The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  Mary was delighted. There was nothing she would enjoy more.

  “I am pleased to accept your terms and will do all I can to discharge my obligations as required.”

  The noise at the other end of the table had now increased to such an extent that ordinary conversation was no longer possible, for one of Mr. Gardiner’s friends had announced his intention to favour the party with a song. Knowing that a gesture must take the place of words, silently Mr. Hayward raised his glass to toast their agreement; and Mary, shyly, lifted hers.

  Chapter 55

  Mary was quick to decide upon her choice of book. In Mr. Gardiner’s library, she found the volumes of Mrs. Macaulay’s History of England, which had so enthralled her when she first discovered them at Longbourn. She could not help but notice, as she opened them, that they did not look as though they had been much read; but then Mr. Gardiner, unlike her father, had a business to run, and perhaps preferred less demanding fare in his leisure hours. He certainly raised no objection when she asked if she might borrow them. She bore them off in triumph to her room, looking forward to the moment when she should present them to Mr. Hayward.

  A few days later, she and Mrs. Gardiner were sitting in the drawing room when his name was announced. The children, who were supposed to be reading, leapt up with excitement, for Mr. Hayward was known to carry peppermints with him on his visits, and once, on an occasion that was never to be forgotten, had presented each of them with an entire candied orange. Mary was almost as excited as the young Gardiners, as their mother could not help but observe.

  “You look very expectant,” she remarked. “Are you hoping Tom might have sweets for you as well?”

  “Oh, no, it is something far better than that. Mr. Hayward and I have set ourselves a little task. He is to read a book of my choosing; and I am to read one of his.”

  Mrs. Gardiner frowned. “Poor Tom, I suspect he has drawn the worst of the deal. I hope you are not planning to give him anything too indigestible?”

  “Only Mrs. Macaulay’s history,” replied Mary airily. “And just two volumes, so he has nothing to fear.”

  As Mr. Hayward strode into the room, still innocent of what awaited him, he was assailed on all sides by the children begging to know what he had brought them. Ah, he said, it was really too bad—he had intended to bring lemon drops—but had forgot them—he had meant to pick up some pralines—but they had slipped his mind—had thought to buy sherbets—but had been distracted. He could only hope they would forgive him. Then, just as they began to think they were really to be disappointed, he pulled from his pocket a very large bag of sugarplums, which sent them happily away to the corner of the room, where they consumed their booty in silent satisfaction.

  “You spoil them, Tom.”

  Mr. Hayward shrugged good-naturedly and sat down upon one of Mrs. Gardiner’s pale sofas.

  “I am come to learn what fate Miss Bennet has in store for me. You will have heard about the task we have set each other?”

  “Yes, I understand you are contracted to it and that there is no escape for you now.”

  Mary leapt up eagerly.

  “I wondered if we might begin with my choice,” she said. “I have it waiting for you upstairs.”

  Mr. Hayward said he would be delighted; and Mary rushed to her room to bring down Mrs. Macaulay. When she placed it on the table in front of him, Mr. Hayward’s face fell.

  “Come, Miss Bennet, what is this? Two volumes? We agreed on one book, singular, as I recall.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right, but I hoped I might persuade you to read the chapters on the Civil War. I long to hear your opinion on what she has to say about it. And I’m afraid half the story is in one volume, and half in the other.”

  Mr. Hayward picked up the two volumes, and held them in his hands, as if weighing up whether to accept them or not.

  “I’m not sure that doesn’t amount to a breach of our agreement.”

  “But surely,” Mary protested, “it’s true to the spirit of what we intended, even if not to the letter of the law.”

  “I think you’ll find it is the letter of the thing that counts, as far as the law is concerned,” observed Mr. Hayward dryly. He replaced the books carefully on the table, rose from the sofa, and walked to the long window, staring out into the street with a very severe expression. “I must consider my position, Miss Bennet, if you will grant me a moment.”

  Mary knew he was teasing, but was too excited to indulge him any further.

  “Please say you’ll read it.”

  “Indeed, I believe you must,” interjected Mrs. Gardiner, “if you aren’t to show yourself up as a man of feeble spirit and no powers of concentration.”

  “Very well,” declared Mr. Hayward. “I throw myself upon the mercy of this honourable court. I undertake to read the chapters up to and including the restoration of Charles II—but nothing further.”

  He held out his hand to Mary—and after a moment’s hesitation, she shook it.

  It was ten days before Mr. Hayward returned, bringing with him the two volumes of Mrs. Macaulay, a notebook full of jottings, and peppermints for the children. Mr. Gardiner had agreed they might have use of his library, and for the rest of the afternoon, Mary and Mr. Hayward were closeted there, discussing what he’d read.

  At first, Mrs. Gardiner called in upon them now and then, to offer them tea and see how Mr. Hayward was bearing up; but each time she did so, she found them either deep in discussion of the role of church and state, or arguing animatedly about the guilt of Charles I or the virtues of Oliver Cromwell. Having satisfied herself that Mr. Hayward was in no need of rescuing, and indeed seemed to be enjoying himself quite as much as Mary, she decided to leave them alone. They did not emerge until Mr. Gardiner appeared at the library door to tell them it would shortly be time for dinner, and that he assumed Tom would join them?

  When they sat down at the table, Mary felt as invigorated as if she had just finished a long and very breezy country walk.

  “So, Tom,” said Mr. Gardiner as he carved the beef at the head of the table. “You appear to have survived your encounter with Mrs. Macaulay.”

  “I don’t think he found her anywhere near as tedious as he expected,” declared Mary, glancing at Mr. Hayward with a triumphant air. “He certainly entered into a very lively discussion of her work.”

  “You must never forget,” remarked Mrs. Gardiner, “that Tom is trained to argue—it might be said that debate is his calling, so we should expect him to be good at it.”

  Mr. Hayward put down his knife and fork. “I cannot let that pass, ma’am. This was a purely private encounter, nothing in the professional line at all. I argued with Miss Bennet purely for the love of it.”

  He smiled at her over the dish of peas and carrots that was making its way down the table; and Mary felt happiness flood through her as she placed a spoonful of each on her plate. She hoped her pleasure was not as apparent to the others as it was to herself.

  “It was an excellent recommendation,” continued Mr. Hayward, “because it reminded me not only that Mrs. Macaulay is singularly well informed, but that she marshalls her facts with admirable skill.”

  “I suppose that counts as praise,” remarked Mr. Gardiner, “if not of the most effusive kind.”

  Mr. Hayward attacked his beef, and declined to reply.

  “You have obviously been much improved by it,” observed Mrs. Gardiner. “I cannot wait to hear what task you intend to offer Mary.”

  Everyone turned in her direction; but this time Mary did not look away as she might once have done.

  “I hope I’ll be able to rise to your challenge with as much enthusiasm as you have to mine.”

  “Well said,” cried Mr. Gardiner. “That’s the spirit!”

  “I’ve already chosen the work,” said Mr. Hayward, “and it is of a rather different nature to Mrs. Macaulay. It speaks less to the intellect than to the emotions.”

  “I see. And shall I enjoy it, do you thin
k?”

  “I will deliver it to you later this week, so you won’t have to wait too long to find out.”

  As they ate their lemon posset, Mary did all she could to persuade Mr. Hayward to divulge the title of his choice, but he would not be drawn; and by the time coffee was served, she had resigned herself to its remaining a surprise. She very much hoped it might turn out not to be poetry, but she thought it very probable that it would.

  The next day, a package arrived for her. As she carried it to her room, it did not feel heavy enough to be a novel, let alone something more scholarly. Her heart sank—there seemed little doubt it must be verse. She pulled out the small volume and opened it. Lyrical Ballads by W. Wordsworth. It was a name she recognised, but she had never read anything of his. She frowned slightly as she turned the pages. Between them, she found a note.

  My dear Miss Bennet,

  I have no doubt your worst suspicions are confirmed now that you hold my choice of book in your hands. I urge you, however, not to give into first impressions, but to persevere, with the same energy with which I tackled Mrs. Macaulay. Mr. Wordsworth is in my opinion the greatest poet now living in England. He very much deserves your unprejudiced attention, which I beg you will extend to him. I should not presume to suggest which poem you should read first or with most care; any of them will well repay the time spent in their company. Some do not give up their meaning easily, but if you approach them with an open, generous mind, I think you cannot fail to be affected by them. Remember what I said—that this is writing for the heart, not the head. That may be unfamiliar or even at first unwelcome to you, but I do not doubt you have it within you to appreciate it. Time will prove if I am right.

  Tho. Hayward

  Mary held the book in her hands, struck by the directness of Mr. Hayward’s words. She thought of him saying them in person, his grey eyes fixed upon her—for she was aware now that his eyes were grey—and imagined the playful tone in which he would have spoken. But this would not do—this was no way to think. She picked up her shawl, and wrapped it tightly around her. She did not look forward to the task before her. She thought it was unlikely she should enjoy Mr. Wordsworth’s poems, but it was her duty to read them, with the open generous spirit which Mr. Hayward had urged upon her. She would do her best to satisfy his request, and would begin tomorrow.

  Chapter 56

  Mary was quick to decide upon her choice of book. She spent most of the next few days alone in Mr. Gardiner’s library, studying the Lyrical Ballads. At teatime one afternoon, when her aunt came searching for her, she was so deeply immersed in her reading that, when Mrs. Gardiner gently touched her shoulder, she sprang up in surprise.

  “I’m so sorry, Mary,” exclaimed her aunt. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. You must be quite lost to the world in that book.”

  She looked over at the title.

  “It is poetry, then, just as you feared. How are you finding it?”

  “Some of the poems are quite simple to grasp and easy to enjoy; but others puzzle me. I have read them over and over, but I still don’t know what to think of them.”

  “That must be a new sensation for you, I imagine?” asked Mrs. Gardiner, noting Mary’s preoccupied air. There was no point in asking her to take a view on young George’s attempt at copying out the alphabet; her mind was elsewhere. “I should warn you, a confession of that nature will be irresistible to Tom. He will explain them to you, at great length, from now until dinner time, unless you keep him in check.”

  Mary smiled politely and went back to the little book. She was not sure that explanation, in the usual sense, would be of much help to her. She had begun to suspect that the more opaque poems were not susceptible to analysis at all, or at least not of the rational kind she knew best. They seemed to ask something very different from their reader. She was not sure yet exactly what it was, but she would do all she could to discover it. She was determined to have something intelligent to say to Mr. Hayward when he came to discuss them.

  He arrived on a sunny Saturday morning, freed from his office and eager to talk of something other than the law. Mrs. Gardiner was occupied with the children in the nursery upstairs, and Mr. Gardiner was occupied with writing letters in his library, so he and Mary had the drawing room to themselves. Mr. Hayward looked around, as if something was not quite to his liking, before boldly lifting one of the several card tables scattered about the room and placing it in front of the high windows. When he had satisfied himself that it was now in the perfect position to take best advantage of the sharp morning light, he drew up two chairs at either side. From the sideboard, Mary fetched the jug of lemon water she had arranged to be there for their use; and soon they were both seated comfortably at the table, each with a copy of the Lyrical Ballads in their hands.

  “This reminds me a little of preparing for my examinations,” remarked Mr. Hayward. “So, where shall we start? How did you like the Ballads?”

  “I began rather slowly,” said Mary. “I did not realise before that poetry requires a special kind of concentration all of its own. I had to learn how to read them properly before I could begin to think of enjoying them.”

  “Yes, a poem demands a particular kind of effort, if it is to be appreciated. But I cannot believe you did not persevere?”

  “Yes, I did—and I was rewarded, for there were many poems that pleased me. The simpler ones, those about humble people.”

  She opened the book and began to turn the pages.

  “I very much liked ‘We are Seven.’ No-one could fail to be moved by it, if they had any feeling heart.”

  She found the place and began to read.

  “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

  The little Maid replied,

  “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

  And they are side by side.

  My stockings there I often knit,

  My kerchief there I hem;

  And there upon the ground I sit,

  And sing a song to them.”

  She looked up, her eyes bright.

  “It is very affecting, is it not? But there were others which, as you hinted to me, did not give up their secrets so easily. I had to read them again and again before I began to understand their meaning.”

  She reached for her glass and filled it with lemon water from the jug. Her hand trembled very slightly as she did so. She knew once she began to describe what had happened—the great discovery she had made—she would find it hard to stop.

  “But, oh, Mr. Hayward—when you finally understand—when a poem speaks to you at last, as one did to me last night—it is wonderful, is it not?”

  She longed to describe to him how it happened—the flash of insight that had come upon her unawares as she lay reading in bed—the excitement she had felt in understanding what the poet intended—the way she had hugged herself with the sheer pleasure of seeing it at last—but this was too much to be said, even to Mr. Hayward.

  “So poetry has touched you, then?” he replied, with a playful smile. “It has broken through that rational reserve?”

  “It is unfair to mock me, sir. And very ungenerous too.”

  “Yes, I am wrong to do so,” he admitted, his amused expression gradually becoming more serious now. “In truth, I am delighted for you. You have experienced a sensation I know I could not live without, and I am exceedingly happy for you. Will you tell me which poem it was that affected you so strongly?”

  She turned to a page marked with a piece of paper.

  “It is this one.”

  She reached across the table and handed the book silently to him.

  “‘Tintern Abbey.’” He looked up and their eyes met. “How extraordinary that this should be your favourite. It is mine too. I like it best of all Mr. Wordsworth’s works.”

  In the distance, she heard the muffled rumble of the City streets. Upstairs, the children ran around in the nursery, their footsteps loud on the wooden floors. The drawing room, in contrast, seemed remar
kably still. In the silence, she was suddenly very aware of Mr. Hayward’s presence, of his hands holding the book, the whiteness of his cuffs against his dark coat.

  “I am very pleased,” he said softly, “that we think as one about this poem—that it moves you as much as it does me. But I am not surprised. I think you have it within you to feel very deeply, when you allow yourself to do so.”

  Mary was at a loss to know what to say, or how to answer. From the street, she heard the cry of a woman selling cherries from her barrow.

  “Round and sound, five pence a pound.”

  Her voice was pure, clear, and very loud. Mr. Hayward started up and seemed to recollect himself. He handed the book back to Mary, drew his own copy from his pocket, and turned its pages until he found “Tintern Abbey.”

  “Before we talk more about the poem itself,” he said in a more even tone, “I should be interested to know what happened to make you appreciate its power?”

  Mary considered his question. In the past, her instinct would have been to say nothing, to reveal as little as possible of her private self. But now, with a new courage, she resolved to be candid.

  “I suppose it is my habit to dissect and analyse what I read,” she began. “Indeed, it is how I make sense of things in general. But with ‘Tintern Abbey,’ it did not work. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get to the heart of it. Something always eluded me.”

  She shifted in her chair. Perhaps the bodice of her new dress was a little tight? Suddenly she felt very warm; but she continued.

  “Then it occurred to me that I was coming at it in quite the wrong way. I was belabouring it with my mind—trying to think it into submission. I began to fear I might be about to destroy the very thing I wanted to understand. It struck me that a poem was perhaps too fragile an object to bear the weight of too much ‘rational examination.’”