“You are very direct, Mr. Ryder. You do not hold back.”
“As I said before, we owe to ourselves to speak the truth as our heart feels it, Miss Bennet. I think you are about to come out from underneath your own mossy stone and become visible for the first time. I should very much like to be there when you emerge, blinking a little, into the light.”
It seemed to please him that he had ruffled her composure.
“I feel I’ve said enough for one morning. Please keep the poem. I hope it will help you to think kindly of me. Good morning to you.”
He bowed and left the room. As he went downstairs, Mary heard Mrs. Gardiner and the children return, Mr. Ryder exchanging a few pleasantries with them as he went away. She stuffed the piece of paper quickly into her pocket and did all she could to appear as self-possessed as possible as her aunt hurried into the room.
“What on earth can Mr. Ryder be thinking, calling so early? That is a young man who follows his own inclinations far too readily for my taste.”
“I think he was merely in search of coffee and some company. He did not stay long.”
She looked out of the window, watching Mr. Ryder as he strode confidently down the busy street. She did not know what to think as he disappeared from view. There could be no doubt now he had some regard for her. She could not say what form it took, or how deep it ran, but his liking could not be denied. Nor could she pretend that the encounter had not been exciting.
And yet, at the same time as she gave herself up to the unfamiliar pleasure of knowing herself the subject of a man’s admiration, she could not help asking what that admiration was worth. Was his manner perhaps rather too easy and untroubled to suggest true emotion? Could truly deep sentiments be quite so readily expressed? She did not think that he was insincere. But it occurred to her that he had rather enjoyed playing the role of the man of feeling, that part of him had been observing himself as he did so, and that he had gone off convinced he had acquitted himself pretty well.
It was just as well, she thought, that she did not harbour strong affection for him. It was impossible not to feel some warmth towards a man who was so open in his professions. But in her heart, she knew that it was not from him that she longed to hear them. She wished more than anything she had had the courage to ask him what Mr. Hayward had said about her. It thrilled her to know that he had spoken well of her to his friend—but who knew what he might think now?
“Mary,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “Mary, are you listening to me at all?”
Mary looked up to find herself the object of Mrs. Gardiner’s enquiring glance, and realised she had been so lost in her own thoughts that she had heard nothing of what her aunt said.
“I was asking what Mr. Ryder had to say about his dinner last night. Did he think it had gone well?”
“Yes,” Mary replied, “he seemed pleased enough.”
Mrs. Gardiner threw herself onto the sofa, exhaled with relief at sitting down at last, and put her feet on a little padded stool. She looked as if she was about to speak again; but Mary knew she could not bear it if she asked her anything else about Mr. Ryder.
“If you’ll excuse me, aunt, there’s something I must fetch—I’m sorry, I will be back directly.”
As Mary rushed away, up to her room, Mrs. Gardiner sighed as she watched her go. It did not seem as though Mary’s state of mind had improved at all since she took the children for their airing. If anything, she seemed even more distracted now than she had been at breakfast.
Chapter 67
Mr. Ryder visited Gracechurch Street again a week later, and once more laid himself out to be as winning and as personable as possible. He brought with him a pound of the very best coffee and presented it to Mrs. Gardiner with a flourish, hoping it would make up for all the pots of it he had enjoyed in her house. He was gracious and charming, until even her aunt began to thaw a little, admitting he was excellent company when he chose to be. Mary did not disagree, for Mr. Ryder was indeed very amusing; his stories of the grand state kept by Lady Catherine de Bourgh at Rosings always made her laugh, even when she knew it was wrong to do so—she was sure Dr. Fordyce would not have approved of such ill-directed levity. So, the days passed by agreeably enough, and Mr. Ryder became an ever more frequent guest. But it was his friend whom Mary longed to see—and still Mr. Hayward did not appear.
He wrote to the Gardiners apologising for his absence, blaming it upon the legal case with which he was still much engaged, and declaring that he hoped to be sharing their excellent suppers as soon as he was free to do so. It was a friendly, chatty letter, and at the end of it, he sent everyone his best love. Mary spent a great deal of time brooding over the precise application of that phrase, trying to decide the exact proportion of his affection which might have been addressed to her. He added that he hoped to see them all very soon—but as there was nothing more specific in the way of date or time attached to his note, it did not give Mary a great deal of comfort.
In the end, it was Mr. Gardiner, one night at dinner, who put an end to all her silent conjectures.
“I ran into Tom Hayward today,” he declared, as he stood at the table, carving what promised to be an excellent leg of lamb. “I was up near Chancery Lane, and our paths crossed. He was in a great hurry—black gown on, papers under his arm—but sends his regards to everyone. Says he misses us all very much.”
Mary picked up her napkin and, with great self-control, laid it carefully on her lap.
“I think it is most remiss of him to have left us alone for so long,” declared Mrs. Gardiner. “Surely he could have spared a few hours to call?”
Mr. Gardiner began to place the carved meat onto plates and hand them round the table.
“I know you are only joking, my dear,” he said, with the merest hint of reproach in his voice. “But that is a little unfair. Tom really has no choice. The case he is embarked upon is of the very first consequence to him, and he must devote every minute towards his prosecution of it.”
“I consider myself admonished,” replied his wife. “But my remark was not so much a complaint, more a confession of how much I miss him. We all miss him, I believe.”
She glanced at Mary, who did not catch her eye.
“What is this case about,” Mrs. Gardiner asked, “and why is it so important to Mr. Hayward?”
Mr. Gardiner sat down, his carving duties over, and poured himself a glass of wine.
“I cannot tell you much about the detail of it,” he replied, “as the law is not really my line. But I understand Tom is one of those acting for a great commercial concern—well, I suppose I may say it is the East India Company—on some question of contracts made or not made, honoured or not honoured.”
“That sounds like a very big step for him,” murmured Mrs. Gardiner.
“It is indeed,” agreed her husband. “He has already had one notable win this year. If he can bring this one off with the same success, it will be of great advantage to him.” He picked up his knife and fork, ready now to attack his lamb. “Both reputationally and financially.”
“It could quite make his name, then?” Mary asked.
“I believe so. He told me it could produce a very material change in his circumstances.”
“I’m sure we all wish him the greatest good luck,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “but I look forward to having him back amongst us and hope we will see him soon.”
“That may be sooner than you think,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “as I took the opportunity of our meeting to quiz Tom about our trip to the Lakes.”
The original plan for their excursion had been to leave in August, and thus avoid the hottest and most uncomfortable season in the City. But, as Mr. Gardiner explained, that date had begun to look increasingly uncertain, as his business affairs threatened once more to require his presence in London just at the time they should have been taking their leave of it.
“But I could not endure your being disappointed of your holiday again,” continued Mr. Gardiner, looking fondly
at his wife, “so I took it upon myself to make other arrangements, to ensure that this time you should have the wish of your heart gratified, exactly as you deserve.”
Mr. Gardiner had decided that the best solution was to bring their trip forward to the first week of July. If they could travel then, the whole holiday might be accomplished before his affairs became pressing. On hearing his plan, Mrs. Gardiner rose from her chair, went to her husband’s side, and kissed him warmly on the cheek.
“How kind of you to think of all this,” she cried. “It is the sweetest thought. But that is only two weeks away! Can it be managed in that time?”
Mr. Gardiner believed it could, as he had already embarked upon some of the more pressing necessities—he had secured their rooms at inns, arranged places on coaches, had done all he could to ease matters, acting on the presumption Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to go. As her aunt assured her uncle that nothing would please her more, Mary’s thoughts were elsewhere, concentrated on the only question which really concerned her—would Mr. Hayward join them, or would he be obliged to stay behind?
“I described my plans to Tom,” continued Mr. Gardiner, as if he had read her mind. “I hoped very much he would still be able to join us, for we should all be sorry to lose his company. And he told me it was entirely possible, for his case must be done with by then.”
“Oh, I am so glad,” exclaimed Mary, overwhelmed by relief. She would see him and talk to him. They would be together for the duration of the holiday.
“He will not travel up with us, as he is not exactly sure when he will be free to leave. But we shall meet him at our inn, where I think we shall be a very comfortable little party,” said Mr. Gardiner, entirely satisfied that his plan had been so well received. He was about to serve himself a little more lamb, when a thought struck him.
“Ah, Mary, I nearly forgot. Tom asked me to give this to you.”
He pulled from his pocket a small book, brand new, still in the bookseller’s wrapper. Mary took it, holding it in her hand for a moment, so pleased with the gift that she was almost afraid to open it.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Gardiner, as Mary uncovered it. “Is it more poetry?”
“No, not exactly. It is Guide to the Lakes. But it is by Mr. Wordsworth, so I imagine it will have something of the poetic in it.” She turned to the title page, and gently smoothed the paper under her fingers. “It contains everything in it a traveller could wish for—he recommends walks, rides, and even inns!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Gardiner, “I chose those we are to stay in from it.”
Her uncle turned to her aunt and went on to describe in some detail the characters of the inns, and the accommodation they promised; but Mary was not listening. In the middle pages of the Guide, she had found a single folded slip of paper—a note from Mr. Hayward.
My dear Miss Bennet,
Here is something to occupy you on the journey north.
Please study it closely as I shall be sure to ask you questions about it when we meet!
I am sorry to have been such a stranger these last weeks. But when we see each other again, we shall walk in Wordsworth’s footsteps, which I hope will mean as much to you as it does to me.
Please take this as notice I intend to stride up as many green mountains as may be achieved in the time we have. Perhaps we may venture a few hills together?
Tho. Hayward
Mary looked up to see if the Gardiners had noticed her reading the letter. When she saw they were deep in conversation and had not observed it, she slid the slip of paper gently back into the Guide, suffused with pleasure and relief. He had not forgotten her. She was still in his thoughts. As she looked around the room, she realised that she had never been so happy as she had been these last few months at Gracechurch Street. As her eye passed over the comfortable surroundings, as she took in the excitement with which her uncle and aunt were now eagerly discussing the trip they would so enjoy, Mary knew she owed a great deal of her newfound contentment to the Gardiners, and to the healing, restorative powers of their home. But she understood too that if anyone could be said to have completed that happiness, then that person was Mr. Hayward. It was perhaps not surprising that she carried the Guide to the Lakes to bed with her that night and placed it under her pillow, touching it now and then to assure herself it was still there.
Chapter 68
Gracechurch Street was soon turned upside down as everything was readied for the journey. Once her own things were packed, Mary quickly understood she was more of a hindrance than a help in managing what remained to be done. Nothing is more irritating to a harassed housewife than the plaintive insistence of a useless person that they must be allotted a task; and not wishing to add to her aunt’s already lengthy list of responsibilities, Mary slipped quietly out of doors.
She had not gone far along her accustomed walk when a familiar figure turned into the street some way in front of her. It was impossible to mistake Mr. Ryder’s saunter, the stroll of a man with no-one to please but himself. When he saw her, his smile was so broad and unfeigned that she could not help returning it.
“Miss Bennet! How extraordinary! I was just on my way to call upon you.”
“Then I’m afraid I must disappoint you. The house—and my poor aunt—are both in turmoil. I think the prospect of entertaining anyone this morning might be more than either she or the servants can bear.”
His concern was immediate—he hoped everyone was well, that nothing untoward or unfortunate had happened? Mary hastened to explain that the reverse was true, that the upheaval was the result of their plans for a holiday. She described their trip to the Lakes to him, explaining the reasons that had led to its being brought forward, and the excitement they felt at the prospect of going.
“I confess I am very jealous,” declared Mr. Ryder. “Will Tom be one of the party?”
“Yes, as such an old friend of the family, it was impossible he should not be included.”
“Then he is very lucky to have that privilege. I envy you all, Miss Bennet—I can think of nothing more exciting than to see for yourselves the place which has inspired one of the great geniuses of our age!”
His eyes shone with such passion that Mary could not decide whether his enthusiasm was charming or ridiculous, before concluding it was a little of both. Then, in the blink of an eye, his seriousness vanished, and he was playful again.
“Tell me, Miss Bennet, are you very fond of ices?”
“To be honest, I have only tasted them a few times—once at my sister’s house in Derbyshire—and they were certainly very fine.”
“In that case, I have a suggestion to make. Not far from here is Angell’s—an excellent confectioner who makes some of the very best ices in London. Every flavour you could possibly imagine. I should very much like to buy you one.”
He saw her hesitate.
“I promise you it is a most respectable place, quite suitable for ladies. If I had one, I would take my maiden aunt there.”
Mary knew she should probably refuse; but the day promised little else in the way of enjoyment. With the house in such disorder, she should not be able to read, and would only be in everyone’s way. Mr. Ryder pressed home his advantage.
“If, when you see it, you don’t like the look of it, I shall escort you home immediately. But behold, Miss Bennet, the sky is blue, the sun is out. Let us enjoy it whilst we can!”
His cheerfulness was infectious, his smile so engaging that Mary found herself agreeing. She set a whole host of conditions—she would have one ice only—she should stay for half an hour, no more—he must bring her back to Gracechurch Street whenever she asked—but nevertheless, twenty minutes later, she found herself in Angell’s shop, eating a bergamot ice with every appearance of enjoyment.
Their conversation was far easier and more entertaining than Mary had expected. As she felt no need to impress Mr. Ryder, she was not nervous in his presence; and as she believed herself indifferent to his charm, she was not afraid to en
joy it a little. Inevitably, they found themselves discussing what they had read, what they were reading, and what they intended to read, with Mr. Ryder repeating his earlier assertion that longer works were not for him.
“I think the brevity of poetry is one of its principal attractions,” he declared, finishing his peach ice and laying down the spoon with a satisfied flourish. “The reader is not obliged to contemplate that huge block of pages which, however many of them one turns, never seems to diminish. With a few notable exceptions which need not be returned to—I shall not be picking up Paradise Lost again in a hurry—poems tend to be short, and are thus perfectly suited to a flighty mind such as my own.”
Mary looked up from her ice, which was just as good as Mr. Ryder had promised it would be.
“If you truly love poetry as much as you say,” she replied, “then you do yourself a disservice; for in my experience, it requires far greater application than many philosophical books. Without concentration, there is no entering into it at all.”
“Ah, Miss Bennet,” he exclaimed, “I have no objection to embracing anything in depth—that holds no terrors for me—no, it is length that defeats me!” He folded his napkin, laid it on the table, and folded his arms. “I have no powers of application, you see. I am a sad case.”
“Only because you are determined to consider yourself one.” Mary finished her ice, searching for one last spoonful from the depths of the little glass cup in which it had been served. “I’m sure you have the discipline within yourself to do anything you want, if you are prepared to exert it.”
The Other Bennet Sister Page 37
