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.