He looked at her steadily. It was Mary who turned away first. Then the waiter arrived at the table to ask if they required anything more; he clearly wished them to take their leave, and Mrs. Gardiner began to prepare herself to go.
“It appears we have outstayed our welcome and must be off,” she said. “We shall return to our silks and cottons, but you and Tom may continue your conversation at our next dinner. Mr. Hayward is one of our regulars, so he will have every opportunity to persuade you to share his enthusiasms when he is next at Gracechurch Street.”
Mr. Hayward stood up and bowed again.
“I very much hope so. I shall endeavour to make a poetry lover of you yet, Miss Bennet. And I urge the green-and-gold stripe upon you, I promise you will not regret it.”
Mary said her farewells, and followed her aunt away from the table. When they reached the door, she could not resist glancing back. Mr. Hayward was occupied in paying the waiter whilst an impatient couple quickly claimed possession of their vacated chairs. She turned away hurriedly. She would have been deeply embarrassed if he had seen her looking. She was glad when her aunt took her arm and they began to make their way back to the fabric hall.
“Tom Hayward is a great favourite of mine,” Mrs. Gardiner confided as they passed a great display of gentlemen’s handkerchiefs. “He is one of the best-natured men I know—excepting Mr. Gardiner of course. I have known him since he was a boy and cannot recall him saying an unkind word.”
“He was in an excellent humour today,” replied Mary. “It seemed as though he found everything around him amusing.”
“Yes,” admitted her aunt. “If Tom has a fault, it is that he is inclined to be whimsical. He gives in too easily to flights of fancy, sometimes to entertain others and sometimes, I think, merely to please himself. I have mentioned it to him before—you will have observed I did so today—but I’m afraid he doesn’t attend.”
Suddenly Mrs. Gardiner came to a halt, struck by the appearance of a pair of gloves that, from a distance, seemed to be exactly what she had been looking for. But on closer inspection, they revealed themselves to be the wrong shade of yellow, and they walked on, Mrs. Gardiner returning once more to the subject of Mr. Hayward.
“Tom is naturally of a very lively disposition,” she went on, “and does love to exercise his wit. It would be a great mistake, however, to imagine that because he is inclined to be jocular, he is incapable of serious feeling. Underneath his light-hearted manner, there is a very thoughtful young man, as steady and sensible as anyone I know.”
“As a lawyer, I should have thought those were essential qualities, if he hoped to rise in his profession.”
“Indeed; and I understand he is very highly regarded at the Inns of Court. Mr. Gardiner says that in his professional capacity, Tom is always exacting and precise, quite unlike the easygoing character he chooses to adopt when amongst his friends.”
They had arrived at the counter once more. Chairs were pulled up for them; the shopman retrieved the book of samples they had been studying and placed it with a flourish before them; but Mrs. Gardiner was as yet reluctant to relinquish the interesting subject of Mr. Hayward and return to the cottons.
“It is a strange thing, Mary, but in my experience, most men like to think of themselves as serious beings. They cultivate a sense of dignity and enjoy being considered grave and severe. But it is quite the opposite with Tom. He prefers to hide his seriousness away. It appears now and then, of course, but he does not care to broadcast it.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Mary, “spending so much time with lawyers has exhausted his appetite for sobriety. Maybe he fears becoming as pompous as they are if he does not cultivate a livelier turn of mind?”
“I suppose that is possible,” agreed Mrs. Gardiner. “And he comes from quite a numerous family, so he will have been obliged to speak up and tell a joke or two in order to be heard!”
“You mentioned he is a relative of yours?”
“His mother is a cousin of mine, somewhat older than myself. She married Tom’s father, as his second wife. They lived happily until his death two years ago. I have not seen her since then, but we still write to each other.”
Mrs. Gardiner opened the book of samples, as if to begin upon the cottons once more, but now it was Mary who seemed reluctant to abandon the interesting topic of Mr. Hayward.
“So are the sisters Mr. Hayward mentioned the daughters of your cousin, or his first wife?”
“They are my cousin’s daughters. All of them are married now. Her husband had a son by his first marriage, and he inherited the family estate. As the younger boy, Tom always knew he would have to make his own way in the world. And to his credit, he has done so with admirable determination and very good grace.”
Mary was silent for a moment, absorbing all she had heard.
“And what about the poetry?” she asked. “Where does that passion come from?”
“Lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Gardiner. “I really cannot say. That’s too deep a question for me to answer. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
She looked at the great clock on the wall.
“And on that note, I think we must leave Tom alone and return to our shopping. Have you made a decision yet?”
Mary glanced quickly at the samples and closed the book, much to the relief of the shopman, who had approached with a questioning air.
“I believe Mr. Hayward may have been right about the green,” she said. “I do believe we should take it.”
Once Mary’s dresses were ordered and being made up, Mrs. Gardiner turned her mind to Mary’s spectacles, carrying her to see Mr. Dolland the oculist. There Mary’s eyes were examined again and her glasses studied closely.
“The lenses are of excellent workmanship for a country practice,” observed Mr. Dolland. “But I think we may provide you with something a little more tasteful in the way of a frame.”
“They were made for me by a very talented young man,” Mary replied in a low voice. “I believe he is now studying at one of the hospitals here in London.”
“Where no doubt he will do very well, if this is an example of his capabilities. Now, ma’am, may I beg you to look in this direction?”
Mary peered through pair after pair of spectacles. Once the consultation was over, she chose two handsome examples with delicate silver frames, which Mr. Dolland urged upon her.
“Much more suitable to a young face, I feel. Do you want to keep the old ones? I can dispose of them if you wish.”
Mr. Dolland held out the glasses on a clean white cloth. Next to the new ones they seemed heavy and perhaps a little clumsy; but Mary’s heart contracted a little as she looked at them.
“I should like to keep them, if you please.”
He handed the old spectacles to his assistant, who wrapped them carefully in cotton wool.
Once back in Gracechurch Street, Mary carried the little package to her room and gently unpacked it. She held the spectacles in her hands, thinking of everything that had happened since the day in the Longbourn drawing room when John Sparrow had shyly declared his intention to grind the lenses himself. That world was gone now, its inhabitants scattered and dispersed. It could never be recovered. What was done was done. She raised the spectacles to her lips and kissed them gently before folding them up in the cotton wool. Then she opened her dressing-table drawer and placed them carefully at the very back, next to the little Greek dictionary.
As for Mr. Hayward, she did not allow herself to think of him at all. It was only after she had blown out her candle and fallen asleep that he sprang unbidden into her mind. There was nothing she could do to prevent him appearing in her dreams, gazing at her quizzically whilst holding a book of poetry in one hand and carrying a length of the green-and-gold cotton in the other.
Chapter 54
On the night of the Gardiners’ first dinner, Mary found herself in the unfamiliar situation of having a choice of new clothes to wear. It did not take her long to decide upon the gown made up
from the pale cream muslin she had bought at Harding and Howell, which had turned out just as simple and elegant as she had hoped, with not a flounce or a lace trimming to be seen. Mrs. Gardiner’s maid put up Mary’s hair into a smooth chignon with only the smallest curl attempted at the sides; she refused all other ornaments. As she stood before the mirror, examining the result of her efforts, Mrs. Gardiner appeared at her door.
“Ah, that is a great improvement! The colour gives you a little warmth, which helps your complexion. The style looks well on you. Indeed, the whole effect is very pleasing.”
To a beautiful woman accustomed to extravagant compliments, this would not have seemed like much; but its sincerity delighted Mary. She stared at her reflection one last time and decided that she too was satisfied with what she saw. She would not embarrass the Gardiners, dressed as she was; she could take her place amongst their party with as much assurance as anyone else. She was nervous; but the knowledge she would not look an oddity at her first London dinner gave her the courage she needed to face it bravely, and even with a little excited anticipation.
There were twenty people at the table, and Mary was relieved to find them talkative and lively. They were all City people who knew each other too well to stand on ceremony; and soon the conversation flowed freely, with steadily increasing volume. Once a gathering of this kind would have made Mary painfully aware of her own isolation; but she had been relieved to find herself seated next to Mr. Hayward, who soon put her at ease. He introduced her to her neighbours, made sure her wineglass was never empty, and helped her to the oyster patties with which the dinner began. In a low voice, he explained who everyone was, discreetly indicating the wealthy banker, the powerful alderman, the cultivated tea importer, and the wife of London’s largest greengrocer. His manner was so genial and his conversation so entertaining that she soon forgot to be self-conscious. When she looked around and took in the splendid dining room, illuminated by more candles than she had ever seen in one place, whose light sparkled against the gilt mirrors and gold picture frames, she did not retreat into herself, calculating how soon it would all be over; but instead gave herself up to enjoying the spectacle, never thinking for a moment that she did not belong there.
When she and Mr. Hayward had exhausted the topic of their fellow guests, it was an easy step to begin discussing themselves; and, as the main course was brought in, Mary asked him how he had come to choose the law as his profession. But before he could begin to answer, a fine shoulder of veal was passed in their direction; and it was not until he was satisfied that she had as much of the dish as she wanted that he was ready to reply.
“It is often said we younger sons have only three careers to choose from—the church, the army, or the law. And as I thought myself entirely unsuited to the first two, it was inevitable I should end up in the third.”
“Really, Mr. Hayward?” A servant filled her glass with wine. Perhaps it was that which gave her the boldness to continue. “You do not strike me as the kind of man who decides upon his life’s occupation merely because it is—well, I shall not say the lesser of three evils, as that would be disrespectful to the clergy, but I think you know what I mean.”
Mr. Hayward looked amused.
“Yes, I cannot deny it. There were many other considerations that propelled me towards the law. As you may have noticed, I enjoy the sound of my own voice, an essential qualification for a barrister.”
“So I have been told,” persisted Mary, “but I cannot believe that eloquence is the only quality a lawyer requires. It must also demand a good understanding and a great deal of study, the getting of quantities of facts by heart.”
“You speak as if you imagine those things beyond me!”
“Why no, sir. Our acquaintance has been as yet too brief for me to make such a judgement. Shall you have some cheese? I can hand it to you if you wish?”
“Really, Miss Bennet, I am most dreadfully affronted! You seem to suggest I’m incapable of applying myself to weighty subjects. I cannot think of taking any Stilton until I have been allowed to defend my character as a most diligently dull student of the law!”
“You will excuse me if I try some.” Mary took a very small piece of cheese and placed it carefully on one of Mrs. Gardiner’s best Wedgwood plates.
“I did not mean to imply you were incapable of serious study. On the contrary, I do not imagine you could have achieved your current place in your profession without it. You must have worked long and hard to master its principles. And to me, that suggests you have more fondness for it than you like to admit. I think you chose the law, not because your other choices were so few, or because it allowed you to exercise your skill in argument—but because there was something in it that you enjoyed and wished to pursue.”
Mr. Hayward, who had watched her closely as she spoke, now laughed once more.
“A hit,” he exclaimed, “a palpable hit! You have clearly missed your own vocation, Miss Bennet. You would be a most formidable addition to the Bar!”
He reached for the cheese and cut himself a piece.
“You are quite right, however,” he continued. “I went into the law because a part of my mind finds it deeply satisfying. I enjoy its precision and exactness, its attempts to comprehend every eventuality, to provide for every possible occurrence—and to do so with as much cool, calm, one might say indifferent, rationality as possible. The language of the law—which so many find dull and arid—is fascinating to me.”
“I knew you could not devote yourself to a profession in which you had no real interest,” declared Mary, triumphant. “It took a little effort for you to confess it, but I was certain it was the case.”
“I’m not sure a taste for the dustier recesses of the law is a thing one would want generally known,” said Mr. Hayward ruefully, “but as it seems to have raised me in your estimation, I am prepared to admit it.”
Mary felt her face grow warm. She was not sure whether the cause was Mr. Hayward’s amused gaze, or her uncle’s wine, of which she had drunk more than usual. The noise around the table suggested she was not the only guest who might have done so. There was a cheer as the servants came in, carrying three large trifles and a great number of spoons.
“And yet, you have no such inhibitions about declaring your love for poetry.”
“No, that is a pursuit of which I have never been ashamed.”
“May I ask where your passion comes from?” Mary could not quite believe she was asking more questions, but she could not stop. “Has it always been so marked a taste for you?”
“I cannot remember when I did not care for it,” replied Mr. Hayward simply. “I have loved it since I was a boy.”
“And do you write verse as well as read it? I imagine the two impulses are often found in company.”
“Indeed, they go together as well as this excellent trifle and this jug of cream. Will you take a little?”
Mary shook her head; it was impossible she should ever eat another mouthful. Even Mr. Hayward seemed defeated and pushed away his plate.
“Yes, I tried to write,” he said. “I tried very hard. Like many another foolish young man, I believed that because I loved poetry so sincerely, I must be able to write it too. But I was wrong. I could not do it.”
“That must have been a great sadness to you.”
“At the time, I thought it was the end of the world.” He smiled in recollection of his youthful grief. “Now I’m thankful I understood my limitations so early. If I don’t have the genius to create a thing of beauty myself, at least I have the judgement to appreciate the art of others. It is better to accept what I can do, than to yearn hopelessly after what I cannot. ‘Know thyself,’ as the Greeks tell us.”
Mary murmured a phrase, quite low, almost to herself.
“Really, Miss Bennet, that sounded very like Greek,” remarked Mr. Hayward. “Could it have been? It isn’t a language with which young ladies are usually familiar.”
“Oh!” cried Mary, embarrassed at hav
ing revealed knowledge she was not expected to possess. “I really know very little, only the alphabet, some grammar, and a few quotes from the great philosophers. I was taught it—by a friend of the family.”
“You are full of surprises,” replied Mr. Hayward. “I look forward to learning that you also draw in the Chinese style, or have lately prepared your own translation of Goethe.”
Mary was suddenly wary. Was he mocking her? She could not bear it if he was. Mr. Hayward caught her anxious expression.
“I see I have upset you. Please understand that was not my intention.”
He appeared genuinely distressed as he sought to make amends.
“My words were ill-chosen. I will always attempt a witty remark, even when I had far better not. But I did not mean to tease you. A cultivated mind is a wonderful thing in a woman and should be everywhere encouraged, not despised. If I gave the impression I thought otherwise, I am sorry, and ask your forgiveness.”
It was impossible to doubt either his candour or his concern, and Mary felt relief flood through her. She could not recall when she had enjoyed anyone’s company so much, and it would have been painful for the evening to end on an uncomfortable note. For there could be no doubt now that the dinner was coming to a conclusion. The plates had been cleared and the crumbs were being swept from the cloth. For the first time she could remember, Mary did not welcome the prospect of its being over; she had no desire to hurry away.
“You are very kind. But the offence, such as it is, is not all on your side. I too have a case to answer, for I prodded and poked you about so many things—poetry and the law—and you bore it all with the utmost patience.”
“Well,” replied Mr. Hayward, his cheerfulness restored, “if we are both equally at fault, can I suggest a plan of restitution? You shall recommend a book for me to read that you believe will improve me in some way, and I will do the same for you. The terms are these: the work must be read in its entirety—no skipping—and a full account of the sensations it produced is to be given by the reader to the recommender before a period of not more than fourteen days has expired. What do you say?”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 29
