Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Life returned to its normal pace after the Netherfield ball. Or at least as normal as any average day at Longbourn could be.

Aunt and Uncle Gardiner returned to London the day after the ball but with the promise that they would return for a longer stretch of time during Christmas, bringing the children along with them this time too. Mary was not particularly good with children. The last time she had seen George, Marianne or Rebecca they had been wrinkled, crying infants or clingy toddlers.

Jane and Kitty had cooed over them, Lizzy showed endless patience and Lydia was able to match their enthusiasm with her own. Mary, on the other hand, had made it her mission to avoid them and any interaction which may involve her holding or entertaining the children whenever they visited.

Still, it had been so many years. They would be older now, and Mary was sure, much more amiable as a result.

The quick departure of her aunt and uncle, especially after her aunt's kindness, had been a disappointment to Mary too. She had wanted to thank her again, and did so in a letter sent to Gracechurch Street the following week.

More so - though Mary would never dare say, lest her sisters or mother sneer or mock her - their quick visit meant she did not have a further chance to speak with their friend, Mr Hayward.

When she thought of him, Mary recalled how kind he was even when she had been combative, rude and assumed the worst of him and what she eventually accepted - if rather reluctantly - to be his compliments.

Mary had, too, kept the cloth, the one he had given for her spectacles, within her reticule ever since. Silly, perhaps - she had never kept anything of its like before - but she then told herself it was practical and it made much more sense to keep it than to throw it away, simply because it had been given to her by a man.

She did not have much time to think of Mr Hayward further when, rather surprisingly, Charlotte Lucas and Mr Collins announced their engagement.

Though Lizzy's refusal acted as the catalyst for Mr Collins asking for Charlotte's hand, it felt to Mary that her inability to secure their family's future - even though she was fairly sure she had squandered any chance at the ball anyway - at such a pivotal moment was yet another shortcoming of her own.

It was a sentiment that was only reinforced by her mother.

Her mother, who had tried at every turn to dissuade her from capturing Mr Collins' attentions, only turned to her when Lizzy proved she would not be as compliant or self-sacrificing.

Coming to her, Mary knew, at her most desperate hour.

But by that point it had been too late.

"I told you no one would marry you if you wore spectacles."

The words stung, as they were meant to. They were a nasty, intentional rebuke as Mary had tried to wish her mother a good night, to give her a reassuring smile that all would be well.

Again, it was not Mary who had been proposed to, who had refused their cousin's suit, but it was Mary, all the same, who would bear the brunt of the disappointment. Lizzy would eventually be forgiven; Mary would be remembered as the sister who could not even tempt Mr Collins.

In the days and weeks leading to the union, her mother's lamentations continued. On one particular occasion her ire turned to Lady Lucas.

"Her husband is already a Knight of the Realm," hissed her mother, stabbing a needle through her piece of embroidery in frustration, "and now her daughter will inherit our home. Insufferable woman!"

Her mother was also of the opinion that things could not get much worse.

Which was, of course, when they did.

A letter arrived for Jane, from Netherfield. Instead of being from Mr Bingley, who had been oddly elusive these past few weeks, it was from his sister, Caroline, instead.

As Jane read it aloud, Mary concentrated on her copy of Fordyce's Sermon's. Focused as she was, she did catch the slight waver in Jane's voice. Uncharacteristic as it was of Jane, Mary's attention strayed from her study.

Mary also noted was that the letter appeared to be rather short.

"Miss Bingley expresses her regret but business has called Mr Bingley from Netherfield. Mr Darcy, Miss Bingley and the Hursts have joined them."

There was that same hitch in Jane's usual cheery tone, again.

It was followed by a sigh of dejection from their mother, Lizzy already at Jane's side in a comforting manner.

"They are already away to London, and are not likely to return."

Jane's heartache did not alleviate with the arrival of the festive season. Even the promised appearance of Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, as well as their children, did not do much to lift her spirits.

Mary found, at first, that she could not understand it. In an attempt to, she set the facts out as she knew them.

Mr Bingley had leased Netherfield a matter of months ago. At that first assembly in Meryton he had danced with Jane and had been most attentive to her. When Jane visited Netherfield and fell ill with a cold, Mr Bingley insisted she stay until she recuperated. When she returned to Longbourn, Mr Bingley arranged the - now infamous, at least in Mary's mind - Netherfield ball. He spoke to others, danced with other young ladies that evening, but he always appeared to be drawn back to Jane.

To Mary, all indications were that Mr Bingley seemed rather taken with her sister.

Once a week had passed, however, it became clear that whatever she and her family believed they saw between the two, his affections could not have been as strong as supposed. Surely, Mary thought, it would be better for everyone if Jane were allowed to forget the man and move on.

Aunt Gardiner looked at her carefully when she raised the point to her over tea, while the rest of the household were still to join them in the sitting room.

"That is certainly logical, Mary," Aunt Gardiner said, after a moment's thought. "But in matters of the heart, things are rarely that clear-cut. Without any word from Mr Bingley it is difficult for Jane to know for sure of his feelings. The not-knowing is often a worse form of heartache."

Mary understood that, at least on some level.

She wasn't heartless, even if the rest of her family thought her so.

She was simply, as her aunt put it, being logical.

The conversation was put to one side, as Lydia and Kitty came tearing into the room, ribbons acquired at the village in hand. Kitty tittered on about the colour, and Aunt Gardiner looked far more interested than Mary felt.

Lizzy and Jane came into the room quietly. Their mother followed, with none of the joy that a visit to Meryton - and their Aunt Phillips - usually brought her, especially now when her hopes of having Jane married off to a a wealthy man had evaporated so quickly.

"Uncle Gardiner will be back shortly," Lizzy informed them. Her cheeks were red, her eyes alert from the brisk cold air outside yet she looked as radiant as ever.

Mary did not find it fair when she would turn beetroot under similar conditions.

"Let me guess," Aunt Gardiner said, tapping a speculative finger on her chin. "He has been cajoled into walking home with the children and finding somewhere they can obtain sweets?"

Lizzy laughed, and nodded. Even Jane managed a smile.

"I know that man too well."

As Aunt Gardiner said these words, Mary watched her mother roll her eyes and mutter something about her brother being far too indulgent with his children.

As tea was poured and everyone settled, talk turned to London. Aunt Gardiner explained that, given the time of year, she and Uncle Gardiner were not socialising as much at home, but had attended a few balls and soirées since their return from Meryton.

Mother was disappointed that Aunt Gardiner could give no news of Mr Bingley, other than the fact that he and his party had moved in to a property in Grosvenor Street.

"Edward and I were surprised," Aunt Gardiner said, when prompted by her sister-in-law. "We thought him quite settled here."

But she added no more than that. Mary was relieved that her aunt gave no mention of the ball at Netherfield - though whether that was because of her presence or Jane's she could not be sure.

The conversation lulled.

Mary took a deep breath. It gave her the perfect chance to ask her question, the one she had been building up to since her aunt and uncle had arrived a few days ago.

"Your friend, Mr Hayward," she said, - and it was to be nice and not for any further reason, "I presume he is visiting family right now, too?"

As soon as the question left her lips, Mary took a long drain of her tea. She felt foolish almost immediately, as her family's eyes shifted to her, varying looks of confusion, apathy and interest upon their faces.

As her cheeks reddened, she hoped the teacup would obscure the worst of it.

Aunt Gardiner looked surprised - but only for a moment - by the query.

"We hope," she said, with a small, optimistic smile.

"You hope?" Jane questioned. Jane, who it seemed, was glad to have any other topic of conversation than her mother's continued despair over Mr Bingley and his going.

"He is currently working on an important case," Aunt Gardiner replied. "He works awfully hard. Too hard, I say. He promised your uncle and I that he would try and visit his family but…"

She let out an exasperated sigh as if it that noise could finish her sentence more effectively than any words could.

Mary found she admired the man's work ethic, though sensed it was something that frustrated her aunt to no end.

"And where is home for Mr Hayward?" Lizzy asked.

Mary was glad someone else asked the other question that was rattling in her brain. It had taken all her courage to even ask after the man, never mind where he came from. She recalled his voice; how his accent implied he was not originally from London but from somewhere up north, though she had not had a chance to ask him.

She hadn't even thought of how to until the next day, and by that point he was already gone.

"Yorkshire," Aunt Gardiner replied, drawing a look of consternation from their mother, which was promptly ignored. "Sheffield, to be more precise."

Before any further question could be asked - Mary had hoped she might find out more about his background, his family - the shouts of the Gardiner children could be heard in the entranceway. Mary watched as her mother held her hand to her chest in fright - and perhaps she smirked behind her teacup, just a little - while Jane and Lizzy giggled at the appearance of the children and their father.

Laden with sweets, just as Aunt Gardiner had rightly predicted.

Uproar arose in Longbourn when, a few days before their departure, Aunt and Uncle Gardiner asked Jane if she would like to join them in London for a few months. Given all that had happened, they wondered if a change of scenery might do the eldest Bennet sister some good.

This was not the cause of the uproar, as the invitation was expected, and was well received by everyone gathered - even Lydia, who pouted but did not argue that she would like to go London as well.

Mrs Bennet was thrilled at the prospect. Her first thought, of course, was of Jane reuniting with Mr Bingley, and she said as much. There was a sense of discomfort in the air at her declaration; while the intention was well understood by all members of the family, no one else had thought to say so out loud.

If her mother had her way, Jane would be engaged before the month of January was out.

Mary did not think things would be quite as simple as that.

"And you, Mary?" Aunt Gardiner asked, and Mary looked up dispassionately from the book she had smuggled under the table.

She closed it, giving Aunt Gardiner her full attention, a half-hearted and apologetic smile plastered onto her face, as she fixed her spectacles.

She was confused; was Aunt Gardiner asking for her opinion on Jane going to London, even though it did not affect her in the slightest?

"Me?"

"How would you feel about coming to join us in London, too? I'm sure Jane would like the company"

Thus, the uproar.

"Why does Mary get to go?" Lydia sniped, almost immediately. "I could keep Jane company quite well. Maybe even better than Mary could."

Mr Bennet snorted. Mary looked up at the uncharacteristic sound, and he cleared his throat, speaking before his in-laws, who did not look surprised by Lydia's outburst, had the chance.

"As much as I'm sure London would," Mary watched her father pause, as he mounted a search for the right word, "suit your exuberance, Lydia, it is for your aunt and uncle to extend the invitation and they have asked Jane and Mary."

He folded his newspaper and removed his spectacles. His eyes were closed as if he were braced for a storm.

"Besides, London is no place for a girl of your age - or yours," he said, with an aside to Kitty before she could open her mouth to argue, "to be traipsing about."

He paused, before turning to the Gardiner's.

"Not that I believe you would allow that," he clarified. "Only that Lydia has a tendency to cause a commotion wherever she goes."

Lydia let out a sharp humph of discontent, but did not argue with their father's appraisal. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner nodded mutely in reply.

Mary spoke for the first time since the invitation had been given.

"You want me to go?" Mary asked. Aunt Gardiner nodded eagerly. "To London? Why not Lizzy? Surely she will make far better company for Jane."

Jane did not refute this, looking just as surprised as Mary felt.

"I am due to visit Charlotte soon," Lizzy replied. "I did promise her, as well as her family, that I would accompany them."

Lizzy gave Mary an encouraging smile, as she added: "London will be good for you, Mary."

The thought of the Netherfield ball returned to Mary, as well as her conversation with Lizzy as they had made their way to bed. She had, that evening, aired her frustration with her sister asking their father to stop her playing.

While Lizzy had explained her reasoning, Mary still found herself quite bitter about the whole experience, even as they had embraced.

Lizzy had tried - as had their father - to be kinder in its aftermath. So Mary smiled back at Lizzy.

But only slightly.

Her sister could try, in all ways possible, to make amends.

But she still did not understand.

None of them did.

And so, maybe some time away was just what she required.

"What about your lodger?" Mrs Bennet asked, after a moment had passed. Her eyes narrowed. "Will you even have the room for both of the girls?"

As Uncle Gardiner sighed loudly, Mary ignored the way her heart lifted slightly at the thought of seeing Mr Hayward again.

She hadn't even realised that would be a possibility.

"While not as spacious as Longbourn, we would not offer if we did not have the capacity for both of our nieces, Jane."

"Mr Hayward has found suitable lodgings and moved to them a few weeks ago," explained Aunt Gardiner.

Mary hoped that her small sigh, one of disappointment, was not caught by anyone else in the room.

"But he promised he would still visit," Aunt Gardiner said, which indicated that, at the very least, she had heard Mary's exhale.

Mother seemed quite happy with that explanation; grinning at Jane and sending her upstairs at once to pack for the trip.

When her mother looked at Mary, a moment later, there was something all the more resigned in her eyes and while she was also sent upstairs to pack, it was not with the same level of excitement.

But it did not matter, thought Mary. For she would soon be off to London! She would have respite from the majority of her family and get to see somewhere she had never been before.

It was an exciting thought, as much as it was an unexpected one.

She wondered, only to herself and only in the darkest recesss of that night, if she might also see a certain junior barrister again.

"A letter for you, Mr Hayward."

Tom sighed and received the note from the clerk with a wrinkle of his nose and a small thank you. Once the younger man had left the room, he stared down at the envelope which bore his name - his full Christian name, mind you - and work address. He took his spectacles from his face, and sighed

All the while, the tell-tale handwriting, that of his eldest sister Bernie, sent a jolt of dread through him.

He had been expecting this since his last correspondence to their mother, and had been somewhat surprised it did not arrive sooner, so he opened it.

Bernie's tone was exactly as Tom had expected - and he could almost hear the scolding in her voice and the venom of her quill as she emphasised - with three underlines - how disappointed they all were that he could not visit.

Henry - their brother - had told them that he and his wife were expecting again. It was something, Tom had to admit, that he already knew from a letter received from Henry a few weeks ago that swore him to secrecy until the rest of the family knew. So he did not feel quite as guilty for that. Still, he would not, even under pain of death, tell Bernie that he knew before her and assumed Henry had been wise enough to keep quiet too.

Further to that, Bernie expressed their mother's dismay - which was worse than anger, in Tom's eyes, Winnie's annoyance that he would not meet his youngest nephew who was growing more and more each day. It was concluded with Poppy's ire that Tom would not get the chance to make the acquaintance of her intended as she had hoped.

The only one who seemed to understand, according to Bernie, was Susan; the youngest daughter and the one closest in age to Tom - five years older, to be precise. She had made his case, quite diligently, reported Bernie, much to the chagrin of the rest of the family. Tom found reason to smile at that, at the very least.

Placing his letter down on his desk, he let out another sigh, feeling a knot of guilt tightening in his chest. It was not as though he had not wanted to visit, especially with this particular time of year being one of the few times, nowadays, that they all gathered under the one roof.

It had been his intention to visit them, if even only for a few days. However the day before, a particular case had crossed the desk of the senior barristers that was - in their words not his - 'not their problem,' and passed to him instead for, at least, the preliminary findings.

They all had families - wives and children - they longed to spend time with. And Tom, as low down on the pecking order as he ranked, and with no immediate family of his own in town, was more than happy to pick it up in their stead.

He looked down at the letter, and then to the clock on the mantle. It was a quarter to five and he was due to dine with the Gardiner's - who had returned from visiting the Bennet's at Longbourn two days ago - just after five.

With the resolve that he would reply to the letter first thing in the morning - lest its contents rattle around his mind and put him off the more pressing matters at hand - he folded it and placed it in his suit jacket pocket, before clearing his desk away, storing paperwork and picking up his coat and hat from the stand by the door.

The walk to Gracechurch Street was not a long one and even with Bernie's letter in his pocket, the thought of seeing his friends again lifted his spirits immensely.

When Tom arrived at Gracechurch Street he was greeted by Jethro who took his coat and hat. Mrs Gardiner assured him, from where he stood in the hallway that dinner was soon to be called but he could join them in the parlour in the interim. When he entered, Tom was surprised by who he saw in front of him.

Miss Mary Bennet.

He would be a liar to say he had not thought about her at all since the trip to Meryton, and the ball at Netherfield. From time to time she had crossed his mind and he had wondered, with a concern that would likely be deemed inappropriate for a man who had no relation to her, how she was faring after that night.

Despite his embarrassment, he had dared to ask after her on one or two occasions. The Gardiner's, truthfully, would say they were not sure, as correspondence from Longbourn rarely gave an update on the middle Bennet sister. But they knew she was in good health, and were sure that her spirits would have been restored in the days following the ball.

And now she was here.

In London.

At Gracechurch Street.

"Miss Bennet," he said, with a bow of his head. "How wonderful it is to see you."

It was only when he looked around that Tom noticed that it was not just Miss Mary Bennet who had come to London, but the eldest of the sisters, Jane. He bowed his head to her too, and hoped that the redness he felt in his cheeks was not showing. He then greeted the Gardiner's in turn, a hug for Mrs Gardiner, a handshake for Mr Gardiner and a pelting of hugs from the younger Gardiner's, who asked if he had brought any sweets.

Tom was heartened when he looked up to see Miss Bennet - that is Miss Mary - smiling at him, but dinner was called then, and so Tom, the Gardiner children now extricated from him, was unable to question the particulars of their visit, and why it had occurred.

Not that he was particularly upset about this turn of events.

Over dinner it was explained that Mr and Mrs Gardiner had thought the elder Miss Bennet might benefit from some time away from Longbourn.

Tom wondered, but did not, of course, pry, if it had anything to do with Mr Bingley who had, he had been informed by the Gardiner's before Christmas, arrived in London and taken up residence in Grosvenor Street.

It had, at the time, struck Tom as odd that a man who had seemed so besotted, could have been pried away from the eldest Miss Bennet.

But he had not thought about it too much, nor had he asked his friends about it either.

As for Miss Mary Bennet…

"Lizzy was otherwise engaged with a visit to a friend in Kent," she added quickly - and it was far too quickly for Tom's liking. She spoke almost as though she were a last resort. "My father says Kitty and Lydia are too young and so…here I am."

She trailed off with a small laugh that had no hint of real amusement in it.

Mrs Gardiner turned to her younger niece, extending an assuring hand towards her, which Miss Mary looked surprised by, and only took after a long moment's deliberation on the matter.

"We are very glad you are here, Mary," she said, in a way that sounded firm but was kind all at the same time.

It was a familiar tone to Tom, and he did not miss the smile on Miss Mary's face at her aunt's assurance and the way she squeezed her hand tightly.

Over dinner, the sound of scraping cutlery was edged out by loud discussion between the Gardiner children of who had won a race in the park earlier that day, as well as what prize the winner should receive.

A bag of sweets was suggested for the victor, by the elder Miss Bennet.

"Not if they cannot decide a winner," Mr Gardiner said, with the knowing smirk of a man who knew he would not be required to part with his coin for sweets on this occasion.

The children pouted; George especially, and then he looked at Tom - almost expectantly.

If Tom did not know any better he would think the youngster had somehow read his mind and knew there was a bag of sugarplums residing in his pocket, to be given to Mr and Mrs Gardiner and doled out to the children at their own discretion.

So Tom ignored George's questioning glance.

Instead, he turned to Miss Mary, who sat at his right.

"Have you read anything interesting lately, Miss Bennet?" He asked, with a polite smile.

She did not answer.

What was worse was that the whole table went silent in the awkward aftermath.

Had she not heard him?

Tom wished, in that instant, for the ground to swallow him - and the chair in which he sat - whole.

He cleared his throat.

"Miss Bennet?"

"Mary, I believe Tom just asked you a question."

Miss Mary looked stunned at the revelation made by her aunt. Her fork stopped mid-air and she placed it back on her plate. Her cheeks flushed, a little, and she used a napkin to dab at her mouth quickly as she swallowed.

"I am sorry, Mr Hayward," she said, after a moment. "I just assumed you were talking to Jane."

Tom wondered how she could have made that conclusion. Did she not remember their conversation about literature at Netherfield only a short time ago? Did he remember it too much?

He felt almost too embarrassed to ask again, when Miss Mary filled the silence.

"To answer your question, I have been rereading Fordyce's Sermon's, as well as Catherine Macaulay's work, most recently."

"You are familiar with Catherine Macaulay?"

"Are you?"

Tom did not think it was said as a challenge, nor in a defensive manner, but still Miss Mary looked almost as though she was embarrassed that it sounded as though it was. Tom smiled, his best attempt to put her at ease.

"I am indeed, Miss Bennet," he replied, quickly. "Though I have not yet finished my perusal of her work."

A pause.

"Have you given any further thought to poetry?"

Miss Mary looked as though she might wince. Tom held his hands up in defense, and chuckled.

"I will take that as a no," he said, which prompted a small smile from the woman beside him.

"Perhaps," Mrs Gardiner said - and Tom found himself, somehow, surprised that there were still another six people around the table with them.

He had been so lost in the discussion with Miss Mary that he had hardly given them a thought as Mrs Gardiner continued: "Maybe Mary would like that copy of Wordsworth you said you were meaning to lend me and keep forgetting."

It was certainly an idea.

And, with all respect to Mrs Gardiner, he did not think he would forget to bring the book if it was for Miss Mary, who tried to dismiss the notion outright.

"Geology was your other interest, wasn't it?"

Her protestations were cut off by clear surprise that he had remembered.

"One of them, yes," Miss Bennet said, from the other side of the table; Tom had almost forgotten she was there too, which was rather shameful indeed. "Mary has a varied interest in reading, don't you Mary?"

It was said with encouragement and a small smile passed from sister to sister.

Miss Mary nodded.

"Then how about an exchange of books," suggested Tom, with a confidence he could not remember possessing before this moment. "If you will try and open your heart to poetry, I can try and open my mind to geology, at your recommendation of course."

It looked as though Miss Mary was battling a smile, and eventually - after she stole a quick glance at her sister who nodded - she agreed. She held out her hand, and Tom took it in a handshake that sealed their deal.

It took some time for the feeling in his chest to abate after that simplest of touches.

A week passed.

In that time, Mr Hayward had visited twice.

The first occasion was the afternoon after dinner, to hand in the poetry book Aunt Gardiner had suggested Mary should try. He had caught her unawares, Mary havng had the idea to practice Graces, a game the children loved and had tried to encourage her to join in the night before, while in the parlour on her own. Jane and Aunt Gardiner were in the kitchen, discussing the menu for that night's dinner and the children concluding their lessons.

It was the perfect moment of solidarity as Mary had picked up the sticks, balancing the hoop on the end.

Perfect, that is, until she had thrown the hoop and whacked Mr Hayward in the face and felt her own turn red in turn. Instead of being annoyed, he had laughed.

What followed was a successful instruction on Graces - and Mary recalled, a glimpse at forearms that ranked as far more, in Mary's estimation, as 'tolerable.'

The game came to an end when Aunt Gardiner and Jane, upon hearing the commotion, had entered the room. Both laughed, but Mary was somewhat relieved that it was not at, but with her and Mr Hayward, who praised how quickly she had picked up the game.

When Mr Hayward eventually got around to the intention of his visit - passing Mary the copy of Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge - Mary had to confess that she had not had a chance to think of which tome she should recommend on geology. He was as affable as usual and expressed how he would wait, with bated breath, for her recommendation.

She spent the next day thinking quite deeply about which volume she thought Mr Hayward might find engaging enough to spark debate. It was with a level of surprise that she found she enjoyed the challenge. While the Gardiner's library was not as expansive as the one at Longbourn - books were strewn about in various rooms, open and dog-eared as Mary supposed books should be - Mary found she did not need to use it. In her packing for London, she had brought with her her favourite books, including Macaulay and James Hutton's Theory of the Earth.

And so it was, on the second visit that week, three days after dinner and two after their impromptu game of Graces, she presented the latter to Mr Hayward, who accepted it quite readily. They sat, across from one another, in the parlour. Dinner was yet to be called - Mary hoped he might stay to eat with them again, but she knew she would never dare to say such a thing aloud.

"It may not signify," he had confessed at the time, "given my knowledge on the topic is quite limited, but my father was a farmer. My brother now works the land. Maybe this will help me understand it better."

"It might be quite broad in relating to farm practices," Mary admitted, "but that is admirable in itself. It never appealed to you? Farming, that is?"

Mr Hayward's smile was a little rueful at the question and all of a sudden Mary worried that she had prodded too much. Jane and Aunt Gardiner were out buying shoes for the children while Uncle Gardiner sat in the parlour - close enough to give Mary and Mr Hayward the air of propriety (which Mary found a ridiculous prospect) but too far away to save Mary from her own mouth.

And much too engrossed in his own work too, Mary thought.

She thought Mr Hayward might leave the book, turn on his heel and realise an acquaintance with someone as damnably awkward as her was not worth it.

Before she could apologise - though she wasn't entirely sure what for - he answered.

"It was never my strong suit," he explained. "In farming terms, I was somewhat of a runt in the family." He chuckled; that same self-deprecating one that Mary remembered from their first conversation at Netherfield. She had to admit it hurt her heart a little, even if it was awfully familiar.

"I was never begrudged for it," he assured quickly, as if to defend his family.

Mary could never imagine her doing the same. She wondered what it must be like, to have a family who could see your shortcomings and embrace them.

"But it was certainly a good thing Henry, my brother that is, was there to take over the farm when my father passed." He paused. "He is far more adept."

He must have picked up on the unspoken question that hung between them, or maybe it had been Mary's own smile which she knew had turned more sympathetic at the revelation that Mr Hayward's father had passed away.

It was that particular smile he gave her, in that moment that - oddly enough - Mary noticed the laugh lines around his eyes and, dropping her gaze, his mouth. She realised, fairly quickly, she was staring and so averted her gaze.

"It was quite a while ago, Miss Bennet," he said, reassuringly. "My father was older than my mother, and I was born when she was older." He sighed. "It was not a surprise."

"Still…"

Mary let whatever she wanted to say trail off because, truthfully, she did not know what to say.

She had both her parents - and while they were not the most nurturing, she was still grateful for them and their continued existence in the world. That there was always the hope - however much it waned in the intervening years- that they might find some sense of pride in her someday.

"And how is London treating you and your sister?" Mr Hayward asked, breaking the awkward silence that was lingering between them.

"It is…different."

"I thought the same when I first came here," admitted Mr Hayward.

"But there is something quite reassuring about it too," Mary continued, with a nod of her head. He nodded back, asking her to continue.

"In Meryton and at home, everyone knows me. They have their own ideas about who I am, who I should be."

She let herself smile, even if it was wry, wondering why on Earth she was baring her soul in such a way to this man.

Yet she could find no way to stop the words once they started.

"I have been taking walks," she admitted. "Well, Jane and I have. Not particulary long, or too far from Gracechurch Street. It is somewhat refreshing, to be among the bustle of people who do not know and do not care who I am. There are no expectations."

She could be whoever she wanted to be.

Where it felt freeing to her, it did not, Mary thought, seem to have had the same effect on Jane, who confided that she believed London to be noisy and busy, and holding none of the quaint charm that Jane loved about Longbourn, Meryton and the countryside in general.

It was natural for Jane to think that, Mary supposed, when she was one of the most popular and prettiest girls in Meryton, and had always had been.

She would not say that, however.

Mr Hayward nodded.

"I do not think I had ever thought of it that way before, though I certainly think I understand."

He looked genuinely struck by her observation. This time, however, Mary was quite confident it was in a good way.

They chatted like that, for a little while longer, before Mr Hayward had to leave, the book firmly grasped under his arm. He apologised that he would not join them for dinner but work called him back to the chambers. Aunt Gardiner, who had returned with Jane and the children, insisted he join them sometime soon.

Mary was quite glad when he said - and she wondered if she imagined the smile in her direction - he would.

Aunt Gardiner announced, a few days later, that she was to visit the market near Grosvenor Street, asking Mary and Jane to come with her. While phrased as a request, it was clearly not one.

And Jane, usually so composed, looked excited, if not a little nervous, by the idea.

"Jane, I thought this might be a chance, while we are in that part of town, for you to make any calls you may deem necessary."

Jane nodded her understanding, having already sent at least two notes - that Mary knew about - to let Miss Bingley know they were in town and would like to extend an invitation for tea at Gracechurch Street at a time which suited Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst.

There had been no reply. While Jane shouldered it well, Mary could see the toll it was taking on her.

She did not say so, but Miss Bingley's lack of reply had not surprised Mary. While Jane was quite determined that Miss Bingley was a truly amiable woman, Mary had witnessed a side of her, that night at the Netherfield ball, that made her doubt that assessment of her character.

The continued silence in the face of Jane's efforts only strengthened her suspicions.

So it was, the next day that, arm-in-arm with Jane, Mary made her way, slowly she insisted, down the frost-covered Grosvenor Street.

Mary, all throughout the day before and that morning, had agonised over this her part in this visit. She did not think she was the best equipped person to make this call with Jane. Lizzy would have been far better to support their sister; even Kitty, quiet as she was, was far steadier. Lydia or their mother, as brash as they were, would, at the very least, be far more confident.

Still, this was what Mary was brought to London to do and so, that morning, she had set aside Lyrical Ballads on the nightstand, marking her place even as the book continued to refuse to divulge its secrets and meanings.

She envied that Mr Hayward got to enjoy James Hutton's theories, while she was left to slog through metaphor and similie from men who could simply not say things as they were.

But all thoughts of poetry - and Mr Hayward - left Mary's mind as she and Jane paused on the street and looked up at the imposing building in front of them.

The Gardiner's home on Gracechurch Street was, in comparison, 'quaint', Uncle Gardiner had said the previous evening; his words had never rung truer than in this moment.

Mary swallowed. Though she was not sure if it was the right thing to do, she hesitated and pulled Jane back with her.

"You are sure you wish to do this, Jane?"

Her eldest sister nodded confidently.

"I have to do this, Mary."

And so Mary squeezed her sister's arm, and they proceeded.

"Miss Bingley appeared to be thrilled at seeing Jane again," Miss Mary explained, though there was a hint of trepidation in her tone that Tom was not sure her sister, who seemed brighter than she had been, picked up on, but he certainly did.

There was something quite easy, quite refreshing about Miss Mary's expressions and intonations. He found himself, without realising he was doing so, making a mental note of all he could in their interactions.

Why he was doing such a thing he could not account for; could not name. All he knew was that he looked for her whenever he entered the house, and was always pleased to see her, to speak to her.

He could not think of anyone he had ever been so pleased to simply speak to, before.

"It is quite strange, though," commented Mrs Gardiner, sounding concerned, "that she would reproach you for giving her no notice. You have written her twice, if I am not mistaken."

Miss Bennet nodded, her lips pursed tightly as she confirmed her aunt's assertion, though she did not reply to it directly.

"I relayed that Mary and I should be in London for a further month or so, and Miss Bingley has expressed her promise to visit soon."

Mrs Gardiner nodded - the action just about hiding her own hesitation.

Later, when Tom supposed they should have been discussing poetry and geology, he could not help but ask - even as he felt himself overstepping bounds he knew he should leave well alone.

"Miss Bennet, please tell me if I am overstepping," he started and Miss Mary looked stunned for a moment, "but at Netherfield I was of the belief that your sister and Mr Bingley were…close. I find it baffling that he would leave in such a hurry, and without being clear of his intentions to her."

He watched as Miss Mary let out a quick exhale - was that disappointment flickering in her eyes? Had he overstepped.

He considered, briefly, leaving Gracechurch Street forever and never looking back, as if that was a proportional and suitable course of action.

Miss Mary seemed to notice this and quickly set out to reassure him.

"I'd argue it is an overstep, Mr Hayward," she admitted, though she did not sound disappointed, which was a relief in itself. "Still, I have been wracking my brain to find an answer to the same question. And I'm glad I am not the only one."

"After meeting with Miss Bingley have you come to an answer?"

Miss Mary looked down; doubt clouding her eyes. Tom looked down too, letting his hand draw over the cover of her copy of The Theory of Earth.

"It is hard to say," was her eventual response. "Aunt Gardiner told me, when I asked her, that matters of the heart are rarely clear cut. I still do not understand it."

Tom did not think he had much else to contribute to her understanding of what appeared to be a most bizarre situation. He nodded to Lyrical Ballads, resting on her lap.

"Maybe the answers are with the poets," he offered, which drew an expected and quite endearing scoff from the woman across from him.

"I hope not," she mumbled.

He noticed that, unlike their earlier interactions, when such a comment would be followed with a light blush and hesitation, she was far more confident in revealing her disdain for the idea.

Which was, though it sounded strange, somewhat heartening to Tom.

Even if he was still determined to make Miss Mary a fan of poetry before her time in London was out.

Almost three weeks passed before they heard anything more from Caroline Bingley. Jane spent every morning, since the day they called, at the same place by the window. It was as if she thought, that by staring, she could will the carriage to appear.

She did so with an elegance that Mary believed could only be achieved by her sister. She never looked totally despondent or hopeless, and, once she was fairly certain each day would not be the day, she would undertake whatever tasks their aunt needed help with, with a newfound resolve that Mary admired.

The mornings became a routine. In these times, Mary would read quietly, and Jane alternated between her own book, or her needlework, to eventually gaze out of the window. While Mary knew they would never be as close as Jane and Lizzy were, they had developed a rapport of their own.

Where they could sit silently in their own pursuits, acknowledging the other with a silent support.

It was perhaps a bid to take her mind off of her own situation that Jane asked about Mary's study of poetry.

Mary stopped reading then, closing the book with a nearby scrap of paper as a bookmark.

"I am struggling still," admitted Mary, feeling comfortable enough to share this reservation with Jane.

This annoyance that, if she was not the smart one, the bookish one - even for something she found as aggravating to understand as poetry - then she lost her inherent value, or whatever value there was she had.

So, she was determined to conquer it.

She would not admit to Jane that this was her reasoning, but that did not mean she had to keep it all to herself.

Jane smiled sympathetically.

"I cannot imagine geology is easy either, Mary," she said, "and yet you are quite knowledgable about that. And history. And philosophy. And a mountain of other subjects."

Mary rolled her eyes. Jane smiled at her.

"It is not a mountain, Jane."

"I did not mean it as a bad thing you know," she replied, quietly, and then after a beat. "I have enjoyed being here with you Mary."

Mary was surprised to find that she felt the same.

"But you do not like London."

"I would much rather be at home," she said, gazing longingly out the window. "And yet…"

Mary did not say out loud what had brought Jane here. Straightforward as she could be, she knew it was not the time. Maybe at home, where she struggled to be heard, where a frank and rational response might at least garner a sliver of attention - before she had decided she would be better off invisible, at least - she might have said it.

Instead, they both sat quietly.

"You and Mr Hayward get along quite well," said Jane finally. "He is a good man, too."

"He is a friend," Mary replied, but the word caught on her throat, uncomfortably.

A friend, yes. It was true.

But she knew, deep down that there was more to that feeling.

But it was not worth dwelling on.

She would leave London soon, with Jane. She could not continue on a correspondence; it would not be proper. Mr Hayward was a handsome, smart and ambitious young man. He would find someone worthy of him to share his passions with, in London.

And Mary would go back to Longbourn.

Jane looked as though she might say something else. Mary found herself saved by the sharp knock on the door. The Gardiner's butler, Jethro, entered, alongside Aunt Gardiner, announcing Caroline Bingley was there to visit Jane.

"You will stay for her visit, won't you Mary?"

Mary nodded her assent.

Situated beside Jane on the settee, with Aunt Gardiner on her other side - the children thankfully occupied with lessons - Mary had never felt more of an outsider than she did now.

Especially as Caroline Bingley kept staring at her as if she did not know why Mary was there.

If only the other woman knew Mary had often thought the same thing in the last few weeks.

"Dear Jane, I am sorry it has taken me so long to visit," she said, her voice laced with a faux sweetness, as her eyes swept around the parlour. "Mrs Gardiner, I must praise your home for being so…," she trailed off, "charming."

A backhanded compliment - even Mary knew that - but Aunt Gardiner accepted it with her usual grace.

"Thank you, Miss Bingley," she said, lightly, as refreshments were brought in.

Miss Bingley did not outright refuse the tea set down in front of her but also did not touch it. Jane took a small sip, clearly too nervous to do much more than that.

Mary, in the opppsite manner, gulped down a mouthful of hers when it cooled enough, as Jane and Miss Bingley remained in a silent battle of wills.

Until finally, Miss Bingley was the first to speak.

"I find it my duty to inform you, Jane, that my brother is quite engaged at the moment with Mr Darcy and his sister, Georgiana. As well as the matters of business that brought us to London."

Jane nodded, her hands lacing tightly together on her lap. She remained impervious, even as the meaning of Miss Bingley's words rang clearly around the room.

"Have you told him I am here, in London?"

Miss Bingley only responded with a bob of her head in affirmation.

"He is aware, yes," she replied, curtly. "But he is also a very busy man."

She held out her arms, and offered her approximation of a sympathetic smile that Mary did not find to be sympathetic at all.

"That is the situation, as it stands now, Miss Bennet. I do hope you understand."

"Perfectly."

How Jane could remain so measured and calm in the face of such a remark, Mary did not know. Jane remained impassive, even as Miss Bingley took her leave, thanking Aunt Gardiner for her hospitality - though the tea remained untouched - and wishing Jane and Mary safe travels back to Hertfordshire.

As soon as Miss Bingley left the room, Jane did so too, up the stairs to the guest bedroom where the door was shut with a soft thud.

Mary twisted her hands together.

She did not understand it. How Mr Bingley could go from being so attentive, so clearly in love with Jane, to sending his sister to effectively break her heart and rid her of any hope for a reconciliation.

Had she misunderstood what had just happened in front of her? For a brief second she hoped so.

But as Aunt Gardiner watched from the window to ensure Miss Bingley's carriage was out of sight, before she left the room, presumably to comfort Jane, Mary knew she had not.

Whatever affection Mr Bingley had for Jane was gone.

And it was time to go home.

"You are leaving London?"

The decision was made, the day before. Two days had passed since Miss Bingley's visit and, with the weather now turning slightly warmer, and Lizzy due to return to Longbourn any day now, it seemed logical enough that Mary and Jane would follow in their sister's footsteps and return too.

Mr Hayward arrived for dinner, and Mary found something shifting uncomfortably in her chest as she told him of their planned departure.

"It was only supposed to be temporary," Mary said, somewhat quieter. "A respite for Jane."

"Of course, of course."

He said it absently, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he tried to find the right words.

"And your sister?"

Jane was not present for dinner; she said she did not have much of an appetite. She had joined them for most of the meals since Miss Bingley's visit, putting on a brave face, but she had declined this evening.

"Happy to leave," Mary confirmed. "She has received her answer."

"And you, Miss Bennet? Are you happy to leave London?"

She was not.

"My happiness does not signify, Mr Hayward."

He looked stunned by this.

"Of course it does, Miss Bennet," he said, quite passionately, before looking rather sheepish at his own words and the way in which he said them.

"Why wouldn't it?"

Mary closed her eyes and allowed herself to smile at words she never thought she would hear.

She appreciated them more than he would ever know.

"You are very kind," she said. "But my family needs me back at Longbourn."

Secretly Mary did not think her mother or father would notice if she returned with Jane or not, especially when her mother learned the truth of Mr Bingley's affections.

But she would not say that to Mr Hayward.

"I will be glad to be home," Mary finally said, if only to lift the sad look in his eyes as he looked at her."That will be enough."

He nodded, stiffly. It did not look as though he quite believed her assertion, but he did not question it either and she was grateful for that.

"Well, London will miss you, Mary Bennet," he said, and then, again, looked as though he might say something else. Still, the words never came.

"I will leave your book with my aunt and uncle," Mary finally said. "I feel I am finally making some progress and, as we are not due to leave for a few days I would like to keep a hold of it, if that is okay."

Mr Hayward bowed his head, to say yes, but quite absently, as if his mind was elsewhere.

"I must admit I have not made it far into Hutton," Mr Hayward said, looking almost guilty of the fact. "Though I think there is some merit in his idea that the Earth is being perpetually formed, all around us. Day by day."

"I have another copy at the library at home, Mr Hayward," Mary said, feeling quite brave suddenly, and forcing a smile. "Please do not feel any rush to return it."

Mr Hayward looked quite surprised by this.

"Only if you will do the same with the book I gave you, Miss Bennet."

The words and their implication held between them then.

By this point Aunt and Uncle Gardiner had entered the parlour, having had to take their leave to deal with some sort of commotion that involved a frog and George's adamant assertion that Rebecca had left it under his bed covers.

Mary would miss those moments of chaos at Gracechurch Street. She would miss the anonymity of London, as a whole, as well as her aunt, uncle and cousins. Their kindness had been somewhat restorative, Mary thought. She worried it would be quickly dispelled as soon as she stepped foot back in Longbourn.

What she wanted to say, but could not quite find the words to - and even if she could, knew it would not be appropriate - was that she would miss the man in front of her too.

***

What Mary did not know - what he too could not find the words to say - was that he would miss her too.