The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  “Tom has always been of a very conscientious turn of mind,” he declared as they sat around the inn’s dinner table a few nights later. “He is a prodigious worker. It is not in his character to leave anything undone, or to throw off a responsibility he believes is his.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” observed Mr. Gardiner firmly. “Such an attitude in essential in business, and I imagine it is the same in the professions. There are times when the demands of one’s occupation must take precedence over private pleasures.”

  “As I have cause to know,” murmured Mrs. Gardiner.

  “Come, my dear,” her husband replied. “You understand how it is. Sometimes a man has no choice but to attend to such matters, however much he may wish it was not so.”

  “It must be very unpleasant to be at everyone’s beck and call,” said Miss Bingley smoothly. “Of all the many aggravations involved in pursuing a trade, the knowledge that one is not one’s own master must be the most trying.”

  She favoured the table with a brilliant, unapologetic smile, whilst everyone around it silently absorbed the sting of her remark. Mr. Gardiner frowned. Mrs. Gardiner was clearly taken aback at such a very obvious snub. But Mary was outraged. She had learnt to ignore Miss Bingley’s jibes when they were directed towards her; but she could not bear to hear them aimed at those she loved.

  “I imagine you must have seen many such occasions yourself at first hand,” she remarked, with a bland calmness quite equal to that of Miss Bingley. “As your own father was deeply engaged in business, he must often have been called upon to subordinate his wishes to the requirements of his trade.”

  It was a moment before Miss Bingley collected herself sufficiently to reply. “I cannot recall examples of that kind,” she said, looking a little agitated as she applied herself intently to buttering her bread. “My father had been long removed from any such necessities by the time I was old enough to know about them.” She quickly recovered her usual assurance; but Mary knew too that in so publicly reminding her of her origins she had only intensified the lady’s hatred for her, that her remark would not be forgotten, and that she should eventually pay for it in some way she could not yet imagine, but she did not care. She was glad she had spoken.

  When dinner was over and the others left the table, Mary remained, brooding once more over the question of Mr. Hayward’s departure. She had thought of nothing else since he left; and had quickly arrived at conclusions identical to those of her aunt. She was convinced that she herself was the reason he was gone. She knew he had been bitterly disappointed by her refusal to take his part during the argument on Scafell; and she was painfully aware her ill-judged support for Mr. Ryder on the ridge had both shocked and hurt him. But had that really been enough to drive him away?

  She did not know what to think. She could not persuade herself he was entirely indifferent to her. His leaving as he had, rushing away at dawn with no polite goodbyes or apologetic farewells, was not the act of a man who did not care; on the contrary, it suggested passions strongly and deeply felt. She supposed he might still have been driven by the jealousy she thought she had detected; but how was that to be reconciled with the marked tenderness and consideration he had shown to her on their descent down the fell? The careful concern he had displayed for her then did not suggest either resentment or dislike. He could not have been more kind, more solicitous about her safety—but at this, she felt herself about to cry, and did not allow herself to think any more of his steadying arm, linked so firmly with her own. Why had he simply not opened his heart to her then and there, explaining the truth of what he felt? If he had spoken, she would not have hesitated to have given him the answer she still believed would have pleased him; but instead he had left with nothing explained, abandoning her to make what little sense she could of his behaviour. What could he have meant by it? She thought of nothing else, but as day followed day, she was no closer to arriving at a conclusion, no matter how many hours she spent considering it.

  She did everything in her power to hide her mounting unhappiness from those around her. She refused to be drawn by Miss Bingley’s frequent speculations on the probable reasons for Mr. Hayward’s departure, greeting them with an expression of studied indifference that revealed nothing of her inner misery. She declined Mr. Ryder’s frequent invitations to take the air with him, knowing she would be utterly unable to match his air of cheerful unconcern. She feared she might capitulate to recrimination or anger if Mr. Hayward’s name was mentioned; and she knew neither would bring her any relief. It made no sense, Mary told herself, to blame Mr. Ryder for what had happened—he had never disguised the principles by which he lived. She could hardly complain when he acted upon them, as he had done on Scafell. It had been her choice to decide whether to follow his example or not; and now she must deal with the consequences of her judgement. But when she watched him go about his business, his affability untouched by any sense of guilt or regret, she could not entirely suppress her resentment. He had followed his inclinations and had paid no price at all for doing so—whilst she was left mired in misery and regret. So, no, she would not walk down the hill with him, or even take a short stroll around the inn. Instead, she wrapped herself in politeness and found a thousand civil ways of refusing him.

  It was much harder to disguise what she felt in the presence of her uncle and aunt. Mary knew they were concerned about her. She had several times come upon them deep in discussions which they broke off as soon as she arrived, the subject of which was only too plain to them all. Only once did her aunt attempt to broach it directly, asking Mary if she did not think Tom’s leaving them so suddenly had been most out of character? But when Mary showed herself disinclined to speak on a subject which was so painful to her, her aunt did not press her. Mary was grateful for Mrs. Gardiner’s discretion; and on more than one occasion, she was tempted to confide everything to her. But for all her aunt’s kindness, Mary knew it would do no good. The only conversation which could relieve her distress was one between herself and Mr. Hayward; but that could only happen if they returned to London. So when Mr. Gardiner finally suggested it was perhaps time for them to go home, Mary was obliged to conceal her eagerness to do so, lest it seem she was ungrateful for having been brought on holiday at all.

  She was not the only one to feel their stay at the Lakes had come to an end; everyone agreed it was time to leave, and soon all was in readiness for their departure. Mr. Ryder’s party was the first to go. Miss Bingley was coolly civil as she climbed into the carriage, clearly hoping she would not be forced into Miss Bennet’s unwelcome company again. In contrast, Mr. Ryder was keen to ensure they would meet again soon once back in London.

  “I very much hope to see you in town, Miss Bennet. Perhaps we could make up a party and return to Vauxhall? I should be very happy to arrange it, if you say the word.”

  “It is very kind of you, but I don’t intend to go abroad too much when we return. I think I shall stay close at home for a while.”

  “Then perhaps I may come and visit you there? We could read a little poetry together.”

  “Of course, if that would please you.”

  It was not the most enthusiastic invitation; but Mr. Ryder was satisfied. He sprang into the carriage, the driver cracked his whip, and as Mary watched them disappear, it occurred to her she had been right to have found their unexpected arrival in the Lakes unsettling. They had brought nothing with them but trouble.

  Part Four

  Chapter 85

  It took two days to get to the Bingleys’ house and retrieve the children, and another two to reach London. During these long hours, Mary thought of little else but Mr. Hayward. She missed him more than she could say—and could not quite believe the situation in which she found herself. Time and time again she rehearsed the circumstances which had divided them, trying to find an explanation for what had happened; but nothing satisfied her. To have returned home—for thus she now considered her uncle and aunt’s house—with matters so dreadfully unr
esolved was agony. She did not think she could bear the pain of unknowing; but what was she to do? She was powerless; even if she wished to, she could not act. It was impossible for her to call upon him; he was not in London, but even if he had been in town, it would have been unthinkable. Respectable women did not visit the houses of single young men uninvited. Nor could she write. She supposed she might ask Mrs. Gardiner for his family’s address in Hampshire; but knew her aunt would, in all probability, refuse to give it to her. She could not begin a correspondence with him—every rule of custom and delicacy forbade it. There was nothing to be done but wait—wait to see what he would do—the world offered her no other choice.

  Once back at Gracechurch Street, she tried to make the long days bearable. She took out her books and tried to study; but concentration eluded her, and she put them away. She read stories with the little Gardiners, and heard the lessons of the older children. She sat patiently next to the piano as the girls practised their scales and arpeggios, encouraging them gently as they stumbled through a few simple airs. She did not play herself; she had not the spirit for it.

  She attempted to help Mrs. Gardiner in her household tasks, volunteering to inspect the linen cupboards; but in her distraction, she confused the good sheets with those needing repair and the whole business of sorting and assessing had to be done again. She volunteered to wash the best china, the cups and saucers too fine to be entrusted to servants; but a wet plate slid out of her inattentive hands and broke into pieces on the floor. She looked so distraught that her aunt did not have the heart to scold her; but Mrs. Gardiner did not think her household valuables would survive much more of her niece’s assistance and urged her to put on her coat and go out for a walk.

  Obediently, Mary did so; but the lively City streets no longer excited her as they once had. The shop windows that had once entranced her seemed familiar, even tawdry. The roads were dirty, the pavement crowded. Everyone was in a hurry; she was jostled and pushed. The one sight she longed to see was that of Mr. Hayward, in the long brown coat he had worn on the fells, on his way to call at Gracechurch Street—but no matter how fervently she hoped for it, there was no sign of him.

  Mary had been back in London over a week when she returned back home one afternoon, dusty and discouraged from yet another dutiful expedition. As she walked into the hall, she saw one of the servants disappearing towards the cloakroom with a gentleman’s coat draped over his arm. She did not stop to ask who the visitor was, but raced up the stairs to the drawing room. Her heart was in her mouth as she reached the door. But when she opened the door, it was not Mr. Hayward who rose, delighted, eager to greet her. It was his friend Mr. Ryder.

  “My dear Miss Bennet! How very pleased I am to see you! I have come to pay my respects. I would have come sooner, but I have been down in Kent. Yet more family business to attend to—although I hope all that is finished now.”

  “Mr. Ryder! I thought—I imagined—I’m sorry, I was not expecting you.”

  “I hope I have not come upon you at an inconvenient time, as so often seems to be my fate?”

  Mary recovered her composure enough to invite him to sit down. She called for tea; and by the time it arrived, she felt tolerably in command of herself.

  “I hope your time in Kent went off well, sir. I have never been there. Is it a beautiful place?”

  “It is pleasant enough. Fields and orchards and sheep. You know the sort of thing. Not to be compared to the beauty of the Lakes of course.”

  He began to talk fondly of the great grey mountains and bright blue skies they had so recently enjoyed, and she slowly felt herself more at ease. He did not seem to require much in reply except an occasional smile of reminiscence or assent. The conversation went on well enough with only the occasional question from her, which she found suited her mood admirably.

  “Should you like to return there?” she ventured politely. “To a different part of the Lakes, perhaps?”

  “To tell the truth, Miss Bennet, the next time I travel, I am resolved to go abroad—to Italy, if I can. If the Westmoreland fells had such an effect upon us, imagine the impact of the Alps!”

  “I am not sure I have much appetite for mountains any more. Our walk down Scafell in the storm seems to have cured me of any desire to climb another.”

  Mr. Ryder laughed politely. It was plain he did not consider their saturated, struggling descent worthy of further remark.

  “And what of you, Miss Bennet? How have you been occupying yourself since our return? What are you reading at present?”

  “I am ashamed to say I have nothing particular about me at the moment. I seem to have lost the application a serious book requires.”

  “That sounds most unlike you. But I have the perfect solution. What you require is a review—they are the very thing for a distracted mind. You can read what you like and ignore the rest, picking through its articles as if you’re looking for the ripest pear in the bowl. Let me bring you one. Which do you prefer, the Edinburgh or the Quarterly?”

  “Mr. Hayward used to give me the Edinburgh sometimes. But he said its judgements were not entirely to be trusted.”

  “That’s because its reviewers have not always been kind to his adored Wordsworth. You know how loyal he is, once he has found something to love.”

  Mary busied herself putting the lid back on the sugar bowl.

  “Have you seen him since we returned to London?”

  “I have not,” he replied. “I imagine he is still with his family. It will come as no surprise to you to hear that he is a very dutiful son.”

  Mr. Ryder had nothing more to say about his friend’s whereabouts, nor could he be prevailed upon to suggest when he might be seen amongst them again; and, perhaps feeling this subject had been thoroughly exhausted, announced shortly afterwards that he was obliged to take his leave.

  “I have an appointment with my bankers. It is nothing but business and more business for me lately, which has made even this short interlude feel like a snatched pleasure—as though I’ve been let off my lessons, as it were.”

  He downed the last of his tea with a single swift gesture, and stood up, entirely at his ease in Mrs. Gardiner’s drawing room.

  “I shall bring you copies of both the Edinburgh and Quarterly reviews—you can decide for yourself which you like best. It will be an excellent excuse for me to call again.”

  A few days later, he returned, bearing the promised copies of the magazines. Of course, it was necessary to offer him tea, during which he declared his intention of returning again to hear what Mary made of them. Soon he was almost as regular a presence in the Gracechurch Street drawing room as his friend had once been.

  “You must have a great deal of time to call your own,” observed Mrs. Gardiner one afternoon a week later, when Mr. Ryder was once more to be found in her drawing room, drinking her tea and eating her cakes. “Of course we are always glad to see you—what should we do with our currant tarts otherwise?—but you seem somewhat solitary at present. What of Miss Bingley? I have not seen her for a while.”

  “She is visiting her brother, but returns shortly, I think.”

  “And is there any news of Mr. Hayward? We’ve heard nothing from him since we left the Lakes.”

  Mr. Ryder flicked a few crumbs from his waistcoat.

  “No, not a line. But I expect we will hear from him soon. It isn’t like Tom to stay silent for long.”

  Mary placed her hands in her lap, hoping to convey the impression of a serenity she did not feel. Mr. Ryder’s company had only made her miss his friend more. His visits sharpened her loss, magnifying her sense of abandonment. The better she came to know Mr. Ryder, the more she longed for Mr. Hayward.

  It was not that Mr. Ryder’s company was distasteful. She was used to him now. She knew how to appreciate his better qualities; and his less admirable traits no longer disturbed her as they had once done.

  Even his self-absorption no longer bothered her; after a while, there was something restful
in it. His reluctance to make moral judgements came to seem equally soothing. It gave him an easy tolerance of the shortcomings of others—and also of himself. He preferred things to be agreeable rather than not, but, Mary suspected, did not in truth feel anything particularly strongly. He craved sensation, but she doubted he was a man governed by profound and lasting passions. Those would involve rather too much trouble. His feelings were like jam spread thinly on bread and butter—sweet, all-encompassing, and readily available, but not penetrating very deeply.

  The contrast with Mr. Hayward could not have been more stark. His affection she supposed would be like a long-simmered beef stock—a great while in the making, but strong and rich and unmistakably flavoured. It amused her when she thought how ridiculous a simile this was. Yet even as she smiled inwardly to herself, she felt a sharp pang of regret. She missed his passionate enthusiasms, which sat so unexpectedly with his otherwise steady temper. She missed his sharp mind and ready wit. She missed the warmth of his smile, the look of amusement in his glance as he caught her eye across the dinner table. She had hoped that as the days passed into weeks, she would have begun to miss him less, but this had not been so. If anything, the opposite was true.

  “Have you written to Mr. Hayward, sir? Perhaps he needs a little encouragement to begin upon a correspondence?”

  “I am not a greater writer of letters, I’m afraid. No, in Tom’s case, there’s nothing to be done but wait. He is determined to try our patience, but we are equal to it. He will write when he is ready to do so, and not a minute before.”

  Mary nodded at Mr. Ryder’s words with every appearance of taking them to heart; but each day she looked for a letter from Mr. Hayward, and each day she was disappointed. When the post arrived, she sorted through it with as much appearance of unconcern as she could muster; and when she found nothing there for her, put it back on the tray with an equally unconvincing display of indifference. She did this for nearly three weeks; yet every morning, she hoped against hope that today would be the day his letter finally appeared.