Chapter 78 #2
“That seems somewhat harsh. I think he meant it sincerely.”
“I’m sure of it.”
Mary, taken aback by the bleakness of his tone, did not reply.
“He seems to know your tastes in reading pretty well.”
“I had Evelina with me the other morning. He remarked upon it.”
Mr. Hayward looked as though he was about to say more, but seemed to think better of it. He stood for a moment, considering; and then declared abruptly that he must ask the guide to stop soon as he did not think the Hursts could go much further.
As Mary stood watching him walk away, it burst upon her quite suddenly that Mr. Hayward was jealous—jealous of his friend.
It was such an extraordinary idea that it took a moment for her to absorb it.
At first it seemed preposterous, presumptuous even—who was she, after all, to imagine two men could feel strongly enough about her to arouse such a sensation?
From a deep place in her mind, to which she had attempted to banish such dark thoughts, an old familiar whisper resurfaced to insist that only the beautiful inspired such strong emotions—a woman like her was incapable of doing so.
But she could think of no other way to account for Mr. Hayward’s behaviour over the last few days.
His discomfort had been very marked when he had seen her in Mr. Ryder’s company.
His silent withdrawal when he met them walking from the inn—his obvious ill humour just now, so unlike his usual open, frank disposition—what else could it imply but displeasure with what he regarded as his friend’s overtures to her?
She pulled her jacket closer to her as a strong breeze whipped around her, blowing down from the higher ground. She had remained rooted to the spot for too long. She must go on, or she would lose sight of the others—even the Hursts were in front of her now.
As Mary struggled upwards, her thoughts were so disturbed, her feelings so turbulent, that she barely noticed the path.
She supposed there was one sense in which she might be encouraged by her discovery.
If Mr. Hayward was indeed jealous, it suggested that his feelings for her were not entirely obliterated.
If he was truly indifferent, why would he care?
But the more she considered it, the more she was surprised to find that this reasoning, however logically sound, brought her neither relief nor gratitude.
Instead what she felt was a swelling indignation.
What right did Mr. Hayward have to behave in this way?
What possible reason did he have to be jealous?
She took several deep breaths, willing herself to be calm as she picked her way carefully through the rough grass.
There were large stones everywhere, strewn randomly on the ground; it would be dangerous to trip over one.
All her concentration was required to avoid them, and gradually, she felt more in control of herself.
Very well then, if that was the accusation, she would examine the evidence.
Then she would know if there was truly a case to be answered.
She was compelled to admit that Mr. Ryder’s conduct did suggest some fondness on his part.
His calling so regularly at Gracechurch Street implied it, as did his seeking her out so often for conversation.
Indeed, the manner in which he spoke to her might be said to confirm it—a teasing familiarity which even she understood arose from interest and affection.
Mrs. Gardiner had noticed it, had warned her twice to be wary of Mr. Ryder’s charm; if she had observed it, why should not Mr. Hayward have done the same?
Mary’s first inclination was to run ahead, find Mr. Hayward as quickly as she could, and, throwing discretion to the wind, try to convince him she felt nothing for his friend, that his apprehensions were entirely baseless.
But something in her baulked at the idea of it.
She had done nothing wrong. She had not invited his friend’s attentions, and she had certainly not returned them.
If they made Mr. Hayward uneasy, why had he not spoken to her and asked if Ryder’s interest was returned?
She would have been happy to assure him it was not.
But he had not done so. Instead he had turned his face away from her, leaving her confused and unhappy, ignorant of the cause of his retreat.
And yet, she was to be the one who sought to make amends?
Who was meekly to apologise for an offence she had not committed?
Well, she should not do it. If anyone was required to justify their conduct, it should be him.
Anger was an unfamiliar emotion for Mary.
In the past, she had not felt entitled to give way to anything so assertive.
She had always assumed the blame for any fault, any difficulty, must be hers.
Apology had become her habitual response to any form of challenge.
But she no longer felt so abject. Her anger had galvanised her, had awoken her pride.
Mr. Hayward had done everything possible to suggest he had strong feelings for her, given every indication that encouraged her belief that he cared for her—but nevertheless he had made no declaration.
Much as she wished for it, he had not spoken.
Yet he had not hesitated to show his displeasure when Mr. Ryder displayed an interest in her.
Perhaps he should decide what his true feelings were towards her and express them with honesty and consistency.
Then—and not before—he might have some justification for what she was now convinced was, without question, jealousy on his part.