Chapter Text
Mary,
As I sit to write this letter, I find it incomprehensible that just over six months – half a year - have passed since your short stay at Pemberley. At risk of repeating myself, I must tell you how it gladdened my heart to see the ways in which London changed you.
I sit and wonder is changed the right word, Mary?
What I mean to say is thus: I believe all those qualities you brought to us from London were there all along, inside of you. Allowed to embrace it, in a way we, your immediate family, never thought to encourage, brought you forth from your shell. That is, you simply allowed us to see you in a light we had not thought of before. While we did not all embrace this as readily as others, it is your truth, Mary, and I am proud of you for it.
I know your situation with Mother is still a little fraught, though I am pleased to hear you are corresponding more frequently and her letters are losing their cutting edge. It sounds, though I will not assume, as though as you do not care as much. I am pleased for you, as much as I despair to think there was a time I thought you uncaring and unfeeling to it all – after all, what daughter does not yearn for her mother’s approval?
I have been able to reflect since your stay on things that had never been said and perhaps should have during our childhood and adolescence.
I hope we are able, in time, to fully repair those bridges, Mary.
I am nearing my confinement. Mama is due to join us here at Pemberley, which you can be sure has caused my husband no end of delight. Jane has also offered to be at my side, as has Kitty. Lydia sends her best wishes but does not wish to traipse from Newcastle with another babe. I cannot say I do not understand. Lydia and I seeing eye – yes, you have read that quite right. I know your work may not allow you to leave London as readily, but I do hope you – and Tom - will visit us soon.
We have just recently hosted a Mr Morrison and his wife, old friends of the Darcy family. They told us of their new governess, for their niece who has been their ward since she was a babe, and is on the precipice of entering society.
Mr Morrison extolled the virtue and patience of this young woman, and Mrs Morrison praised her work ethnic and firmness. They seemed very satisfied in the leaps and bounds in their niece’s education. You will know of whom I am speaking, Mary. It is you, of course! Mr Morrison went so far as to claim he had been ready to pull his hair out (it is terrible to say - which is why I am writing it - but do you suppose that is why he is almost completely bald?) before you began working with the young lady and recommended, before he knew of our relation, you in the strongest regard.
You can just imagine his surprise when we revealed that the Mary Hayward he was raving about was my very own sister. Fitzwilliam looked quite proud about the whole thing, I must say.
Mrs Morrison brought some interesting news from London about Mr Ryder too. As you likely know, he is gone to Italy. When I think, Mary, of how he tried to stall your engagement I wonder if I may have had no choice but to interfere despite my promise to the contrary, had you agreed to such an idea. I know he is a dear friend of yours, and he played his role in seeing you and Tom so happy together, but it still does not sit right with me. What is done is done, I suppose, and all I can feel is a distinct sense of relief at your good sense and practicality of mind.
Jane writes that Miss Bingley has taken herself to the continent, along with the Hursts. Jane says her sister-in-law desires warmer climes; I believe, though Jane says I am a cynic, she sets out on her prey.
I will say happy trails to Miss Bingley and good luck to Mr Ryder and leave it there, lest I say something I might regret about either.
Thank you for asking after Georgiana. She returned from Bath not long after you all left, as you know. She enjoyed it immensely and said it was as enriching and relaxing as she had imagined.
She was most put out to have missed all that occurred during your visit – and I must confess I did enjoy regaling her with the sweeping – in my opinion it is sweeping, Mary, and I will not be dissuaded from thinking so – tale.
She returned with her own sense of intrigue too, though my husband and I have only just found out. You see, she has been corresponding with a young gentleman. A lawyer, funnily enough – his name is Henry Alveston. I believe she has developed quite the attachment to the young man. You must ask Tom if he has ever made his acquaintance, though I can already hear you, Mary, chiding me for believing every lawyer must know the others. Still, I pray you will indulge your poor, soon-to-be-confined sister.
In turn, though I know you to only be a great romantic when it comes to your own husband, I will keep you updated on this situation as it develops.
Speaking of attachments and your husband, I cannot believe it has been only three short months since the might of assorted Bennets and Haywards descended upon London for that most special of days! I cannot put into words how glad I am that I was not too far along and could attend. Despite those waves of sickness that indicated my current condition, it was well worth it to share in such a delightful day.
How I would have hated to miss it. I often said, after Jane wed Charles that I had never seen a man so in love on his wedding day, but Tom certainly came close.
I cannot believe how much I have written already, Mary. If this is how my quill moves before the boredom of the birthing bed, I may just become an author yet!
But you are a busy woman, and I will divert your attentions only a little while longer. You may have already noticed the presence of a smaller parchment inside this envelope. It was found, by my husband no less, in a tome of geology that was brought down from the room you resided in during your stay.
You kept it, Mary. And I am ever so glad that you did. Strangely, there were no remnants of the other name written on the paper. I will leave it to you to decide whether you wish to confess what happened, though I have a suspicion it may have been used for kindling at some indeterminable point.
I raise no objection.
Please accept the parchment as a gift from me. With how I scrambled to make sure the housekeeper did not dispose of it, I deserve the utmost gratitude.
I jest, I jest.
Your continued happiness is all I need, Mary.
I repeat my dear wish to see both you and your husband at Pemberley in the next few months. I hear from a source you know very well (it is our Aunt Gardiner, I hear you cry, for who else would it be) that the pair of you are to take your delayed honeymoon at the Lake District at some point in the future. You must visit on your way back.
Pass on my kindest wishes to our dear Aunt and Uncle as well as the children. I still laugh, to this day, when I think of Rebecca blurting out Mama’s first assessment of Tom, and the denial that followed. I believe I already told you of Fitzwilliam’s disappointment to miss such a scene when I relayed it to him later. I hope that will teach him the pitfalls of hiding in one’s office to avoid one’s mother-in-law in the future.
We all pass our fondest wishes to Tom, too. You speak so highly of his work, and his progress. We feel very proud to call such a hard working, sincere man, family. He is exceedingly lucky to have you, Mary. You are lucky, I feel, to have found each other.
Please write soon.
Your most affectionate sister,
Elizabeth
The sound of indelicate yet soft snoring drifted from the sitting room as Tom opened the door. He sighed; disappointed that, even with his resolution to leave chambers earlier this evening and see his wife, he had still been later than intended.
That Mary had fallen asleep, on the couch of all places, book in her lap, glasses askew and her neck at a position that he thought she might find mildly uncomfortable when she did wake, made him wonder if she had been as desperate to see him too.
He could smile at that, at least, as he took this chance to observe her sleeping form. She looked so peaceful, a small smile dancing on her lips which implied a pleasant dream. In his heart, a new well of love erupted – if that was even possible – as he approached.
His footsteps, try as he may, were not light. He could blame his ungainly form for that much, especially when coupled with a particularly creaky floorboard which – even three months on - needed fixing. Mary, unsurprisingly, stirred.
“Thomas?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, apologetically.
She smiled then, which made him feel better. She went to rub her eyes with the heel of her hand, before realising her glasses obscured the way. She let out an irritated sigh and appeared to give up on the action quickly. She blinked instead, and sat up a little, rotating her neck as she did so.
“You should not sleep like that,” said Tom, but in a teasing tone that earned him a short ‘hm’ from Mary, as though she would take the suggestion on board but would not commit to it never happening again, who eyed the floor beneath their feet carefully.
“We really do need to get that looked at.”
Tom nodded.
“I will do it first thing tomorrow,” he assured, wondering what might come up that would impede his progress this time. At last count, he had attempted to fix it at least twice, if not more - and each time a new distraction had appeared, whether it be an invite to the Gardiners or his lovely wife herself enticing him from the task.
“Tell me about your day, love,” he said, finally settling beside her on the couch. He had spent a good portion of his day sat at his desk, but still felt exhausted, and found the dip of the comfortable seat reassuring.
Mary released a sigh that was less annoyed and more tired, prompting Tom to remark,“You work too hard.”
Lyrical Ballads, the worn copy he had lent her that had never been returned – he was unequivocal in his sentiment that he did not want it back – was half open. A scrap of paper worked as a bookmark.
Mary scoffed.
“As do you.”
“We have established we are two hard working people,” Tom said, with a shrug.
With the kind of ease that could only come from the first few months of a marriage which – at times, given the two involved – had its share of awkwardness – he leaned in and kissed his wife.
“So today?” He said, once they had pulled apart and he draped an arm over her shoulder. “Unless you wish to hear even more about this case I am working on.”
“You know I do not find it boring,” Mary replied, with her usual frankness. “You only think I do.”
Tom sighed in defeat, and he wondered if he would be forced to regale her with the ins and out of this particular dispute, when she wrinkled her nose and decided to acquiesce.
“I went over my lesson plans for the next few weeks,” she replied, using her hand to list her activities for the day, “I then worked on my manuscript some more.”
Tom raised his eyebrow.
“And you still will not let me see it?”
Mary pursed her lips.
“It is for the eyes of young ladies, Thomas,” she said. “What need do you have of the, admittedly wise, words written inside?” She paused. “Besides, Ann has offered to proof read it for me.”
Tom made his disagreement of these words clear with a shake of his head.
“Ann has plenty of wisdom.” He paused. “As we have established, I have been quite foolish in the past, and could use some wise words from my wife.”
Mary shook her head.
“Flattery may get you some places, Thomas,” she said, leaning in closer, and closer – teasing him in the way that she had discovered, quite swiftly, drove him mad – until she pulled away.
She had not always known the power she held over him. Now that she did, she was nigh unstoppable.
“But I will not relent.”
Tom held his hands up in mock surrender. Mary swatted his arm playfully, and in this it was his turn to indeed relent. Once Mary was quite satisfied with his surrender, she leaned back into his arm.
“And after the manuscript?”
“I met with Aunt Gardiner and the girls,” Mary continued, looking less tired already. “Rebecca and Marianne fought as they both wanted the same colour of ribbon. They left it up to me to decide.”
“And did you decide?”
“I could not. Aunt Gardiner took mercy on me, and told them they could each have the ribbon, in the same colour, or no ribbon at all.”
Tom laughed.
“They will be a menace when they are older,” he mused, and Mary could only nod her agreement.
“Indeed.” She shuffled a little in place.
Tom moved too, wondering if she was uncomfortable. Instead, she responded by nestling closer.
“I am not finished,” she said. Tom did not think he could have moved even if he had wanted to.
And he knew, with certainty, that he did not want to.
“I received a letter from Lizzy, too.”
“She is well?”
“She is due to enter her confinement in a short time,” recounted Mary, with a smile. “Mother will come to stay with her.”
Tom did not think he could hide his grimace, even if he tried. Mary did not chide him for it either. She simply placed her hand over his own and neither - as was best - gave much more mind to Mrs Bennet than what was required.
“Mr Darcy is well too,” Mary added. “Did you know he is friends with Mr Morrison?”
“Miss Taylor’s uncle?”
Mary nodded. It was a small thing to remember, Tom thought – he would be aghast at himself if he did not remember the name of one of Mary’s pupils – but she looked so glad that he did make that he allowed himself to feel a short pang of pride anyway.
“He recommended me to Darcy and Lizzy if they ever require my services,” Mary said, sounding amused, and then added before he could ask, “and no, he did not know, until they told him, of the relation.”
“What a small world,” Tom said quietly.
“Lizzy also mentioned Mr Ryder and his jaunt to Italy,” Mary recalled.
Tom was proud that the name did not still promote that pit in his stomach it had not too long ago.
“Did she know about Miss Bingley?”
Mary nodded.
“Jane is, as expected, hopeful,” she admitted, “and Lizzy is cynical.”
Tom nodded. He did not know exactly what his thoughts were on the whole situation – he, thought if he was being truthful he did not care enough to form an opinion on it at all. He was glad, then, when Mary diverted the attention to the other contents of her sister’s letter.
“Lizzy believes that her sister-in-law, Georgiana, is forming an attachment to a young gentleman too,,” Mary said, and she looked as though she remembered something. “His name is Mr Alveston; he is a lawyer.”
Tom understood the question Mary did not ask.
“And she asked if I knew him?”
“She did admit,” replied Mary, “that it might be a stretch.” She paused as Tom let himself smirk. “You do know him, don’t you?”
“Henry Alveston,” Tom said, with a nod. “I know of him. Our paths have crossed occasionally, though I think he prefers the country. He has caused quite a stir between those who argue over the profession. His opinions on justice and criminal law are quite fascinating.”
“Lawyers really will argue over anything, won’t they?”
Tom held his hands out as if to say, ‘what did you expect.”
Mary accepted this as a response. She looked down at her lap, her attention drawn to the page that lay open.
“What were you reading?”
Mary sighed, looking down at the book.
“I was not really reading,” she confessed, stroking the open page lightly with her thumb, before pulling the paper which had been neatly tucked into the crease.
“Lizzy sent me this too.”
He had expected it to be blank, and so was surprised when she passed it to him without a further word, expertly shifting her gaze as she did so.
It was not blank.
He felt his forehead crinkle in confusion. Mary still did not look at him.
A few hours earlier…
Mary was thankful that she was home alone. After she had read her sister’s letter, and put it to one side, she gently shook the envelope to produce the contents Lizzy had spoken about.
She picked up the piece of paper and held it carefully in hand. Months of being stuffed inside a book gathering dust had added to the natural discolouration, but her handwriting was still clear.
Mrs Mary Hayward.
Her cheeks flared scarlet, as she traced her own hand. That initial spark of embarrassment quickly gave way to something far more pleasant and sweeter.
Even if the memory itself was not. As distant, and far removed from her life as it was now, she remembered it clearly.
She had stood in front of the fireplace, tears in her eyes, and remarkably close to throwing the parchment into the fire. Very close indeed.
Let her feelings go with it, she had thought.
It was a sensible thought, a practical thought. It was something that Mary Bennet of Longbourn would have done.
But she was no longer that same Mary, was she?
The thought had stayed her hand, and an image of Mr Hayward, as she had known him then, sprung to mind unbidden.
His welcoming, bright eyes, sometimes framed by spectacles. His wide smile, as he was a man who, despite his best efforts, wore his heart on his sleeve. A man who could admit he was ungainly, a barrister who had a passion for poetry and games of graces.
The warmth of his hand as he had removed a petal from her hair - startling her in more measure than just one. The warmth, but different, at the ball where they had shared that one dance.
It all rushed to her, enough to cause the slightest hesitation, as she drew away from the fireplace.
No matter how unreachable it had appeared, she had been unwilling to part with the idea completely.
She knew that now.
With nary a thought for where the other half of paper ended up – a week or so later, as Lizzy supposed, it did end up as kindling when found underneath the bed when Mary found it while grasping for a hairpin that had rolled from her fingertips - Mary had, decisively, opened the nearby book on geology and stuffed the offending note inside.
She had then tried to forget.
It would still be in her orbit, but far enough away.
How she had intended her acquaintance with Thomas Hayward to continue for the rest of her life.
How glad she was that it did not.
***
Now, as Mary handed Tom the paper, she hoped he would not find it as embarrassing or off-putting as she had dreaded. Before her impromptu nap, she had been aimlessly thumbing through Lyrical Ballads and debating the idea of even showing him it.
The decision was made for her, when she found, faced with him that she did not want to not tell him.
She still could not quite meet his gaze, even as she could see his forehead crinkle in confusion in her periphery.
He was, in a word, adorable.
A strange word, Mary granted, to describe a grown man.
But it was an accurate descriptor, and she would never admit to anyone else - apart from maybe him and maybe Aunt Gardiner - that she had used it.
“The day after Mr Ryder proposed to me, I thought I would try, in a frivolous way my father always mocked Lydia and Kitty for, to put my first name with his last names, to see what it might sound like.”
Mary remembered, with a wry grin, that she had not liked the results.
“I must’ve written it three or four times,” she continued, and eternally grateful that Tom was giving her the space and time for these ramblings, even as his confusion mounted further.
“At one point I thought the ‘y’ was written strangely, at another I worried that if I spoke too quickly then I would come out with a terrible amalgamation of my first name and his last name.”
Maryder, she remembered.
Now, finally at the crux of her story, Mary turned to Tom, who held the piece of paper tightly. He was still stumped as to where her story was leading, clear by the look on his face. She smiled reassuringly, so he knew that she did, indeed, have a point.
“I only had to write that once.”
“When?” Tom asked, with a hopeful smile. “After we were engaged?”
Mary shook her head.
“No,” she confessed. “The same day I attempted to make sense of Mrs Mary Ryder and found that it did not have a ring to it.”
Realisation settled on Tom’s face.
Mary nodded, as if to say ‘yes, you are correct.’
“Oh,” Tom said, still looking stunned.
Where there had been hesitation, Mary now felt a sense of satisfaction. There had been times when Thomas Hayward left her speechless – she was glad, now, to say she had another of her own.
A competition of sorts, she thought, and her expression must have changed to something that looked all the more confident.
“Do you think,” Tom asked, very seriously indeed, as he held the parchment as though it might be the Holy Grail itself, “that we could have this framed?”
Mary considered it briefly - wondering he meant it as a joke, before she realised that he was as serious as she had ever seen him before.
Struck, as she was then, with the strangest memory, Mary almost laughed.
“Do you still have that drawing of the duck?”
“The one that is standing on a plant?”
“Thomas.”
Even in a joking admonishment, his face still lit up in that same way it did whenever she used his full name.
He nodded. With the piece of paper still clutched tightly, he used his free hand to lift her own and place a kiss to it.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“You can frame this,” Mary conceded, “but only on the condition I can frame that too.”
She kissed him then, before she could hear his answer, though she knew it would be in the affirmative.
“That was a yes,” Tom said, once they had pulled apart. “If you could not guess.”
Mary arched her eyebrow to say that she had understood that implicitly. There was much Mary enjoyed about married life, and yet if there was one thing she delighted in most it was the conversation they could have without words, as well as with.
Tom quirked an eyebrow at her.
“What are you thinking?”
”I should think that’s obvious.”
When he didn’t answer - but he smiled - she kissed his cheek, and then went to rest her head on his shoulder. He exhaled.
They would move soon - they would need supper, and it was clear they were both tired.
Still, even tired and with the usual rigours of life, Mary knew one thing for certain.
”That I am happy, Thomas,” she said, with a contented sigh, and a heart so full she thought it may burst, even if such a concept was ridiculous.
“Truly and undeniably happy.”