“I suppose it is all my sister Gardiner’s doing,” complained Mrs. Bennet. “Why you paid attention to her when you would not listen to me, I really do not know. No-one can say I did not try. It is very provoking, to be sure.”
Mrs. Bennet grumbled on until Mr. and Mrs. Bingley arrived, when the conversation turned naturally enough to Jane’s situation. Mary was not sorry to sit and listen. She had escaped the full force of Mrs. Bennet’s disdain and felt almost jubilant when finally they went in to dinner.
Mary’s cheerfulness sustained her over the next few days, enabling her to bear Mrs. Bennet’s querulousness with good grace. She did not allow herself to be provoked by any remarks relating to London suitors, the importance of looking her best at any and every moment when such an exalted being might appear—“a woman like you cannot afford to take chances, Mary, you must always be prepared”—and the absolute, irrevocable necessity of never, under any circumstances at all wearing her spectacles in a man’s presence until they were safely married.
Nevertheless, Mary thought it could not be a moment too soon until they were safely on their way; and her wishes were soon gratified. The next afternoon, as she sat with the children on the drawing room carpet, amidst a litter of puzzles and card games, Mr. Gardiner strolled into the room, brandishing a letter. He announced it came from Mr. Hayward, who had left London and was now travelling towards the Lakes, where he would meet them.
“He is in the very of best spirits,” said her uncle, as he handed the letter to his wife. “It seems all that hard work was worthwhile—he has won the legal case that has caused him so much time and trouble!”
Mrs. Gardiner was delighted; the children, who were very fond of Mr. Hayward on account of his great generosity in the matter of sweets, cheered loudly, and Mr. Gardiner, who looked upon Tom Hayward with an almost fatherly concern, beamed with pride. Mary’s heart leapt at the news. It touched her very deeply to think that Mr. Hayward had achieved this mark of success, which he had so hoped for.
“Will he wear his wig when he next comes to visit?” asked Edward, the elder Gardiner son, who had once been allowed to put it on, and yearned to do so again.
“He will be far too grand for that now,” declared Mr. Gardiner, leaning down to place a piece of jigsaw puzzle in place. “Next time you see him, he will be the perfect picture of a grave and steady lawyer.” The children looked crestfallen. This did not sound to them like an improvement in Mr. Hayward’s character. “Unless, of course,” their father continued, “there is no-one around to see. Then I imagine you might be allowed to try it on, as long as you have been exceedingly well behaved.”
He turned back to Mary and his wife.
“Tom says he is making excellent progress on the road. He warns us, that if he arrives at the inn first, he will have no qualms at all about claiming the best room for his own, and that we shall be obliged to shift for ourselves as best we can.” He took a last look at the letter and put it in his pocket. “I think he is joking; but with him, you can never be sure. So, my dears, if you don’t want to bed down with the chickens, we must rise with the sun tomorrow and crack on.”
When dawn arrived, the travellers were up and ready to go. The children, who were to remain with the Bingleys, had been kissed and hugged and wished loving goodbyes; their hosts had been heartily thanked; and by six o’clock, they were on their way. They had not been in the carriage long before Mrs. Gardiner fell asleep, her head leaning on her husband’s shoulder. When he swiftly followed her example, Mary pulled from her bag her copy of Wordsworth’s Guide to the Lakes, followed by her spectacles. These she put on boldly regardless of the offence they might give to any potential suitor happening to pass by. The idea amused her, and she was smiling as she opened the little book. She had already read it so often that it was very familiar to her; but the scenes it described never failed to excite her, especially now it would not be long before she should find herself amongst them. She opened the first page and began to read.
In preparing this manual, it was the Author’s principal wish to furnish a Guide or Companion for the Minds of Persons of taste, and feeling for Landscape.
Taste, feeling, landscape. Mary lay back against her seat. Surely no words could more powerfully conjure Mr. Hayward into her mind? Yes, she thought, he will approach the wild northern country with the right spirit, eager to be amazed by the awesome, or silenced by the sublime. Mr. Wordsworth could not wish for a more willing disciple. But what of herself? Was she capable of giving way to a similar intensity of experience? Sleep began to steal over her. But before she abandoned herself to it, she understood that if she was ever properly to allow her feelings free rein, the Lakes were surely the place to do it.
Chapter 70
The anticipation of the little party increased steadily with every mile with which they advanced further north. They almost cheered at the first sight of the first proper hills, distantly visible in the morning mist; by the time they left Kendal, and the landscape grew wilder, the knowledge that their destination could not be far away excited them even more. They chatted expectantly along the Bowness road until they caught sight of the great lake at Windermere; then they were quiet, for it was a sight magnificent enough to silence anyone. Huge, bright, shimmering in the fresh July sunlight, it seemed to Mary that she had never seen anything so beautiful. A few islands of thick green trees threw the blue of the water into striking contrast, whilst rough grey mountains tumbled down to the shore. Mr. Gardiner signalled to the coachman to stop and the three of them climbed out into the road. There was nothing to be heard but birdsong and the sound of their shoes crunching on small stones as they walked to the lake’s edge. No-one spoke. Mary was so moved, she thought she might laugh or cry. In the presence of such a vision, she felt herself both magnified and diminished. Her small human concerns seemed of no account when set against such severe, indifferent splendour; at the same time, there was a kind of joy in allowing its grandeur to overwhelm her, to abandon herself to something she did not fully comprehend.
“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Gardiner to his wife. “I should not have missed that for the world. It’s a fine sight, is it not, Mary?”
Her mind was so concentrated upon the view that she did not hear him. When he spoke again, Mary could not help wishing him far, far away. This was unfair, for her uncle was the kindest of men; but his mild words struck entirely the wrong note in this wild place. Mary was glad when he took his wife’s arm, and they walked slowly back to the carriage, talking in low, contented voices, speculating on the likelihood of there being anything tolerable to eat at supper tonight. Mary did not follow them but stayed at the shore, staring up to where the mountains met the sky.
If only Mr. Hayward were there. He would have understood what she felt. She stood still, listening to the birds in the clear air until Mrs. Gardiner called her to come back to the carriage, or they should go away and leave her and she’d be obliged to make her own way to the inn.
When they finally arrived, their lodgings were everything they had hoped for, neat, clean, and, to Mr. Gardiner’s relief, offering the very real prospect of a good dinner that evening. Mr. Hayward had indeed arrived before them—the innkeeper believed he was out walking the fells—but he had not carried out his threat to take the best bed in the place, for everyone was soon placed in admirably comfortable accommodations.
Mary’s room was simple and pleasing, with a window that offered a tantalizing glimpse of the lake. It was only the smallest sliver of blue, but it was enough to excite her desire to see more. She rushed downstairs to find her aunt and uncle, already comfortably settled with a large pot of tea placed before them. Neither were willing to be prised away from their resting place to explore their surroundings; but on being applied to, the innkeeper assured them there was nothing to fear from allowing Mary to walk alone nearby if she wished it. The fields behind the inn were quite safe and commanded a wonderful view of the lake. The young lady would come to no harm there.
&nbs
p; Before Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had time to reconsider their permission, Mary was gone. She quickly found the path that led up the gentle hill under which the inn was situated. She strode firmly towards the top, where she soon found exactly what she wished—a clear, unhindered view of the water spread out before her, and a suitable rock on which to sit and admire it. The breeze, which had been slight below, blew more strongly here and threatened to unmoor her hat. She tied it tighter beneath her chin, clasped her hands round her knees, and gazed into the distance, doing all she could to immerse herself in the feel of the place.
So successful was she in achieving this that it was not until he was almost upon her that she saw Mr. Hayward striding in her direction. He had on a large loose coat of a kind she had never seen him wear in London; and having nothing to tie his hat to his head as she had done, he carried it in his hand. He appeared both very tall and very happy. His hair blew in the wind, and his face was a little brown from the sunshine. Mary thought she had never before seen him look so striking.
“Miss Bennet! You have arrived at last!”
“Look, Mr. Hayward! Isn’t it extraordinary? Isn’t it the most remarkable, wonderful thing?”
He sat down beside her on the great rock and looked from sky to lake to mountains and back again.
“I have never seen anything like it.”
“No,” exclaimed Mary. “I worried that we might be disappointed once we were here, that it was impossible for any place to be as”—she gestured again towards the view—“well, as tremendous as this is. But it is everything I imagined it would be.”
“Yes,” he replied. “Tremendous is exactly the word. And on the high hills, it’s even better. From some of them, I’m told you can see the sea.”
“The sea? How I should love to see that! Can ladies make the climb?”
“If they are as determined as you and own a stout pair of shoes, I don’t see why not. Shall we go down?”
He held out his arm. Mary took it, and they walked slowly back towards the inn. On the way, Mr. Hayward maintained he heard a lark, but Mary believed it was a thrush. As they strolled down the path, they disputed the identity of every bird that flew before them or raised its voice in song; but when they were nearly at their destination, Mr. Hayward confessed that the only bird he could honestly recognise with any confidence was a London pigeon. Mary laughed out loud.
“For one who loves the poetry of nature with such a passion, you know surprisingly little about it.”
“Yes, it’s true that until now I’ve worshipped it from a distance. But seeing it here for myself—well, I think I finally feel its power.”
He looked solemnly up at the hills.
“I think you feel it too?”
“I do indeed,” she replied, her tone as grave as his.
Then he turned back to her and she saw his mood had changed. Now he was excited, smiling with pleasure.
“Then let us explore it together, Mary! We will let it work its magic upon us until we are both under its spell.”
He grinned down at her, his hair whipped by the wind.
“Yes,” she cried. “Let us do that! There’s nothing I would enjoy more.”
It was not until they were inside the inn, sharing tea with the Gardiners, that Mary realised Mr. Hayward had called her by her first name. He had not done so before. Her hand shook a little as she reached out for her cup, but she did not think it was generally observed.
Chapter 71
The sun was shining the next morning, and it was deemed perfect weather for drawing. Everyone except Mr. Gardiner had equipped themselves with sketchbooks, and they went out early, stationing themselves at the places recommended by Mr.Wordsworth’s Guide as offering the most pleasing opportunities for their pencils. Mr. Gardiner preferred a morning’s fishing; and soon Mary began to think he had made the right choice. No matter how hard she tried, her drawings remained obstinately unlike the landscape around them. Everything she did to improve matters only made things worse, and after an hour or so, she closed her book. Moments later, Mr. Hayward came and sat beside her; he was equally gloomy.
“I hope your efforts have met with more success than mine.”
“May I see what you have done?”
“I don’t think so. Afterwards, it would be impossible for you to think of me ever again as a man of feeling.”
“Are all men of feeling gifted artists, then?”
“I have always supposed so. I used to tell myself it was want of a proper subject that explained my poor hand with a pencil. But now I see the truth of it—I have no talent at all.”
Mary laughed.
“I cannot draw either. I have tried to improve, but, as these poor daubs show, without much success.”
“We are in a sad way then,” replied Mr. Hayward. “If our failures become generally known, we must expect to find ourselves the objects of universal scorn.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Mary. “No-one returns from the Lakes without an album of sketches to pass around amongst their friends. If ours are too poor to be shown, what are we to do?”
“We might say they were lost on the Keswick road.”
“Stolen by thieves.”
“Eaten by sheep!”
Their laughter made Mrs. Gardiner look up. The sight of them, so easy and agreeable together, made her smile. She could not remember when she had seen her niece so happy. Mary had even forgotten she was wearing her glasses; and when she finally took them off and put them into her bag, still chatting away, it only confirmed Mrs. Gardiner’s sense of how natural and comfortable they were with each other.
In the late afternoon, they took a boat onto the lake. In the fine quiet weather, nothing was to be heard but the voices of their boatmen, naming the crags and peaks that towered over the water. When they arrived at the middle, the rowers pulled in their oars and the boat bobbed silently in the breeze. A fish jumped, and Mr. Gardiner asked the men what kind of sport was to be had here, whether the catch was worth eating or not. Mary trailed her hand in the water. She had no desire to think, to say, or to do anything—instead, all she wished was to give herself up to the pleasure of the moment. She was lost within herself when Mr. Hayward turned to her and spoke so that only she should hear.
“I may not be able to capture any of this beauty on paper,” he said, “but it still moves me very much when I see it.”
“Yes,” she replied simply. “I feel the same. I’m surprised by how happy it makes me just to look at it.”
“I’m glad. I like to see you happy.”
Her heart leapt—but before she could reply, Mr. Gardiner had asked his opinion on the merits of salmon over trout, or perch over pike, and Mr. Hayward was irresistibly drawn into the conversation with the boatmen. But a moment later, he caught her eye with the most affectionate glance; and she did not hesitate to smile confidently back.
* * *
Later that night, Mary sat at the tiny window in her bedroom, watching the lake in the dark. She should have been asleep some time ago, exhausted by the fresh air and sunshine they had enjoyed all day, but she could not settle. A great thought was pressing in upon her, demanding to be acknowledged; for a while, she resisted, reluctant to confess it even to herself. But when a shaft of moonlight suddenly broke through the clouds and rewarded her with a sight of the water, shimmering in the cold white light, she could hold back no longer and at last permitted it to take concrete form. She loved Mr. Hayward. What she felt for him was more than friendship, more than admiration, more than just pleasure in his company. It was love. She felt a sense of release in allowing herself to say it in her mind. There could be no real doubt of it—she loved him.
She opened the window and breathed in the cool night air. Admitting her feelings for Mr. Hayward, even to herself, was a bold enough step. But now that she had begun upon this extraordinary train of thought, she could not stop. She believed it was not impossible—was perhaps even probable—that her affections were returned. She thought he might love
her too.
The more she considered it, the more she felt it to be true. He had always distinguished her by his notice, seeking her out and sitting beside her, talking to her, laughing with her, reading to her. And since they had arrived at the Lakes, his affection for her had been even more openly expressed, in a thousand small and delightful ways. And then there was the moment when he called her by her name. She hugged her knees and rocked gently back and forth in the moonlit room, remembering how that had felt. She shivered and was suddenly aware of how cold she had become. She hurried to her narrow bed, wrapped herself in the inn’s stiff sheets, and gave herself up to the excitement of thinking about him.
In every way, she told herself, they were admirably matched. When she considered the similarity of their temperaments—the interests they shared—the pleasures they took in each other’s company—it was impossible to deny that they were, in the cant phrase, “made for each other.” Even Charlotte Collins would have been obliged to concede it. Mary smiled to herself in the darkness as she imagined Charlotte noting with approval everything they had in common, agreeing that they possessed all the qualifications necessary to embark upon a sensible marriage of the most rational kind.
But Mary knew, that if she were to marry Mr. Hayward, their partnership would never be one of companionship alone. There would be far more to it than that. Mary did not like to admit to herself the attraction she felt when in his presence, the desire that came upon her with increasing frequency to take his hand, or to stroke his hair. These sensations seemed to have grown more frequent since their arrival in the Lakes. It was as if the usual rules of behaviour were all but suspended in these wild landscapes. Once Mary would have told herself to suppress such unruly emotions; but in this unsettling country, she found she had no wish to do so. On the contrary, she allowed herself to hope that her honesty in acknowledging her feelings would only increase the likelihood of their being gratified.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 39
