very good one,” added Mrs. Gardiner. “He has finished eating his dinners at the Temple and is a barrister.”
“Quite a junior one, I am afraid.”
“But not for long, I am sure,” said Mrs. Gardiner indulgently. “We have great hopes for you, Tom.”
“Do you write about legal matters, then?” asked Mary. “Constitutional questions, perhaps?”
“No, I do not. The law is my profession, but my passion is poetry.”
Mary could hardly believe what she heard. To meet a man who wrote for magazines was surprising enough, but to
discover the subject of his pen was poetry was doubly astounding. She was not sure how she imagined such a person might look and sound, but Mr. Hayward, with his frank, open manner, dark curly hair, and healthy appetite was not what she would have expected.
“Poetry, sir?”
“Poetry, ma’am. Do you care for it yourself?”
“I cannot say I do. I used to read Young’s Night Thoughts quite often, but I haven’t looked at it for many years.”
“If that gloomy verse was your sole experience of the poetic art, I’m not surprised you gave it up. Have you really read nothing more recent?”
“I’m afraid not, or if I have, I do not remember it.”
For the first time since Mary had met him, Mr. Hayward was now wholly serious—serious enough to put down his second piece of cake and throw his napkin onto the table.
“Really, Miss Bennet, this is a sad thing to hear. You cannot remain in this unenlightened state—you must allow me to introduce you to some newer works! If my favourites don’t affect you as they do me—don’t strike you speechless with admiration—then I promise never to mention them again.”
“Let us not begin upon poetry now,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking warily at Mr. Hayward. “Once we start, we shall never stop. And we still have shopping to do.”
Mr. Hayward looked sheepish. “Yes,” he admitted, “I tend to bore on the subject if not checked.”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Mary earnestly, “it is very exciting to hear someone speak with such conviction about things of the mind.”
Mr. Hayward’s gratified smile encouraged her to go on.
“My ignorance of modern poetry is a great weakness in my reading, and one I should very much like to remedy,” she said hastily, as if to get out what she wished to say before her courage failed her. “If you were kind enough to make any recommendations, you can be sure I would apply my mind to them very assiduously.”
“I’d be honoured to do so,” said Mr. Hayward. “Although I think, once you begin upon them, you’ll see that your mind will take you only so far in appreciating them. They must be read with the heart as well as the head.”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 28
