The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  Delighted at the success of his suggestion—he could not imagine why he had not thought of it before—Mr. Gardiner now wanted nothing more than to see everyone around him as happy as he was himself.

  “Mary, you will accompany us, of course. And, Tom, if the law can spare you for a short while, I hope you will come too?”

  Mr. Hayward said he would be honoured to join them, if it could be arranged; and soon, he and Mr. Gardiner were deep in conversation, discussing dates, itineraries, and the best way of making the journey.

  “What an unexpected treat!” exclaimed Mrs. Gardiner. “I cannot quite believe we are to go at last. I wonder if Jane would be happy to take the children for a short while—it would not be much to their liking, to travel so far and nothing but mountains at the end of it! But you seem very quiet, Mary. Don’t you want to come?”

  “More than anything. But you have already been so kind to me. I must ask—are you certain you want me with you?”

  “Really,” said her aunt, giving her a little embrace, “how should we manage without you? You can keep us entertained on the long road north—you’re sure to be able to point out all manner of curious rocks and historical ruins.”

  Mrs. Gardiner reached out and took the last roll left on the plate.

  “And Tom will be able to show us all the scenes that inspired the poetry of the place. Between the pair of you, we shall be excellently supplied with information. It will be hardly worthwhile buying a guidebook.”

  Chapter 58

  Mr. Hayward and Mary were much in each other’s company over the next few weeks. He was often at Gracechurch Street, sometimes calling briefly to pay his respects and drink a glass of Mr. Gardiner’s wine, sometimes dining with the family on terms of such familiarity that he seemed to belong there as much as Mary herself.

  At first, Mary had wondered whether, after their conversation about “Tintern Abbey,” she would feel self-conscious and a little uneasy in his presence. She had talked to him with more freedom and honesty than to any man she knew, revealing aspects of herself she had confessed to no-one else. When they had spoken together, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be so open—but now, part of her blushed to think of it, as if she’d shown him her petticoat. And she wondered, when he came to reflect upon it, if he would come to regret his own candour?

  It was soon apparent that none of her fears were justified. There was no breach in their cheerful relations. On the contrary, their intimacy deepened as they became more familiar with each other, as they chatted together on the sofa, or sat alongside each other at dinner, talking and laughing. At first Mary congratulated herself on having found so good a friend and strove not to imagine anything more. She told herself she was grateful to have found a like-minded confidant, with whom she shared so many interests, and whose conversation was more interesting to her than that of any other man she had known. But as time went on, Mary gradually understood that her affection for Mr. Hayward went beyond that of friendship. She waited for his visits with keen anticipation, and felt a little rush of pleasure when she heard his name announced. When he smiled at her in a particular way all his own, when he commented approvingly on something she said, when he told a story that made her laugh—and above all, when his hand once grazed her own as he handed her a book—then she knew without a doubt that these were feelings of an altogether different kind.

  She kept this new knowledge strictly to herself. Mrs. Gardiner was not blind to their liking for each other, and did not object to it, for she loved them both and thought them admirably suited to each other; but when she attempted to gauge Mary’s feelings in the matter, Mary would not be drawn out. She merely replied that she was always pleased to see Mr. Hayward, which was indeed the truth; the rest she kept resolutely to herself.

  She feared if she confessed her liking, it might somehow imply she thought it was returned; and this seemed in every way presumptuous, as well as unfamiliar. But there were times, however, when even she was inclined to think she caught a glimpse of something warmer in his behaviour, a look, a gesture, or a remark that suggested emotions on his part which went beyond those of friendship. But she could not be sure—and a small voice from deep within her sometimes whispered it was impossible a man like Mr. Hayward should take a serious interest in a woman like herself. It spoke lower than it once did, but it cautioned her to say nothing at present. So she did not share her hopeful feelings with her aunt, but kept them all to herself, to be enjoyed in private until such time as she was convinced it was safe enough to declare them.

  * * *

  Spring was well advanced when Mr. Gardiner announced one evening that he had arranged a great surprise for them all.

  “I thought our journey to the Lakes was excitement enough,” replied Mrs. Gardiner.

  “This is more by way of a local excursion. Does anyone want to guess what it might be?”

  The children ran about, shouting louder with each suggestion—a visit to the lions at the Tower, a trip to feed the queen’s zebras at Buckingham House. When Mr. Hayward arrived, he wondered if it might be a climb to the top of the Monument—a prospect greeted by the younger Gardiners with markedly less enthusiasm—or perhaps an afternoon’s indulgence at Mr. Birch’s pastry shop, which was far more favourably received.

  “None of you have it, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Gardiner, “so I will tell you. The Vauxhall Gardens open next week for the season, and I have tickets for all of us to attend. We shall see the fountains, hear a little music, and enjoy a good supper. You children may have as many pastries as you can eat without being sick, and if you’re very lucky, I shall take you to see the tightrope walkers before we go home.”

  This exceeded the children’s wildest expectations, and their joy was noisily unconfined. When were they to go? Tomorrow? The next day? They had heard there was a dog that juggled—stood on his hind legs—should they see him too? Amidst the clamour, Mr. Hayward was obliged to raise his voice when he tried, for the second time, to make himself heard.

  “Were you ever in Vauxhall, Miss Bennet?”

  Mary admitted she had never been.

  “There’s nowhere else like it. It’s London in a nutshell—loud and glittering, a little rough round the edges, crowded and gaudy. I like it very much.”

  “I understand you can see every kind of spectacle there.”

  “Everything you have ever thought of, and much you have not. There’s a vast great pavilion in the Chinese style—elegant covered walks to stroll along—comedies and plays to watch, dancing if you chose to join in—even its own romantic ruins, built to look as though they’ve always been there. It has everything a Londoner’s heart could possibly desire.”

  “And dancing dogs,” added George.

  “Dancing horses too,” agreed Mr. Hayward. “And I saw a pig there once who could tell the time. Really, Miss Bennet, how can you resist?”

  “You cannot think of yourself as a Londoner until you’ve seen it,” declared Mr. Gardiner, at which the children began to argue about which of them most longed to go, and who should enjoy it more than anyone else—and it was not until their father rapped the table sharply with a spoon and pretended to look fierce that order was at length restored.

  A few days later, Mary and her aunt were once more to be found shopping at Harding and Howell. Mrs. Gardiner had decided that it was impossible to venture to Vauxhall without equipping themselves with new hats, and now they sat before a large tray of ribbons, examining them closely. They had decided upon their hats with relative ease; it was the dressing of them that proved more difficult. Mary was weighing in her mind the relative virtues of green and pink trimmings, thinking how much she would value Mr. Hayward’s advice on such a weighty matter, when she heard a voice from the next counter that could not be mistaken.

  “I’m afraid none of these is at all satisfactory. Is this all you have to show me?”

  A tall female figure sat with its back to her, rigid with displeasure.

  “It is
most disappointing.”

  The shopman, disinclined to help further, gathered up his samples, clearly hoping his next customer would prove easier to please. The woman rose to leave, much affronted. Mary looked quickly down at her ribbons, desperate not to catch her eye. Mary had no desire to be recognised by Caroline Bingley, especially not when she was so cross. Who could guess what she might say to relieve her frustrations if a likely victim presented herself? Mary averted her face until the imperious rustle of a silk dress told her it was safe to look up. When she did so, Mrs. Gardiner was coolly watching the other woman’s departure.

  “I do believe that was Miss Bingley who has just made such a flouncing, ill-natured exit.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. She is not at her best when she considers herself thwarted.”

  “I was about to observe it is surprising she did not have the courtesy to let you know she was in London. But I suppose that is quite in character for her. She and her sister came to visit us when Jane was staying in Gracechurch Street, and her manner was most superior. She is a most disobliging person.”

  “It is true she has a talent for unpleasantness,” Mary replied. “It is very painful to find oneself on the receiving end of it.”

  “Then we should be pleased she has not deigned to notice us, as now we shan’t be required to spend any time in her company. I am sure that is a great relief to us both. Now, how are you coming along with those ribbons?”

  Impatient with her own indecision, Mary quickly chose the green over the pink, but whether because Mr. Hayward had once expressed a preference for that colour, or simply because it was closer to hand than the pink, she found it impossible to say.

  Chapter 59

  Although the children had begun to think it would never happen, the night of the Vauxhall excursion came around at last. When they finally set out, the little Gardiners could barely contain themselves. Even the journey there excited them, for it involved a rare trip across Westminster Bridge to the City’s southern side. This was a treat in itself, and there was much cheering and hallooing as the carriage made its way over the Thames. Shortly afterwards, they were dropped off at the tall iron gates which marked the entrance to the Gardens and were quickly absorbed into the large crowd of well-dressed visitors, who milled around, waiting to be joined by tardy friends and family. It was some time before they caught sight of Mr. Hayward, deftly making his way towards them through the knots of people, looking like a man with every expectation of enjoying himself. Once they had shaken hands, kissed cheeks, rumpled the children’s hair—in short, had done everything necessary to signal their readiness to embrace all that the gardens had to offer—they headed to the great turnstile, whereupon presenting their tickets they were admitted to the cool green park within.

  Once inside, they found themselves walking on gravel paths through avenues of high trees, towards a spacious, elegant square, lined on each side by four stately colonnades. In the centre, on a little plinth, strung all about with tiny lights, an orchestra played. At one side of the small stage stood a statue of Handel, above which a single lamp was hung, so that it appeared to illuminate his genius. Around them strolled other visitors, families, friends, couples, all in their best clothes and determined to appear as smart and as at their ease as possible. It was clearly not done to look too impressed by the surroundings—only a bumpkin would gape and stare—but Mary had never seen anything like it and was not afraid to express her wonder.

  “Oh, it is so beautifully done—the effect of the trees and the vistas they produce is truly lovely—and the sound of the music in the open air is wonderful!”

  It was a fine evening, still warm and light enough to explore the woodland walks, where their little company marvelled at the music that accompanied them wherever they went—“there are musicians stationed all around us so that there is always something pleasing to hear,” explained Mr. Gardiner, who, as an old stalwart of the Gardens, considered it his duty to supply such information to those less familiar with their pleasures. He led them towards the Rotunda, a huge circular building with an elaborately painted interior. “It can seat two thousand persons,” he declared proudly. His wife added in an aside to Mary that it was intended to provide patrons with somewhere to shelter from the rain; but Mr. Gardiner seemed to feel this detracted from its dignity, and looked faintly affronted.

  “I suppose that may be said of anywhere with a roof that does not leak; but this splendid place has a far greater claim to fame—it has been the scene of many extraordinary performances by the most notable artists. It was here, my dear, that we saw the incomparable Anna Maria Leary sing—do you recall it?”

  “Indeed I do,” replied Mrs. Gardiner, lost in remembrance. “‘The Siren of Vauxhall.’ What a talent she was.”

  There were, however, no concerts to be heard that night. Instead they watched a display of horsemanship, extremely well done, and a remarkable acrobatic exhibition on a tightrope, which thrilled all who watched it. But, in the opinion of the children, neither could compete with what followed. This was the performance they had dreamt of, featuring a trio of dancing dogs, two of whom stood on their hind legs whilst the third caught oranges in his mouth, which was worth the price of admission on its own.

  By the time Mr. Gardiner had walked them round the gushing fountains, it was almost time for dinner, and they began to make their way to the supper boxes where it would be served. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner walked in front, shepherding their children before them, and Mary followed behind with Mr. Hayward. To entertain them on their walk, Mr. Hayward, who was in high spirits, set himself the task of inventing imaginary characters for the visitors whom they passed on the crowded path.

  “There,” he whispered, nodding discreetly towards an overdressed gentleman whose finery looked shabbier with every step that drew him closer to them, “is Lord So-and-So, an unlucky gambler living off his expectations at very much the wrong end of Brook Street with a single blackguardly manservant. He’s here tonight looking for some wealthy widow, who’ll fall gratefully into his arms and provide him with the income he knows he deserves.”

  Mary felt a little guilty as she laughed. “Really, Mr. Hayward, for shame! I’m sure he is a most respectable person.”

  “Not with that hat and waistcoat. Both suggest a man capable of the most desperate acts. Very unlike the large family making so much noise to our left, who, I suggest, are exactly what they seem to be. Up from the country, Somerset by their accents, on their yearly jaunt to town, where they are fleeced mercilessly at every turn, but greet every new outrage with the greatest good humour. I believe they’re relations of Squire Allworthy. Don’t they remind you of him?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the Allworthys, sir. Are they acquaintances of yours?”

  “Only through Mr. Fielding’s great book. Have you not read Tom Jones, Miss Bennet?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Mary said, a little ashamed to be so exposed. “I’m not well acquainted with fiction, as I believe I have told you.”

  “Yes, but not to know Fielding when you know so much else! Your reading is like a two-edged stool, well supplied in some respects and completely deficient in others. I see we must add some novels to our reading scheme.”

  Her discomfort at having the gaps in her knowledge shown up was instantly expunged by pleasure at his suggestion he would be keen to rectify it. Soon she felt bold enough to join in his little game, drawing his attention to a group of elegantly dressed females, sauntering along the opposite path, arm in arm, laughing and joking as they went.

  “And what story do you imagine for those ladies, Mr. Hayward?”

  Mr. Hayward looked towards the smart little group, only to have his gaze coolly returned by one of their number, unblinking and direct.

  “I’m not sure they are ladies, or at least not of the kind you would be expected to know.” He lowered his voice to explain. “They are women of the town, I’m afraid. The more discreet of the sisterhood are allowed to walk in the Gardens, provi
ding they behave respectably.”

  Mary glanced quickly back at the women, who strolled onwards, unhurried and unashamed.

  “Lord, sir, I can certainly say I have seen something of the world tonight! I should never have known them if you had not explained. They look like women of the highest fashion.”

  “Yes, they are very much at the upper end of their trade. Evelina meets a similar group of ladies in Miss Burney’s book, do you remember?”

  “I must disappoint you once again. I’ve tried to read Miss Burney’s books, but I’m afraid I could never finish them.”

  “I’m surprised you should not like her, for in many respects, she is exactly the author for you—a sharp mind, a keen idea of right and wrong, a great curiosity about how people behave. Now I come to think of it, she rather reminds me of you.”

  “You make her seem so severe that I’m not sure that is much to my credit.”

  “Not at all. She has a delightful wit, which is the most pleasing aspect of her work.”

  “Now I know you’re making game of me. I can’t imagine why you think I merit such a description.”

  “No, you would not see it,” replied Mr. Hayward, “but I do. And as you aren’t accustomed to acknowledging your most attractive qualities, I consider it my duty to remind you of them from time to time.”

  With that, he smiled, and they walked on together. Mary said nothing—but inwardly, she exulted. He had paid her a compliment—how could that not make her happy? She arrived at the supper box reserved by Mr. Gardiner with the greatest readiness to be pleased—and it did not disappoint. It was a spacious booth, for their use alone, set into an arcade which faced onto the central square of the Gardens. As such, it offered an unrivalled opportunity to indulge in one of the favourite activities of the place—watching the other visitors, as they promenaded about, arm in arm, desiring nothing so much as to see and be seen. When this spectacle paled, there was the box itself to admire, decorated with several handsome painted murals.