Chapter 61
For a week, neither Mr. Hayward nor Mr. Ryder appeared at Gracechurch Street.
Mr. Hayward was occupied with a particularly onerous piece of business, and let it be known that he must sacrifice the company of his friends until it was completed; Mr. Ryder, on the other hand, was simply out and about, engaged with the small obligations and more numerous pleasures with which he filled his days.
Once, to her surprise, Mary met him on one of her regular walks in the City.
She had decided to spend the morning exploring St. Paul’s Cathedral, and was standing outside it, staring upward at its soaring dome, when she heard his voice beside her.
“Miss Bennet! How delightful to find you here! You are clearly a lover of beautiful buildings, as I am myself.”
He joined her and looked up eagerly into the sharp blue sky where a few white clouds were scudding along in the unseasonably cold wind. Mary was obliged to hold on to her hat, and hope that the many pins she had pushed into her hair that morning would keep it in place, for a while at least.
“It is a noble sight, is it not?” he enthused.
“And one of which I am particularly fond. When I discovered that none of my friends had visited it—imagine that, Miss Bennet, if you can—I was appalled. Nothing would do but that we rectify such a sad omission with all possible haste. So, we leapt into a carriage and here we are. They will be out presently, and I’m sure you’ll be delighted to see them, especially as they are already so well known to you. ”
Mary’s heart sank. It did not take long before her forebodings were realised.
Two ladies, also paying close attention to the security of their hats, came striding down the steps that led out of the cathedral; and Mary found herself once again the reluctant recipient of Miss Bingley’s and Mrs. Hurst’s brittle greetings.
“What a pity we could not join you when we saw you at Vauxhall,” began Miss Bingley smoothly. “We had another engagement that evening, so it was impossible. And I fear we had already exhausted the limited enjoyments the Gardens have to offer. But your little party looked entirely satisfied.”
“I’ve often observed,” agreed Mrs. Hurst, “that it is City people who feel most comfortable at Vauxhall. You all looked very at home there.”
“Yes,” replied Mary, refusing to rise to their jibes, “we enjoyed it very much.”
“I would have expected nothing else,” said Miss Bingley. She turned to Mr. Ryder, who had been surveying the cathedral’s great pillared frontage, touching his sleeve lightly with her gloved hand.
“When Mr. Hurst joins us, I think it is time for us to go.”
“I don’t believe we are in any hurry,” Mr. Ryder remarked. “Besides, I am very keen to hear Miss Bennet’s thoughts upon this building. Come, do tell us what impressions St. Paul’s has awoken in you.”
Mary considered. Whatever comment she made would provoke a sneer from Miss Bingley.
She supposed she could say nothing at all, or confine herself to the blandest possible observations, hoping not to excite that lady’s contempt; but to her surprise, she felt herself disinclined to be cowed.
She would say what she thought, and Miss Bingley could make of it what she liked.
“It is undoubtedly magnificent,” she began, “and no-one who sees it could fail to be impressed. But I can’t help but feel there’s something a little cold about it.
It’s a building more to be admired than loved.
I prefer Westminster Abbey. The Abbey is a jumble, grown up over the ages, a positive hotchpotch of styles—but I confess I was moved by it in a way I have not been here, much as I wished to be. ”
“How unfortunate for poor St. Paul’s,” murmured Caroline Bingley, “that it has failed to win your approval. I myself found it remarkably fine. But then I do not pretend to be an expert in such things.”
She looked sideways at Mr. Ryder; but he seemed not to have heard her, and it was Mary, and not Miss Bingley, to whom he spoke.
“Yes, I can see that its classical lines would not please everyone. But I’m surprised to find you such an advocate for the Abbey’s gothic charms. I should have thought the severity of St. Paul’s would be much more to your taste.”
“Once that would have been true. But it really makes no sense to confine one’s liking to what one already knows. I’m trying my best to appreciate anything that’s pleasing and interesting, wherever it is to be found.”
“How very fascinating,” declared Miss Bingley. “I hope you will be sure to communicate to all your friends the results of your reflections.”
“I could not agree more,” enthused Mr. Ryder, ignoring Miss Bingley once more. “We should always acknowledge our appreciation honestly, even when it is inspired by the most unexpected objects.”
The wind whipped across the cathedral steps and blew the ribbons securing Miss Bingley’s hat in all directions, increasing her mounting impatience.
“Really, where is Mr. Hurst? I had no idea he was so interested in church architecture. He must have found a verger to buy him a pot of beer. Come, sister, we must go and find him or we shall never get on. Good day to you, Miss Bennet.”
She gave Mary a curt nod of dismissal, and strode away, Mrs. Hurst hurrying along in her wake.
“It would seem I must leave you,” exclaimed Mr. Ryder, as he hastened after them. “But I hope to have the pleasure of your company again very soon.”
Mary watched them as they hurried back towards St. Paul’s, Miss Bingley’s irritation obvious in her every angry step.
Mary hoped Mr. Hurst had indeed found himself some beer to drink.
It might enable him to bear the full force of his sister-in-law’s displeasure, which was sure to be soon vented upon him.
As she walked briskly back to Gracechurch Street, Mary found herself thinking about Mr. Ryder and his charm.
She understood now what Mrs. Gardiner had meant when she warned her against it a few days before.
There was something very powerful about a man who paid one such particular attention.
It was impossible not to thaw a little when invited, with every appearance of sincerity, to venture an opinion or offer up a thought.
She laughed inwardly at this idea—would such an invitation flatter any woman, or was it only bookish females like herself who would be gratified by it?
She supposed a man like Mr. Ryder knew only too well how to please and could tailor his manner to suit a variety of dispositions.
But, making her way down Cheapside, Mary concluded that last thought was ungenerous.
It suggested calculation in Mr. Ryder’s manner; and the more she considered it, the more Mary was certain that was not the case.
She knew she had little experience of the world, but she did not see in him the deliberate flattery of the practised seducer.
No. He was agreeable, not in pursuit of some dark purpose, but simply because that was who he was.
His charm was not a weapon to be deployed, but an inescapable element of his character.
He liked people to be happy, and it came easily to him to understand how they might be made so.
And if that resulted in their looking upon him with indulgence and affection—well, that could hardly be reckoned his fault.
Mary could see exactly how such a thing might happen—how quickly one might fall under his spell—and congratulated herself on her immunity to any such risk.
Mr. Ryder could never be thought of whilst Mr. Hayward was by.
He was Mr. Ryder’s superior in every possible way.
Miss Bingley, she thought, was welcome to him.
For, even in the course of a single meeting, it had been evident that Miss Bingley regarded Mr. Ryder as very much her own particular property.
Whether this arose from her appreciation of his handsome person and pleasing manner, or resulted from the general knowledge of his being extremely well provided for, Mary could not say.
But it was impossible to ignore the avidity with which Caroline Bingley pursued him, much as she had once done Mr. Darcy, finding a thousand occasions to flatter, tease, and cajole him into considering her as a possible wife.
Mary supposed Caroline Bingley stood as good a chance of success as anyone.
She was elegant, in a glittering, unyielding style, handsome, and clever.
She was also very disagreeable, but Mary had often observed men did not seem to feel this to be as grave a disability as might have been expected, provided it was accompanied by a pretty face and a decent dowry.
Yet, for all Miss Bingley’s efforts, it did not look as if she had as yet successfully secured her quarry.
Mr. Ryder treated her with the same good humour he bestowed upon everyone else.
He was unfailingly charming, willing to act as escort, guide, or guest. He smiled obligingly at her milder remarks and seemed not to notice her more astringent asides.
But he showed no evidence of any warmer feelings.
He did not seem interested in her opinion of St. Paul’s, Mary observed.
She knew it was an ungenerous thought—but before she dismissed it, she felt a new emotion run through her—a powerful sense of triumph.
Today she had been preferred over her enemy, and it pleased her.
It was not she who had been snubbed and ignored, but the scheming Miss Bingley.
This was not an admirable response, and she suspected none of the great thinkers she had studied would have approved—except, perhaps, Machiavelli, who would have entirely understood why, as she made her way through the now familiar London streets, she carried her head a little higher than usual, a look of amusement lighting up her face.