All these considerations confirmed her resolve to keep to herself what had passed between her and Miss Bingley; and she managed a tolerably cheerful smile as she replied.
“Oh, it was really nothing. Nothing that bears repeating anyway.”
Mrs. Gardiner did not appear entirely convinced, but before she could interrogate Mary further, Mr. Ryder himself appeared before them, eager to hear that supper had been to their liking. Both exclaimed that they had enjoyed it very much, although Mrs. Gardiner regretted Mary had been placed so oddly.
“I was very well where I was,” answered Mary quickly. It had appeared as though Mr. Ryder had been about to offer an explanation for how her exile had come about, and she had no wish for her aunt to discover Miss Bingley’s stratagems.
“As I was denied the pleasure of conversing with you tonight,” said Mr. Ryder, “I hope I may be allowed to make up for my loss by calling on you tomorrow.” He looked enquiringly at Mrs. Gardiner. “Might that be convenient?”
From across the room, Mary glimpsed Miss Bingley watching them closely, and decided to deflect any possibility of refusal.
“I’m sure we should very much like to see you—should we not, aunt?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “We shall be glad to offer you tea, Mr. Ryder. As long as there is no more talk of unregulated passions.”
“I promise to say nothing at all about passions, ma’am, regulated or otherwise.”
Mrs. Gardiner watched him coolly as he walked away.
“I’m not sure why you were so keen to have that young man at the house again.”
“It seemed the polite thing to do. He invited us here, after all.”
“I suppose you are right,” replied Mrs. Gardiner uncertainly. “But he is a little pert for my tastes.”
Her face suddenly broke into a smile. Mary turned and saw Mr. Hayward was approaching them, carrying two glasses of wine, which he presented to them before settling himself on the sofa opposite.
“Ah, Tom,” declared Mrs. Gardiner with a glance at Mary, “you are always welcome at Gracechurch Street, for breakfast, dinner, or even children’s tea, if you think you have the courage to attempt it.”
“If there was bread and butter on offer, it should hold no fear for me. Especially if there was greengage jam. We never get that at my lodgings.”
“Oh, the sorrows of the single man!” lamented Mrs. Gardiner. “When you change your situation, you may demand from your wife whatever jam you wish for. That’s a husband’s privilege, you know.”
“One I eagerly look forward to exercising at such future time. What is your opinion, Miss Bennet? You’re sure to have one, even upon jam.”
“It is raspberry for me,” Mary declared, “or, if that’s not to be had, I may console myself with strawberry. But I venture no further into the exotic.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “So even if we were married, I could not obtain the wish of my heart—greengage jam at breakfast.”
Mary smiled. The idea of them as husband and wife, eating greengage jam together, affected her so powerfully that to give herself something else to thing about, she plucked the bunch of lavender from her sash and began to rub the sprigs between her fingers.
“Where did you find that?” asked Mr. Hayward.
“I took them from a bowl over there,” Mary replied. “I hope that does not make me a thief.”
“Well, possession is always said to be nine-tenths of the law.” He moved towards her. “It smells very good. May I have a piece?”
Mary held out a sprig to him. He took it and stuck it in the buttonhole of his jacket.
“Your friend Mr. Ryder has invited himself to Gracechurch Street tomorrow,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “I suppose I could not convince you to come too?”
He looked genuinely disappointed.
“I should like that of all things, but it’s impossible. I have so much business at present that I cannot get away. I am very sorry for it.”
“That’s a great pity. Mr. Ryder cannot really take your place. We miss you, Tom. Don’t we, Mary?”
“Yes,” agreed Mary quietly. “We do indeed.”
Not long afterwards, Mr. Ryder’s supper reached that point, never publicly declared but always privately understood, when everyone knew it was time to go. Soon Mary stood in the hallway, waiting while her aunt and uncle made their farewells to their host. Mr. Hayward appeared with her coat, which he had undertaken to retrieve for her.
“I hope Ryder is not becoming a trial to you and Mrs. Gardiner,” he said as he helped her into it. “He takes up people he likes with great enthusiasm, but he does not always know when he has outstayed his welcome. I’m sure I could suggest he lengthen the intervals between his visits somewhat.”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” replied Mary, her mind still upon thwarting Miss Bingley. “He is really no trouble, and I should not like to hurt his feelings.”
“I see,” he replied, somewhat taken aback. “Of course I shan’t speak to him unless you wish it.”
Mary saw instantly that he had misunderstood her meaning. She had not meant to imply that she could not bear to surrender a moment of Mr. Ryder’s company; but that was clearly what Mr. Hayward thought he had heard. She was about to attempt to correct such an unfortunate impression, but before she could do so, she was surprised to hear her own name pronounced, quite loudly, at the bottom of the stairs. At first, she did not recognise the voice. Then she saw Mr. Hurst and his wife standing at the front door below, and she realised it was he who was speaking. His wife’s words were said too low to be audible, but her husband’s were only too easily discerned.
“You and your sister may say what you please, but in my opinion, that Bennet girl is much improved. It was a pleasure to sit next to her.”
His wife’s response could not be heard, but to Mary’s increasing distress, Mr. Hurst replied with even greater volume.
“Well, she didn’t look plain to me. Perfectly tolerable in my opinion. You can see Ryder’s interested. If I were him, I’d snap her up before some other fellow does.”
To Mary’s intense relief, they heard no more, as Mr. Hurst was bustled into the carriage and carried away. In the silence that followed, Mr. Hayward stepped towards her, horrified.
“Miss Bennet, I must apologise. I should have called out—I should have told him he could be heard. I was too slow.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it—he drank a lot of wine at dinner.”
“I’m very sorry you had to hear such things,” said Mr. Hayward angrily. “I should have prevented it.”
“Really, it was not your fault. Mr. Hurst is not a very sensible man. Who can say what he might come out with?”
Suddenly she was very tired and could not think clearly. First, Miss Bingley, and now this. She began to feel overwhelmed.
“I think I should like to go now. If you would take me to my uncle and aunt’s carriage, I’ll wait for them there. And please, Mr. Hayward, don’t tell them what just happened.”
Tom Hayward took her arm and led her forward. Neither of them mentioned Mr. Ryder as they walked out into the darkness. But Mary thought Mr. Hayward had a preoccupied look, as though an idea had occurred to him that he did not much care for, and he was turning over in his mind what he should do about it. He handed her into the carriage and bid her a polite good night. She threw herself back against the seat and closed her eyes. If it was as painful as this to live a life of feeling, then perhaps cold rationality had a great deal to recommend it.
Chapter 66
Mary was silent the next morning at breakfast, and her aunt prudently did not press her to account for her distracted state. Her experience with both Jane and Elizabeth had taught her that the best action to take with unhappy young women was often to do nothing at all. So she contented herself with passing coffee in Mary’s direction, making no comment when it was politely refused; and when Mary declined to accompany her and the children on an excursio
n to the Park, she acquiesced graciously without fuss.
Chased from the breakfast table by servants impatient to clear it, Mary wandered into the drawing room, where she picked up her book and tried to read; but she could not settle. Her mind returned again and again to the events of the previous night. Why had she not spoken to Mr. Hayward when she had the chance? A few well-chosen words might have made it clear she had not meant to suggest that Mr. Ryder’s company was essential to her. If she could have got them out before Mr. Hurst’s unfortunate remarks, so much the better. Afterwards, she had been too unhappy to speak. Mr. Hayward had helped her into the Gardiners’ carriage in silence, his expression unreadable. Again, she had said nothing. She would not make that mistake again. When next he called, she must make sure she was alone with him for long enough to explain what had happened. But then she recalled his warning that the press of business was likely to prevent his visiting for a while—what if he did not come for weeks?
She was considering the full horror of such a possibility when the doorbell rang downstairs. She started up with surprise, her open book falling to the floor. It was far too early for Mrs. Gardiner to have returned—was there any chance it might be Mr. Hayward? She knew this was most unlikely, that he was certain at this hour to be at his office; but her hopes sprang up regardless. Why should it not be him, he might be passing, perhaps some errand had brought him into Cheapside? None of these were likely occurences, but when it was not Tom Hayward but Mr. Ryder who was announced, Mary’s spirits nevertheless fell like a stone.
“Mr. Ryder! We did not expect you so early. I’m afraid Mrs. Gardiner is out.”
Mary did her best not to reveal the disappointment that so unreasonably welled up within her, and it appeared she had succeeded, for Mr. Ryder seemed quite unaware of the degree to which his not being someone else had distressed her.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped this was the perfect moment for coffee.”
He gazed at her expectantly, but Mary was not sure she was equal to making polite conversation this morning—and especially not with Mr. Ryder.
“I’m afraid the servants are still clearing the breakfast things.”
“Then surely there must be a pot of coffee quite close to hand?”
He spoke with his usual good nature, but was plainly determined not to be refused.
“It need only be a very small cup, you know. And I am quite happy to drink it lukewarm.”
Mary wavered. She could not send him away, not after such a plea. It would be easier to entertain him than to eject him, and it need only be for a very short while. She called for coffee, and soon Mr. Ryder was exactly where he had wanted to be, confidently established on Mrs. Gardiner’s best sofa with the Chinese yellow chintz.
“I have come to see how you enjoyed the dinner last night, Miss Bennet.”
“Very much, sir. It was a most interesting evening, in every way.”
“I think you would have liked it more at our end of the table—we were very lively there.”
“Yes,” replied Mary. “It did seem as though your conversations required rather less effort than my own.”
“I wondered why you expressed so strong a desire to sit alongside Mr. Hurst. I should not have imagined you shared many interests.”
“I am not sure I did express it; but I must say that as a result, I know a great deal more about horse racing than I did last week, both the jumps and the flat.”
“Now that I recollect,” declared Mr. Ryder, “it was Miss Bingley who insisted you would be happier seated next to him. I imagined she was acting upon your wishes.”
“I’m sure she was doing what she thought best.” Mary had no desire for the breach between herself and Miss Bingley to become more widely known. “I expect she thought it a kindness, to one of us at least.”
Mr. Ryder put down his coffee cup and shot Mary a conspiratorial, confiding smile.
“I have not observed that little acts of kindness are much in Miss Bingley’s line.”
Before she could help herself, Mary laughed—then immediately regretted it, and sought to compose her features into a suitably contrite and neutral expression.
“It is very wrong of you to make such an ungenerous remark.”
“The remark was mine, it is true,” murmured Mr. Ryder. “But the laugh was all your own.”
“Yes,” replied Mary, “and now I’m rather ashamed of it.”
“Of course you are,” said Mr. Ryder, surveying her with an intensity she found disconcerting. “It does not come easily to you to be disobliging. You are not someone who takes pleasure in being unkind.”
Their conversation, which Mary had hoped would be light, bright, and emptily social, appeared to be taking a very different direction, one she was not certain she wished to encourage.
“Really, Mr. Ryder, you hardly know me at all. You cannot say what I might do or how I might behave.”
“I must contradict you, Miss Bennet. I believe I have a very good sense of who you are. And before you protest, I will tell you why I think so. First, I am influenced by the judgement of my friend. Tom has an excellent opinion of you—he always speaks of you in the highest possible terms—and there is no-one whose perceptions I trust more. Second, I listen to what my own feelings tell me. My heart assures me that you are exactly what you seem to be, and I am happy to believe it. There is no artifice about you, Miss Bennet. Your qualities shine out. They have not been obscured or corrupted by the false polish of the world. I do not need to know you better than I do already to know that this is true.”
Mary could not bear to sit any longer trapped in the uncomfortable directness of Mr. Ryder’s stare. She broke away by picking up her book from the floor on which it had fallen, and placed it carefully beside her on the sofa.
“These are observations of a very personal nature,” she said.
“I realise this is not the usual language of the drawing room,” he replied. “But you know I have no very high opinion of the petty rules to which we submit ourselves in the name of good manners or politeness.”
“Yes,” ventured Mary mildly. “I believe you have mentioned it.”
He stood up, warming to his theme, and began to stride about the room as he spoke.
“It is my conviction, Miss Bennet, that our inability to say what we mean, to tell the truth about what we think and feel, is one of the great curses of our age. We say we honour candour and honesty, but we do not practise them. Instead, we hide behind a thousand equivocations and disguises that we like to call politeness—and remain in wilful ignorance of the truth of our affections, when knowledge of them might have changed our lives forever, had we but been aware of their existence.”
He stopped by the sideboard and placed his arm lightly upon it, striking a very elegant pose.
“That, Miss Bennet, is what I believe. And I came here today to put that belief into practice and commit the great impropriety of telling you honestly what I think of you.”
“Is that really wise, Mr. Ryder? There may be occasions when, for all manner of reasons, some things are better left unsaid.”
“I cannot agree. I intend to live my life by bolder principles.” He stood silent for a moment, imagining perhaps the multitude of possibilities contained in that thought, before moving back to his place on the sofa opposite Mary.
“I gave some thought to how I might achieve this aim,” he explained in a more throughful tone, “and it seemed to me that poetry was the best way to capture what I wanted to say. I did try to scribble a few lines myself—but they did not turn out as I wished. Then I thought of some verses of Mr. Wordsworth’s—and when I looked them out, they summed you up so well—captured your spirit so perfectly—that I knew I need look no further.”
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.
“May I be allowed to read them to you?”
Mary hesitated. Propriety of the kind Mr. Ryder so disdained urged her to refuse. But curiosity, and indeed a rising sense of excited
anticipation, overcame her—which poem would he quote? What did he wish to say? She did not have the strength to deny him—so she nodded, and he began.
“She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.”
He read surprisingly well, measured, sincere, and heartfelt. Mary had not expected that; and, as a result, was unprepared for the degree to which the poem moved her.
“It captures something true to you, I believe,” he said simply, folding up the paper.
“You see me as a lonely figure then?” asked Mary.
“Isolated, perhaps. ‘She dwelt among the untrodden ways…’”
Mary knew she must fight against surrendering to the emotions the poem had aroused in her. If she allowed herself to succumb, she might lose her self-possession in front of him—and that would never do.
“I was brought up in Hertfordshire, sir,” she said, brightly. “The road to London was barely five miles away.”
“It is possible, I have heard, to feel oneself alone, even in such close proximity to town.”
“In my village,” she continued, “it was quite untrue to say that ‘there were none to praise, and very few to love.’ There were scores of people only too eager to praise my sisters. And they had no difficulty in finding people to love, as they are all married now.”
Mr. Ryder considered for a moment.
“Then I direct you to the later lines. Perhaps the attractions of your sisters kept you ‘half hidden from the eye.’ Now they are claimed, you can be seen as you deserve at last, ‘fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky.’”
Mary caught her breath. His words reminded her powerfully of what Mrs. Hill had once said to comfort her, back in the days when she had felt so alone and unhappy that she had not known what to do with herself. Mr. Ryder had surprised her; she had not imagined that he possessed such insight into the hopes and fears of others. Perhaps there was more to him than she had thought? From under lowered eyes, she looked up at him, tall, well made, his fair hair catching the morning sun, a striking figure in his dark coat.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 36