Chapter 52
When their carriage pulled up outside a magnificent stuccoed building with a tall, pillared entrance, Mary was convinced the coachman must have mistaken the address.
“Can this be right? It looks more like a palace than a shop.”
Mrs. Gardiner gathered together her cloak and gloves, eager to begin.
“That is exactly what you are supposed to think. But I promise you, it is a shop—although a very grand one. Mr. Gardiner always says there is nowhere in the world quite like Harding and Howell, and I do not argue with him. If we cannot find what we want here, it is simply not to be had.”
As an established Londoner of some three weeks, Mary imagined that in her walks around Cheapside, she had already encountered the most lavish displays of goods the capital had to offer; but, as she followed her aunt through the shop’s great doors, she realised she could not have been more wrong.
She had never seen anything like Harding and Howell.
In both size and magnificence, it was incomparable.
Room after room opened out before her, each with its own distinct offering of beautiful things.
Mahogany counters shone in the light that poured in from high windows.
At some, gentlemen stood examining cravats; at others, ladies looked closely at stockings.
“We did very well to come so early,” said Mrs. Gardiner as they strode past a display of hats. “If you arrive after eleven, the queues are intolerable.”
When they arrived in the fabric hall, the sight was even more splendid.
Every wall was lined with wide shelves reaching up to the ceiling.
Upon them, bolts of every kind of cloth were stacked: cottons, poplins, muslins, and lawns.
Long swathes of silk hung from tall poles, showing off their colours and patterns to glorious advantage.
On a table in the centre of the room were spread out the most beautiful paisley shawls Mary had ever seen.
This shimmering palace of fabrics could not be more different from the dark little haberdasher’s at Meryton.
“It is magnificent, is it not?” whispered Mrs. Gardiner as they sat down at one of the broad counters.
They were attended to by a very superior assistant, whose immaculate clothes made Mary painfully conscious of the shortcomings of her own.
She thought she saw his eyes flicker over her unremarkable outfit; but once reassured by the amount Mrs. Gardiner intended to spend, his manner was quickly all consideration and attentiveness.
They began with muslins. Mary could not believe how many were laid before her, all miracles of lightness and delicacy.
At first the sheer extent of the choice seemed to make it impossible to decide, for there was always something more to see; but gradually, she found her eye and began to discover what she liked.
With growing confidence, she decided first upon a spotted pink and then a rich, glowing cream.
The cottons proved more difficult, for they came in so many colours and patterns; each fresh example seemed as alluring as the one before.
Eventually, she fixed upon a yellow-and-white stripe and a lavender ground decorated with cream leaves; though, for her final choice, she could not decide between a design of green and gold or one of blue and grey.
As she turned over the samples, Mary could not quite credit how much she found herself enjoying an occupation she would not long ago have dismissed as frivolous.
How was this to be explained? Part of it, she thought, was simple.
She had closed her ears to her usual scruples and allowed herself to enjoy the physical pleasure of handling such beautiful things, running them through her hands and admiring the texture and feel of them.
But she knew she would never have dared attempt it if her mother or Lydia had been there to witness it.
They would have laughed at her change of heart.
Mrs. Bennet would have been scornful, and Lydia could never have resisted the opportunity it offered for a good tease.
In London, however, there was no-one to judge her.
Here, she thought, she might alter everything about herself if she wished to; and if that meant finding satisfaction in handsome cottons, then so be it.
Soon she was so absorbed once more in comparing the different patterns that, until he was almost upon them, she did not notice a young man making his way towards their counter, his hand raised in greeting.
Mrs. Gardiner sprang up, delighted to see him.
“Mr. Hayward! Whatever are you doing here?”
“Nothing very particular, I’m afraid,” the young man replied, with a polite bow. “I left home with the definite intention of buying myself some gloves, but so far, I’ve done nothing but saunter about.”
Mrs. Gardiner laughed.
“Men have so little sense of urgency when it comes to the business of buying. We, on the other hand, have set ourselves diligently to the task and have already acquired a very respectable number of purchases.”
“You have begun as you mean to go on, then?”
“Indeed we have.” Mrs. Gardiner turned to Mary, who looked up a little uncertainly, but did her best to produce a welcoming smile.
“Mr. Hayward, may I introduce my niece Miss Mary Bennet? When not leading me astray amongst the muslins, she is staying with us at Gracechurch Street. Mary, this is Mr. Thomas Hayward, the son of a cousin of mine—a good friend of all us Gardiners, and a frequent guest in our house.”
Mr. Hayward was tall and broad-shouldered, with a shock of dark hair. He was not particularly handsome, but his expression was so affable and amused that by the time this fact was noticed, it was too late for it to matter.
“I am proud to be both distant relative and close friend,” he declared, “for one might be said to have led to the other. Are you up from the country, Miss Bennet?”
Mary made herself speak up clearly, determined to allow no hint of a blush or a mumble.
“Yes, sir, I am quite new to town.”
“And how are you enjoying it?”
“I was a little overwhelmed at first, but the better I get to know it, the more I like it.”
“Exactly the right answer! I am a great advocate for London and hate to hear it criticised. After all, where else could we find ourselves in such a building as this? Where the best that commerce and industry can afford is offered to us, all under one roof?”
His enthusiasm was so open and infectious, his expression so encouraging, that Mary found it easy to reply.
“Yes, sir, I must admit I have never been anywhere like it. They have cottons and silks in every colour of the rainbow, including some so extraordinary they have yet to be given a name.”
“Perhaps we should set ourselves to supplying that deficiency,” mused Mr. Hayward.
“It is very inconvenient not to be able to ask for exactly what one wants. What do you think of ‘coromandel’ for that fiery shade between red and orange hanging over there? Or ‘jonquil’ for the rather queasy tone of yellow to your left?”
“Now, Tom,” said Mrs. Gardiner severely, “you are not to inflict your whimsy on poor Miss Bennet before she has had a chance to know you. She will not know what to think.”
Unabashed, Mr. Hayward drew up a chair and seated himself at the counter beside them.
“You are quite right,” he replied, with a good-natured air which suggested this was not the first time Mrs. Gardiner had scolded him in this way. “I promise to conduct myself hereafter in a manner that will neither surprise nor entertain. I shall be exactly as dull as politeness requires.”
“I am sure there is some happy medium between the two,” observed Mrs. Gardiner.
“Then I shall certainly endeavour to find it.” He smiled at her aunt, and Mary saw immediately how fond they were of each other.
“So, Miss Bennet,” he went on, in a more formal voice, “you are in the very best place to find materials of every kind. The quality here is excellent. May I be allowed to see what you have chosen?”
“Really, sir?” asked Mary, puzzled. “Do you honestly wish to see what I have been looking at?”
“Indeed, I do,” insisted Mr. Hayward. “I’m reckoned an excellent judge of cottons and muslins. Though not silks. Silks are not my province at all.”
Mary glanced at him to see if he was making game of her; but obediently, she passed him the book of samples she had been examining.
“We cannot decide,” she said, “between the blue and the green.”
It felt very strange to be discussing such matters with a man she had barely met; but Mr. Hayward was not disconcerted. He looked at both swatches closely and felt them between his fingers.
“You should take the green. It will wear better.”
“Now you are teasing me, sir.”
He closed the book, as if all was now decided.
“Well, perhaps a little. But you really should choose the green, on grounds of beauty if not of utility. It is a very handsome pattern. I think it would suit you.”
Mary felt herself begin to blush and looked down once more at the swatches.
“How did you come to know so much about cottons, sir?” she asked. “Are you in the trade yourself?”
“Oh, no,” he said, laughing a little. “But I had a very good apprenticeship. With four sisters, all older than me, it was impossible I should not learn something about the intricacies of dress. I grew up surrounded by hems and flounces!”
“An excellent qualification,” remarked her aunt, “but is it enough for us to take his advice?”
Mary hesitated. She was not sure she wished to be so easily influenced by a man who was quite unlike anyone she had encountered before.
“I see I may have confused matters by giving my opinion too decisively,” said Mr. Hayward soothingly.
“Please let me make amends. May I offer you some tea? There is a refreshment room here with an admirable view of the Park. Miss Bennet can reflect on the contesting virtues of her cottons over a toasted tea cake.”
“In the circumstances,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I think that is the very least you can do.”