Chapter Text
Tom sat alone, the fire burning low, it’s light wavering against the walls. The inn had long since fallen quiet.
He told himself he wouldn’t write. That he’d leave quietly once Mary was well.
And yet, his hand betrayed him.
My dear Miss Bennet,
By the time you these words are read, if indeed they are read, I shall be gone.
I tell myself there is nothing more to say. And yet, I find I cannot leave without attempting it.
There are, I think, forces in this world which render our wishes mute. We may hope, or strive, but in the end we must abide by what is set and not question it.
For a short time, I allowed myself to forget such considerations. The days we spent in the Lakes… they were the happiest I have known in many years.
It was simple. Walks taken without purpose, conversations of little importance. I found in them a comfort I had not expected.
I foolishly thought that such moments might be permitted to continue. That I might make something of them.
It is a dangerous thing, to mistake happiness for possibility. Whilst I concerned myself with what was proper and right, another required no hesitation.
And so, I see now that I was mistaken to place any value upon it. It was never mine to build upon.
I was a fool to think otherwise.
There are moments, I confess, in which I wonder if you might think of me at all. Whether in some quiet hours, my name might still occur to you, or whether it is only I who will be so foolish to dwell upon what is past.
Will it be the same, when your husband recites Wordsworth to you?
Will you think of me, when he calls your name?
Tom paused. With a sudden force he struck a line through it.
Forgive me, it is not a feeling I ought to indulge. Such thoughts serve no purpose. They are neither useful or appropriate.
There are after all rules we must conduct ourselves by. I would not wish for either of us to disregard them now.
You will I am certain, soon be settled in a manner most advantageous. It is only right. It is what you deserve, for you deserve everything, Miss Bennet.
I wish you every happiness.
Yours faithfully,
Tom Hayward
Tom set aside the pen, staring down at the page, all that had been said, and all that had not.
For a moment he didn’t move. Then before he could reconsider, he rose.
The fire caught quickly, the paper curled.
Words vanished, as though they had never been written at all.
He began again, a fresh piece of parchment.
Dear Miss Bennet,
-
The morning air was cool against his face as he stepped onto the gravel. His horse was packed, ready for his departure.
He turned, looking back to the inn. It was quiet, near dawn with many sleeping still.
Mary would wake soon.
Tom shook his head, turning to leave.
“Tom.”
For a moment, he did not turn, uncertain whether the voice had been real, or merely something conjured by his own mind.
Slowly, he turned back.
“Miss Bennet.”
Mary stood before him, shawl wrapped around herself. Her dress was not fastened properly, as if she had rushed. In her hand Tom’s letter- his fourth attempt.
“You were leaving.” She said, tone firm.
“I was. Miss Bennet, you should be inside, you are still recovering.”
Mary stepped closer. “Without saying anything? Just… a letter, merely two sentences long?”
A flicker of regret passed across his expression. “I-I did not wish to trouble you.”
“Trouble me?” she echoed. “You disappear, and I am not to be troubled?”
“I thought it best, that way.”
A pause lingered between them as the birds chirped around them.
“I do not understand.” Mary frowned.
Tom drew a slow breath, forcing a smile. “I believe you are on the cusp of a very happy future.”
Her expression shifted from confusion to something sharper. “If that is so, why are you leaving in such a manner?”
He gave a small shake of his head. “It is not my place to speak of it.”
“Then whose is it?” Mary pressed, folding her arms as her frustration grew.
Tom looked at her, truly
Her hair hastily fastened, her glasses slightly askew, face still flushed from illness. She stood before him exactly as she was, unpolished, unguarded and entirely herself.
His chest tightened painfully.
“I do not wish to complicate matters,” he said quietly. “Please trust that my intentions are of pure heart and are for your benefit”
A breath caught on his throat. “I apologies profusely for my behaviour, on Scafell. I wouldn’t do so, if I did not believe it was for the best. For you.”
Turning away, he moved to his horse and mounted quickly before he could falter.
He swallowed thickly. “I trust you will have a fantastic life, Miss Bennet.”
He paused. “Give Mr Ryder my regards.”
Tom urged his horse onwards, leaving Miss Bennet behind.