Chapter Text
It had been said, by Mary herself, that there was nothing on this Earth that could disuade her of not thinking of Thomas Hayward. And like many of the things Mary told herself, it was an absolute lie. The junior barrister, dear friend of the Gardiners, had taken it upon himself to plague Mary's thoughts, and even dreams.
On her third night back at Pemberley she had awoken in her bed, a bed too hard and cold and unfamiliar still, in a big room with big paintings, where the darkness of the night felt too dark and deep, and only at the remembrance of her interrupted dream did the moon seem to shine a bit brighter inside the room.
She remembered bits and fragments, all blurry like the world from afar without her spectacles, of Thomas smiling bashfully at her from across a boat, mountains behind him and the lake reflecting on his eyes. His mouth had opened and closed, but she didn't remember what he'd said.
She also remembered his curls, barely restrained and surrendering to the soft breeze, and the freckles on his cheeks and the mole under his eye. His rolled up sleeves and the hairs on his arms, his glasses on his hand.
Laying there on the stiff sheets, Mary told herself that she would never be able to forget Mr. Thomas Hayward. And that wasn't like something Mary would normally tell herself, for it was the absolute truth.
Mornings at Pemberley were busy. And noisy. Mrs Bennet always talked loudly during breakfast, over the idle conversations of her daughters and from the other rooms it sounded like barking over the buzzing of bees. That's what the servants would say if someone asked: that Mrs. Bennet was overbearing and clouding, a metaphorical weight on the ambient of a room, an iron pendant over Mary's neck.
But the Mary that came back to the countryside to her family wasn't quite the same Mary that had left, so when the barking became too loud and non-sensical, the third youngest Bennet sister, the only Bennet sister, put down the teacup on her plate as loud as it was socially acceptable, and said: "Please, Mother, that's enough."
With pressed lips she adjusted her glasses, the action betraying that she was yet to be entirely confident to stand up to her mother. But nonetheless, she had done it, and for that she was proud. By the looks Jane and Lizzie gave her from across the table, they were proud as well.
"What did you say, Mary?" Mrs. Bennet asked, incredulous. She didn't have the mind to even feel insulted by the fact she had been scolded - and by one of her daughters -, but by the fact that it was Mary who had done so.
"You've heard me quite well, Mother." Mary raised her head to look at her this time, a firm look on her face. Do not falter. "We're having a pleasant breakfast, it's early in the morning, and your rambling is just too loud and inappropriate."
The look that appeared on her mother's face reminded Mary of the faces Caroline Bingley would pull after being publicly embarrassed, and that filled Mary with equal parts satisfaction and pity.
And any other person would tell her to spare her sympathy, because her mother deserved to be scolded and berated, and it was fine for Mary to be the one who did it, considering how awfully her mother had treated her. But what made Mary different to her mother and to almost anyone else, was that she had a very kind and sensible soul, and she felt that maybe no one "deserved" anything bad, and that no one was "owed" anything good. Daughters traced their own path towards kindness without expecting anything good in return, the same way no mother undermined her daughter expecting divine retribution.
Mrs Bennet was simply how she was, and Mary was simply how she was, and that was it. So after seeing that look on her mother's face, despite knowing it came more from a place of surprise at Mary growing a spine, she nevertheless apologized to her. And for this, well, Jane and Lizzie were also proud.
The sun had been affable to Mary and had made a committed act of prescence for the entire first week she spent at Pemberley. It was sort of a welcoming gift, as if she had to be made to feel welcome one way or another, if almost no one else did.
But on Friday the sun had apparently decided Mary would do well on her own from then on, so it retreated to its home behind the clouds. Clouds that turned grayer and grayer with the passing hours, until the early morning on Saturday when it had started to rain softly to give the Bennet a preliminary taste of tempest, and then by lunch the house was dark and the windows didn't offer much of the landscape except such an incessant amount of drops that no one would be able to attempt raindrop racing lest they wanted every dropplet to win.
Mary was sitting on the windowsill of one of the windows, making a great deal of effort to retain what she was reading.
"According to the universal laws of motion," the book was saying, "constitutent parts of all bodies which revolve upon their axes to acquire a centrifugal force, in proportion to ther velocities... "
Yes, that was absolutely what the fragment was saying. It was so the first time Mary had read it, and also the second time, and the third. It was so, and despite it being so, what Mary was actually seeing dancing before her eyes were words that had equal to do with the earth, like the book in her hand, but offered an artistic, humane perspective instead. There, cliffs weren't mere rocks undergoing a lenghty process of erosion by water, they were places upon which to look at the sea and beyond and feel the inmensity and grandeur of nature.
The other book on her side was the one that contained so different of a perspective on the earth, few poems of one William Wordsworth who, despite his name being so clear and stablished, only reminded her of another man who, objectively, had no part in the composition of them. It was the merit of Wordsworth to have composed such beautiful lines, but it had been the merit of Thomas Hayward to make Mary fall in love with them, and that was a comparable feat, if one were to ask her.
She closed the book, frustrated. She couldn't concentrate on something that usually brought her so much joy, but like the earth, her feelings were also changing, only in a much lesser scale of time. This was not to say she didn't enjoy her facts anymore, but her time with Mr. Hayward - and even more, her time without him - had made her mind more insistent to be filled by poetry.
She reached for her Lyrical Ballads and opened it to the last page she had been reading, to the poem that also contained fragments of earth and nature.
"Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,"
She would have never thought of connecting the landscape and the sky. Months ago, if she were to look at the world from a cliff, she'd have only seen the sky above, then the horizon line, and then the grass or the sea. Now, she'd think of how different the shades were, the glaucous grey of the sky if it was cloudy, or the dodger blue if it was sunny, mingling with the cerulean of the sea, or the spring green of the valleys and the pomona of the hills swimming below the periwinkle azure of the eventide.
Thomas Hayward made her think of colours and horizons and beautiful words one might have come across sitting on a ruined abbey or the middle of a lake.
Mary stopped reading as the sound of neighing could be heard above the storm. As far as she new, not one of her sisters or their husbands had even thought about going out in the rain, so whoever was outside had to be a visitor. She thought of Mr. Collins, but she couldn't come up with a reason as to why he would come to Pemberley in the middle of a storm, and not any of the days before when the sun would've made it much more pleasant to visit.
She was the only person in the room, so the butler would announce the visitor to whichever room Elizabeth or Mrs. Bennet were be at. To her surprise, they were the doors to this room that opened, and the butler made a stiff urtsy before announcing that a Thomas Hayward was at the door.
Mary sat there for a moment, trying to register the fact. If she were to come down right now, to the door, she would see Mr. Hayward. He was at the very same building, he had come all the way from London to get there. Why? Surely she was the only woman in that house who Mr. Hayward knew, so if would be safe to assume he had come to see her.
She came out of the room walking slowly, and half-way she realized she was still grasping the Lyrical Ballads tightly in her hands, so she left the book on the first surface she passed and used her now free hand to fix her messy hair.
And then she stopped. What was she fixing her hair for? She wanted to look fine for Mr. Hayward, but that desire stemmed from a liking towards him. And that could simply not be. She of course had the right to want to look the best for visitors, but she nevertheless had not the right to want to look the best for her friend's betrothed. She had been over this already: Mr. Thomas Hayward was simply not hers to impress.
Not hers to find the beauty of colours with, the beauty of shared feelings and emotions. Not hers to have, not hers to love.
Not hers at all.
When she got to the door, her hair was messier than it had been when she had come out of the room.
"Mr. Hayward." She made a little courtsy, not even looking into his eyes.
"Miss Bennet," he smiled, returning the bow.
Mary could hear the dropplets falling on the floor, and couldn't help but look up, tracing his body slowly from bottom to head. He was drenched, his green coat looking more forest than grass, darker from the water. He was clearly tensing up trying not to violently shiver, but a slight tremor in his reddened hands betrayed his intention.
"Oh God, please do come in," Mary asked, waving towards her.
Thomas obliged and only now gave his top hat and his coat to the butler, who disappeared through the service door in the foyer. At the same time, footsteps echoed on the steps of the grand staircase, and Mary prayed that if it was her mother, at least she was accompanied by Lizzie or Jane.
She saw Thomas's eyes drift behind her, and his smile grew politely. A bow with his head, and dropplets jumped from the tip of his nose.
"I'm sorry to intrude," he said, taking his glasses off.
"Good day, sir, if you seek shelter from the storm, then you are welcome."
Mary exhaled a breath of relief when Lizzie's voice echoed across the foyer, a breath that didn't last long when inmediately after, her mother added:
"And who you might be, sir?"
Tom's eyebrows shot up in realization, "Oh, forgive me. I'm Thomas Hayward, a friend of the Gardiners," his eyes returned to Mary and his smile grew again. Not of politeness but of genuine fondness, "and a friend of Mary."
"Welcome then, Mr. Hayward!" Lizzie greeted, and Mary could hear the joy in her voice.
She new her sister enough to know she was glad she had a friend willing to come visit her. Or, well, a potential suitor.
Mary was still with her back to the foyer, but as she could distinctly hear three more pairs of footsteps rushing over the linoleum, she knew that now the whole house was present to watch like the audience in a play.
She sighed, willing herself to ignore what she would have to deal with later: gossip raised to the power of four.
"At what do we owe your visit, Mr. Hayward?" Mary asked. She regretted instantly how dry she came across.
She was putting her frustration out on Thomas and that was incredibly unfair. As much as she needed to distance herself emotionally, she still could do so without being rude to him.
"I'm-" He paused, smiling bashfully, exactly how he had done in her dream, and she bit her lip and looked away. "I was passing by to visit a client, and remembered how close I was to Pemberley, so I just... I came on a whim." He shrugged apologetically, like he simply couldn't have helped coming.
"Then you must stay the night and wait out the storm," Mrs. Bennet said, and Mary could almost hear the wheels in her mind turning and conspiring to convince him to marry her daughter, for it was certain that she'd taken him as a very appropriate potential suitor.
If only her mother knew... That not only he was engaged to another woman, but that he was only a barrister whose dowry could never persuade her mother.
She kept quiet nonetheless, for she selfishly wanted Thomas to stay the night at Pemberley. She was selfish for wanting to spend time with him and weak for not lasting in her resolve of keeping herself closed off. She lied to herself again, pretending she did it solely for him because she knew he mildly enjoyed her company, and because he'd need shelter from the rain anyway.
"Oh goodness, here we are talking, keeping poor Mr. Hayward from changing his damp clothes," Lizzie exclaimed, "Please, take him to his chambers and bring him some of my husband's clothes," she said to the maid who had come. And then, to Thomas: "I'm sure they will fit you."
"I'm very much grateful, Mrs. Darcy."
He smiled at Mary one last time and proceeded to follow the maid. Mary had to hold laughter at the sound of his squeaky soles and the trail of water in his wake.
Her eyes kept following him until he passed behind her mother on the staircase, where Mary's eyes stopped. Her mother was smiling at her, and Mary wished she could roll her eyes right in that moment, not wanting to hear any of it.
Mary came back to the room where she'd been reading, and that's when she realized she hadn't picked back up the colletion of poems, and the book was still on some console table on the first floor. She went for the door, and when she grasped one knob, the other started turning at the same time, and she found herself next to Thomas Hayward, both of them with their hands on the oppossite door. They tittered awkwardly, and spent a few seconds trying to mentally agree whether they both should come in or come out. They decided on the same thing, and soon enough they were inside the room.
"Ah, sorry, forgive me, miss Bennet, but I've found this," he said, lifting his hand.
Lyrical Ballads rested on his palm, cover down, only recognizable by the colored caustic pattern of crimsons.
"Thank you," she said, taking it delicately from his hand. Her fingers brushed the sides of his palm, and his eyes shot up from the book and landed on hers. Blue as ever, her eyes seemed imposibly bigger when she felt caught by surprise.
"Miss Bennet," he started, putting his hands diligently behind his back. Now that he did, Mary realized that he was indeed wearing Fitzwilliam's clothes.
They suited him well. A patterned ivory vest over a white shirt very much like he used to wear normally, but instead of a white ribbon from the same material, his neck was hugged by a handkerchief with a pattern of what seemed to be honeysuckle plants. Instead of his usual browns, blues or greens, the coat was of a plum color.
"I must tell you this, miss Bennet," he continued, his mouth a fine line, "you have been missed in London, very much so. By the Gardiners, by our friends," he nodded along with each mention of people, and then, his head stopped, "By me."
"It is most kind of you to say that, Mr. Hayward," she smiled, looking nostalgically to the fireplace behind him, "but I can hardly believe my lack of prescence would be noticed at all."
"You're doing it again, miss Bennet. You have this annoyingly incorrect notion that people stop thinking about you as soon as you leave the room, that you leave no positive impact on anyone, and that is simply not true," he said, his voice cracking at the end, "I find it equally fascinating and frustrating that the people who believe themselves to be the center of the room actually rarely sparkle, whereas the ones who hide in the shadows and make themselves small are the ones who shine the brightest when given the chance."
He stared at her, and seeing that she was open-mouthed and not giving signs of speaking anytime soon, he allowed his factions to soften and gave her that quick nervous smile he did so often.
He cleared his throat.
"That is to say, miss Bennet, that you are a very special person and there are many people out there who have the capacity to notice it. I, for one, am one of them. I have missed you indeed, and I hope you accept this fact without resistance."
Mary felt very grateful for her complexion, for the natural rouge on her cheeks that her mother so often critizised, for it made her now very real blush not so evident to Mr. Hayward's eyes. She opened her mouth in a nervous smile, then closed it. She let out a timid breath, and couldn't help but smile again.
"Why, thank you, Mr. Hayward."
She felt so warm in the moment, her cheeks red and her tummy releasing dozens of butterflies. She even felt her heart hammering inside her chest, and felt grateful again, this time for the sound of the storm shielding it from Mr. Hayward's hearing.
And then she felt uneasy, her cheeks growing cold and the butterflies retreating, her heart now skipping a beat. She could not allow herself to feel that warmth, that gratefulness, that swell on her heart, that tightness on her chest.
She could not afford to keep falling in love with him, he was not hers and she was not his. She needed to learn to be contempt as she was, she wasn't owed anything.
When Thomas looked at her confused, noticing her change of expression, she smiled again, a forced smiled she hated to give because it felt like lying to him. But she had to, she had to manage to conceal her feelings like she'd managed to do up until now. His friendship was so, so important to her, she couldn't lose him. If she couldn't avoid falling harder for him, then she at least would avoid letting her feelings show. She'd only let her gratefulness shine through, and the rest of it she would keep locked within her heart.
"Are you alright, miss Bennet? I hope I didn't say anything out of place." He reached for her, his hand stopping mid-air.
She couldn't tighten her expression, so she tightened her grip on the Lyrical Ballads.
"No, absolutely not, Mr. Hayward. I'm so glad you feel that way. So glad to know I've been missed."
He smiled. The prettiest smile she had seen on him, which in truth were all of them. She felt like crying in that moment, her nose growing itchy. Her eyes were getting damp quickly and she didn't want him to think anything of it, so she turned around and walked towards the window pretending to want to take a look outside.
He didn't say anything but she did hear him coughing, and then the sound of boots, so she turned around and found him half leaning on a bergere, his head hanging low and his brows furrowed.
"Mr. Hayward?" She asked, alarmed.
In an instant, she found herself stumbling towards him, pressing her hand to his back and leaning down to get a better look at his face. He had his eyes closed and a confused expression.
"Forgive me, miss Bennet, I do not know what's gotten into me."
She helped him sit on the bergere, and he fell like a living puppet whose strings had been cut. He rested his head over the backrest, curls surrendering to gravity. Mary noticed his cheeks were red and realized they had been dusted pink all along. She touched his sweaty forehead and found it worringly hot.
"I think you have a fever, Mr. Hayward. I'm going to call someone."
She ran towards the door and shouted a plea for help, not caring who would come. To her surprise, it was Mr. Darcy who turned up.
"What's wrong, miss Bennet?"
"My, my friend, he..." She turned to look inside the room, "He's taken ill."
Darcy brushed past her and ran towards Tom, who had not moved an inch but had opened his eyes.
"Mr. Hayward?" Darcy tried. When Tom gave a nod, he grabbed his arm and raised it and passed it over his own shoulder, but before hoisting him up, Darcy added, "Can you stand up?"
"Yes," Tom grunted.
Darcy then lifted him by his arm, and both men stumbled towards the door where Mary was still gripping the knob with white knuckles, holding the door open. As they passed, Darcy looked at her.
"I'm taking Mr. Hayward back to his room. Please alert the steward and tell him to call for the doctor," he paused, listening to the relentless storm, "if he can get here. Find your sister and tell her."
Mary could simply nod, seeing Mr. Hayward being carried away by his brother-in-law. Her heart felt like it was twisting over itself, and she felt hopeless and somehow guilty. Guilty for letting herself fee praised while he was ignoring his own sickness.
She felt torn between the urgency to call for the doctor and the need to look at Thomas until him and Darcy disappeared from view. She had decided for the sensible thing and prepared to run down the stairs, when Mr. Hayward briefly turned his head to look at her.
She felt like crying again, pressing her lips together and having to physically rip herself out of the invisible roots keeping her in place. She ran down the stairs, her rushed steps filling the foyer, and screamed the name of the steward, hoping he was close enough to hear her. A door opened somewhere to her right, so far away it seemed, and out of her periphery she saw Jane's blue dress wafting behind her.
"Mary? What's wrong?"
It was when she tried to reply that she realized she'd actually been unable to contain her tears. "Mr. Hayward. He's... He's sick. He seemed fine but he... He-"
"Mary, calm down. We'll send for the doctor, alright?"
She was so scared. She'd never seen Thomas like that, so frail looking and weak, and it had been so sudden that she felt unprepared for it. It might have been excessive to feel so apprehensive, but she couldn't bear anything happening to him.
Jane squeezed her hand and ran for the steward.
Mary entered the room. It felt hot and charged, even though the windows were open. She remembered the times when she'd been sick herself with a catarrh and a fever, how she'd felt so cold to the point of shivering, and how the doctor had opened the windows anyway to let the freezing air in. Because despite the convalescent person being cold, the fever had to be brought down somehow.
So now she felt awfully bad for Thomas, who was probably feeling cold even underneath the covers. He was still wearing Darcy's undershirt but with its sleeves rolled up, and his arms were resting over the covers. His cheeks were still pink and his curls stuck to his skin, as damp as if he had just come out of the water. Someone had put a cold compress over his forehead.
"Mr. Hayward," she whispered. He didn't reply. "I'm so sorry. I feel like this is my fault."
Mary sat softly on the bed, almost at his head's height. She slid her hand over the quilt, hesitantly, until the tips of her fingers graced his ear. His skin was as soft as she had imagined.
Her fingers seemed to move of their own will, changing the tender, hot skin for the soft, damp curls. She twisted a strand between her fingers, and her knuckles brushed his scalp.
"Don't cry."
Her eyes shot to his, and she found them open and agreeable. He had a weak smile on, teeth showing.
She quickly and roughly dried her tears. "I'm not crying."
He chuckled. "I thought you more reasonable that this, refusing something demonstable. Facts, miss Bennet, wasn't it?"
She conceeded with a sad smile. "Touché."
"I'm sorry about this pathetic display, miss Bennet. The last thing I want is to impose on you and your family like this. It's one thing to let me spend the night, but I feel so awful for making you take care of me like this."
"Oh, no, Mr. Hayward, nonsense. Think of it as me returning the favour," seeing his confused expression, she added, "You've taken good care of me in London. You and the Gardiners are the ones who've made me feel welcome and looked after. I will stay by your side as long as I have to." As I desperately wish to, she wanted to add.
She wanted to be by his side. To take care of him. She was acknowledging the truth again, when she told herself that she loved him.