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Thomas is in agony. It is a euphoric agony. One which sets him on fire, leaves his hands tingling. It is an agony which fills his head with all kinds of disastrous, dangerous thoughts.
His agony’s name is Mary.
She sits beside him now, at a circular table in the tiny, smoke filled dining room of their lodging house in the Lake District. If he moved his leg under the table, the tip of his boot would touch her slippered foot. He imagines the scenario in a quick succession of ecstasy and self-flagellation. Touching her shoe with his; then, her, taking the initiative to trace the slipper up his ankle. Tom is filled with bliss at the thought, then immediate, quicksilver shame. He shouldn’t think of Miss Bennet so liberally—when not just yesterday, he was under the impression she was engaged to another man.
But he can’t help it… agony and bliss have been his companions these last two days, ever since he joined the Gardiner’s traveling party in Cumbria. When he finally reunited with Miss Bennet yesterday, he’d wanted to fall to his knees in relief at her presence—a desperate wave breaking on the shores of her attention. And then, even in front of the Gardiners and the assembled inn guests, Tom had wanted to beg Miss Bennet, why him of all men? Why Ryder, and not me?
But, as it seems, she is not engaged. And no longer is he.
Each moment he’s spent in Miss Bennet’s presence since has been a balm to him. Even now as they eat their dinner, the pile of his traitorous little wants grows larger and larger. Her voice, her eyes, her little bowed mouth as she drinks from her wine—
“Are you alright, Mr Hayward?” comes the voice of his agony, his Miss Bennet. She’s put the wine glass down, and is studying him over the silver lip of her spectacles, “You’re very flushed all of a sudden.”
His face grows ever hotter under her attention. The table is quite small, and so by necessity, their party of four is pressed rather closely together in the candle-lit room. Miss Bennet, the nearest of all, is only an arm’s brush away. His agony is mortifyingly on display for her to see.
“The air is rather close in here,” Tom lies, glancing about the packed tables. “Don’t you think?”
“No. Not really. The innkeeper opened the window, just there. The breeze is refreshing.” Miss Bennet points toward the corner of the room.
Tom turns dutifully. The window is open just as she says, dark night air spilling in from the world beyond. Goose flesh rises on his arms.
“Quite—quite right,” he mutters, turning back around, not quite meeting her gaze. The Gardiners are also now watching him closely. “Perhaps I haven’t yet recovered from today’s outing?”
“That was quite an adventure the two of you had,” Mr Gardiner agrees, waving his fork in a small circle. “You practically touched heaven, all the way up in that oak tree.”
“Yes, Tom. Perhaps you over-exerted yourself, climbing so much?” adds Mrs Gardiner.
Miss Bennet grins like a cat, “You did have some trouble keeping up with me.”
Despite himself, Tom meets her sly grin with one of his own.
Their party had strayed from the lake at Wasdale today, instead hiring a coach to take them to a nearby forest of centuries-old trees, popular among tourists.
While the Gardiners picnicked in the swaddle of giant oak roots, Tom and Miss Bennet had decided to familiarize themselves with the fauna of the lake district. Tom had even borrowed a book on local birds from the innkeeper.
As she was with all things, Miss Bennet had been entirely academic about the affair — setting herself the task of analyzing the weather condition, the time of day, season, and fullness of the trees — all before consulting Tom’s book and announcing they should be on high-alert for sightings of the local red-backed shrike. Then she marched off into the brush. And as any devoted hound would, Tom followed.
They drifted quite far from the Gardiner’s camp, walking together through the forest in wide, rambling circles. Occasionally, Tom offered his hand to help Miss Bennet over logs, and rocks, and other protruding earthmatter. Once, Miss Bennet was so absorbed in watching the flight of a jackdaw that she didn’t notice a thicket of bramble on their path, and Tom had to lean down to untangle the thorns from her dress. The pale blue fabric had been butter to touch. Her hand, he thought, was softer.
Nearly two hours into their bird-watching, Miss Bennet finally spotted a male red-backed shrike in the high branch of an oak tree, and in her excitement, announced her desire for a closer look. Tom thought they’d simply walk to higher ground.
Instead, Miss Bennet began hiking up her skirt. Immediately, Tom averted his eyes, flushing a cloddish red—all the while stumbling over his words to ask wh-what exactly are you doing? That’s when he understood she was preparing to climb into the curling branches of the oak tree.
Tom watched Miss Bennet awkwardly pull herself up. He paced once, then twice at the foot of the tree, but knew better than to offer assistance or call her back down.
In truth, he admired her spirit. There was something different about Miss Bennet these days. In London, there had been a nervous reservation about her. True, she’d gained confidence in the months of their acquaintance. But now she was ready, more open to meet life. He wondered then what she’d truly experienced in their weeks apart.
None of her previous hesitance showed just then—she was laughing as she climbed, and her happiness spilled down on him like silver moonlight.
“Come along, Mr. Hayward!” she’d shouted. “Are you a naturalist, or merely an aesthete!”
And Tom found there was nothing he could do but look for a foothold of his own and follow after her.
He wasn’t much for climbing. He had no natural grace, and found his boots slipping on the bark constantly. But he continued to pull himself up after Miss Bennet, their laughter mixing all the while.
The shrike had long flown away by the time they reached the top of the tree, but Miss Bennet did not seem to mind. They were evenly matched, each sitting on their own sturdy bough. The sun through the leaves turned Miss Bennet’s hair momentarily gold.
Tom wanted so badly to cross the bridge of distance and kiss her. Yet paradoxically, he wanted also to live forever in this moment, completely unchanged.
The Gardiners found them an hour later, still sitting together twenty feet off the ground, watching for shrikes.
“Yes, Miss Bennet,” Tom says now, grinning at her, “Perhaps I overexerted myself in trying to keep up with you.”
Miss Bennet’s mouth curls in its familiar, amused moue. “If you need to retire early, Mr Hayward, I won’t be offended.”
God, but he loves it when she teases him.
“If we’re returning to Wasdale Water tomorrow, perhaps I should save my strength. I already know you’ll insist I row you about all day.”
“Don’t run off to your room quite yet, Tom-darling,” Mrs Gardiner cuts in. “It’s still quite early.”
Mr Gardiner points to his plate, “And you’ve barely eaten.”
That’s true enough. Tom had spent half of the meal staring at Miss Bennet, and the other half pretending he wasn’t. He eats his food, at any rate, basking in the perfect glow of the evening.
Later, when the meal is done and their plates have been taken away, the Gardiners stand and announce their intention of going for a walk by the water.
Mrs Gardiner smiles broadly, “Would you care to join us, Mary? Tom?”
“Oh. I’ll leave you and Mr Gardiner to it,” Miss Bennet demurs, “I may have teased Mr Hayward earlier, but I myself am quite exhausted.”
“Oh, then I’ll kiss you good night now, my dears,” coos Mrs Gardiner, leaving a peck on both of their cheeks, “And we’ll see you in the morning.”
“At a healthy hour, mind!” adds her husband, clumsily reaching for his wife, “At noon. A reasonable hour to break fast while on holiday.”
Mrs Gardiner tuts at him good-naturedly, and they leave the dining room together, leaning into each other with all the easy intimacy of a married couple. Tom and Miss Bennet watch them go.
Once they’re out of sight, Miss Bennet deadpans, “They were quite drunk, weren’t they?”
Tom blinks down at her, “Do you think they’ll be safe by the water? Should we go with them, after all?”
“No, they’ll be fine. Mrs Gardiner doesn’t like swimming, and Mr Gardiner doesn’t like anything she doesn’t like. I’m sure they’ll reach the water, remember their comfortable room, and turn right back around.”
Tom grins. They’re lingering in the dining room now, shifting occasionally to let the cook pass, but he’s loath to let the evening end. “Would you like me to walk you to your room, Miss Bennet?”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose,” she nods — a jerky, endearing thing — and leads their way out of the dining room.
The inn hall is much the same as the dining room. Cramped, limewashed, and candlelit. They are unable to walk side by side, so Tom follows behind, watching the loosening curls of Miss Bennet’s hair move all the while. The hall smells of kitchen smoke and earth and humanity. Miss Bennet looks over her shoulder once at him, grinning, and Tom is suddenly overcome with such gratitude for his life. That he gets to know, and be near her.
The walk from the dining room to the sleeping quarters takes no more than a minute. Twenty paces, perhaps. Miss Bennet slows her steps when they come to the trifecta of rooms reserved for their party, stopping in front of Tom’s door. Tom snorts at this.
“What are you laughing at, Mr. Hayward?” she asks, looking up at him.
“We’ve done this the wrong way ‘round, I think. I was the one walking you to your door.”
Miss Bennet nods around the corner, past the door of the Gardiner’s unoccupied room, to a small, lowered alcove, “My room is just there. We’ve walked each other.” She starts for the direction of her room, but Tom isn’t ready to say goodnight, quite yet.
“Have you started Wordsworth’s Guide?” he asks, perhaps too loudly in the narrow hall. “I’m anxious to hear your thoughts.”
“I thought I might begin tomorrow. At the lake?” She clasps her hands in front of her, playing with her fingers as she says, “I quite like the idea of reading it for the first time in the place that inspired it.”
“Yes,” he nods. “Yes, I think that is a wonderful idea.”
She makes no response, looking at him only with those watchful, knowing eyes. He nods, preparing to unlock his room and make his goodbyes, when her voice sounds again.
“Mr Hayward?”
He looks at her. “Miss Bennet?”
“I apologize for earlier. For teasing you about blushing, at dinner. I suppose where you’re concerned, sometimes I cannot tell when what I’ve said might be a step too far. It seemed I truly offended you.” She looks genuinely distressed by the end of her speech, picking at the skin of her thumb.
His mind sticks like a broken wheel on where you're concerned, and the velvet-brush pleasure of being considered by her, at all. Instead, he reassures her with a smile, “I like when you tease me, Miss Bennet. And you’re never unkind. You were only being observant.”
“You don’t find me, I don’t know. Unrefined? Crass?”
“Not at all, Miss Bennet. You are one of the most intelligent people of my acquaintance. And funny. I haven’t laughed half so much in weeks.”
She blinks. “Was the last month really so terrible? Were you in such agony?”
Yes. Even this, now, is agony.
“I missed you,” he says. “I missed my friend, all the more for knowing she was with a family who does not appreciate her, as she should be appreciated.”
She looks down at the ground, and in a moment it’s as if she’s the girl he met all those months ago. Anxious, unsure. “Then why did you not write to me? When I was at Pemberley? Miss Baxter wrote to me. Mr Ryder… visited me. I would have welcomed a word from you, any word. Happily.”
“I wasn’t sure if it would be welcomed. Or appropriate.” My love for you would’ve been evident on the page, and I was not ready for it to be known.
The truth is, in the month Mary had been away at Pemberley, Tom had been in the middle of an emotional upheaval of his own. His agreement of marriage had dissolved, taking Ann—by necessity—with it. Ann Baxter, who for all their romantic incompatibility, was one of the best friends he’d ever had. And as Tom watched Ann follow her own heart with Mr Powell, he slowly came to the realization that she'd always been the brave one. But it was time now that he was brave, too.
“But I swear, Miss Bennet,” Tom says, with all the sincerity he can muster, “I would have trained a carrier pigeon to fly to you if I thought you’d wanted to hear from me.”
“Of course, I wanted to hear from you, I—”
A stranger’s voice comes from around the corner of the hall. A pair of heavy footsteps.
Quite suddenly, Miss Bennet opens the door to Tom’s room, and pulls him inside. They are thrust immediately into darkness. There is no fire lit, and the moon has not risen enough to light their way through the window.
Miss Bennet startles, realizing at once the improper thing she’s done. She releases him and shuffles over to the bedside, lighting the candle set there. As the wick catches, the flame is reflected twice in miniature, in the lenses of Miss Bennet’s spectacles. Seeing this, Tom feels for the watch-pocket of his vest to take out his own glasses. He desperately needs to see her clearly.
For a long moment, they are lit only by the candle’s small, single light. As much as Tom wants to insist she finish their conversation, he does not interrupt the silence. There is a poetic meter to the quiet, almost a scheme. Mary breathes, and he breathes in return. A perfect couplet.
He approaches her then, reaching for the candle in its holder. With his spectacles on, he can see perfectly well the way her mouth parts as he draws near. The deepening red of her perpetually flushed cheeks. But there is the meter to account for; the scheme. Tom takes the candle from Miss Bennet’s fingers as gently as he can, and turns with it to the cold, untended fireplace. He kneels on the wood floor, and does not turn to look at Miss Bennet again until kindling is lit, and the room is full with the music of its crackling.
He’s aware of Miss Bennet’s eyes on him all the while. It would be madness, if he weren’t. Her gaze is always a physical thing. But she watches, and says nothing, until he stands again and turns to her.
It is a temperate spring night, and unnecessary to have a fire lit. But it’s now burning healthily, filling the room with a sunlike orange glow, and Tom does not regret lighting it. He can see every movement of Mary’s face now, as she steps closer to him.
Tom breaks the silence. “Why did you want so desperately to hear from me, Miss Bennet?”
“Because you’re my friend,” she says, quite unable to look him in the eyes. “Because I missed you.”
He swallows, gathering his bravery, “There is a solution to your missing me, I think.”
“Which is?”
He smiles. “You could remain by my side, and never leave.”
Miss Bennet laughs, finally looking at him again. It’s clear she does not think him serious. “There are times when that will not be possible.”
Determined to be understood, Tom steps closer. There is now only an arms length of empty space between them. “I cannot think of one.”
Miss Bennet rolls her eyes, “I do not think your fellow lawyers would enjoy my presence constantly in their office.”
“They are fools.”
Miss Bennet grins, unhappily. He hates to see her fidget. “Then, I do not think your future wife would enjoy my constant presence.”
“My future…” Tom inhales, then exhales slowly. “Miss Baxter and I no longer have an agreement. My, my apologies, Miss Bennet, I know I was not able to make myself perfectly c-clear yesterday—”
“I know there is no longer an attachment between yourself and Miss Baxter,” Miss Bennet says. “But. When you’re ready to consider other matches again, I am entirely sure there will be no shortage of eligible young ladies hoping to marry you.”
Tom opens and closes his mouth quite like a fish. “I thought you did not wish to speak of engagements.” Just yesterday she had steered them away from the topic with all the force of a steam engine.
“Well, the topic seems quite unavoidable now.”
“Y—yes. Quite un—avoidable…”
Tom had a stutter when he was a boy. It was overcome through a thousand-thousand hours of reading and private recitation. But sometimes when he’s near Miss Bennet he feels the words begin to cake-up in his throat again.
She watches him with wide eyes as he pauses, breathes, and begins in a steady voice, “Miss Bennet. Mary. You must, must know how fond I am of you. How much I enjoy speaking with you, and spending time with you.”
“And I, you,” she says slowly, studying him. Her eyes move across his face. “You’re quite flushed again, Mr Hayward.”
It’s true. His whole being feels as if it’s burning. His face, his limbs, his nervous turning stomach. “I am. I am. But not because of the fire, or the heat, or any other physical thing...” He licks his lips. “I’ve been in agony, Miss Bennet. And I thought it was quite obvious to anyone who deigned to look at me. Mrs Gardiner certainly knows. And Mr Ryder. And even Ann. But I’m beginning to understand just how oblivious you are to my affections for you.”
“Your—”
Quite suddenly, Tom closes the distance and kisses her. It is not chaste, as perhaps it should be. But he cannot help it. His artless, imperfect words have left nothing in him, but the passionate, animated spirit of his body. She startles against him, but does not move away, and Tom raises a gentle hand to her cheek when at last their lips separate.
“Do you understand?” he whispers, against her, “Have I expressed myself clearly?”
“Yes. Mr Hayward,” she replies, her pretty fanlike lashes dancing across her cheek. “Though perhaps, you might express yourself again?”
He does. Oh god, he does. Their lips meet once more, and this time Mary lifts her hands to touch him. First on the small of his back, then his stomach, and finally his face. They kiss, and she cradles him, and he’s never felt so loved or so treasured in all his time on earth. He works to make sure she feels the same, pouring all his disorganized thought into the place their bodies meet.
“Will you go for a boat ride with me on the water tomorrow, Miss Bennet?” he asks when they part again. He rests his forehead against hers. “Mary?”
“Of course. Of course I will,” she whispers. “I’ll be sure to bring the book you brought me. Wordsworth’s Guide to the Lakes.”
“Good,” he says against her lips. “Good.”