Work Text:
"Do you know how I should feel, were anything to happen to you?”
He looked at her with such anguish that Mary felt, at once, ashamed and resentful. How should he feel? How was she to know, when he would not speak plainly to her?
She gave only a silent nod and walked ahead, her thoughts in tumult.
How should he feel? What of me?
The return to the inn was slow and quiet. Mary could not help but steal glances at Mr. Haywood—soaked through, his spectacles dotted with rain, his dark hair fallen in damp curls across one eye.
A sudden, unwelcome thought pressed upon her.
What should I do if anything were to happen to him?
And then she knew.
He had become the most important person in her life.
With him, she was not overlooked nor diminished. He did not think her foolish for her love of books, nor tiresome for her earnest discussions of geology. He did not dismiss her.
He simply saw her.
Voices broke into her thoughts. She looked up—they had reached the inn. Mr. Ryder and her uncle hurried toward them.
“Miss Bingley is hurt,” said Mr. Haywood, relinquishing her to Mr. Ryder.
Mary had scarcely time to process this before she noticed him sway.
“Tom—!”
He collapsed.
She reached him as he struck the ground.
“I am here—please, hold on,” she whispered, heedless of all propriety, not even aware she had spoken his given name.
“Uncle Gardiner—quickly—it is Mr. Haywood—”
Mr. Gardiner was beside them at once.
“He must be brought inside immediately—and a doctor sent for.”
Mary followed in a daze. Her thoughts circled only one terrible truth:
He does not know… he does not know that I love him.
The idea struck her so forcefully she had to steady herself against the wall.
Later, admitted at last to his room, Mary forgot all restraint. She went straight to his bedside, taking up a damp cloth and bathing his burning brow, humming softly a tune from childhood.
Gradually, he quieted beneath her touch.
Mrs. Gardiner, observing, needed no explanation. It was plain enough—Mary loved him, and he, she suspected, loved her in return.
“Mary, you should rest, my dear,” she said gently. “I will sit with him.”
Mary did not look up.
“No, Aunt—pray allow me. It is my fault. I would not listen to him on the mountain. I was angry—I behaved most foolishly.”
A tear escaped; she brushed it quickly away.
Mrs. Gardiner sighed, but relented.
“Very well—but if he wakes, you must call me at once.”
“I will. Thank you, Aunt.”
When she was alone, Mary drew a chair close and, seeking to steady herself, picked up the book at his bedside—poetry by William Wordsworth.
The page was well-worn.
Heed not tho' none should call thee fair;
So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
Her breath caught.
Had he read this—and thought of her?
A restless sound drew her attention. He stirred, his head turning.
“M… Ma… Mary…”
She reached for him at once, taking his hand.
“I am here. Do not be afraid.”
He quieted instantly, his grip tightening around her hand as though he would not let it go.
She remained beside him through the long hours of the night, tending him, soothing him, refusing all entreaties to rest.
When he wakes, she resolved, I will tell him. I must.
Near dawn, his fever broke.
Mary, at last overcome, had fallen asleep, her head resting near his arm, their hands still clasped.
When Tom awoke, it was to a strange and welcome peace.
His gaze fell upon Mary—her curls loosened, her face softened in sleep, her hand still in his.
She had stayed.
His heart lifted.
Very gently, he brushed a strand of hair from her face. She stirred, and her eyes opened.
“You are awake!”
She sat up at once, concern overtaking her.
“How do you feel? Shall I fetch the doctor—do you require water—”
She stopped abruptly, realising she still held his face, and withdrew her hands with a blush.
He could not look away from her.
“You stayed,” he said softly.
“Of course. Where else should I be?”
Hope stirred.
“Mr. Ryder—” he began.
Mary frowned.
“He has gone with Miss Bingley and the Hursts. I do not expect to see him again.”
Hope flared.
“Mary,” he said, with effort, “I must explain. Mr. Ryder wished to consult me—he intended to ask for your hand.”
Mary’s composure broke.
“You thought it best to decide my future for me? To expect I would accept him as though I ought to be grateful?”
Her voice trembled, but did not falter.
“I do not love Mr. Ryder. I never have. I love you—and only you. I would have no other husband.”
For a moment, he could only look at her.
Then he drew her forward and kissed her.
When he pulled back, his voice was unsteady.
“Mary—will you make me the happiest of men? Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Later, exhausted, she leaned against him, her eyes already closing.
“I love you, Thomas,” she murmured, and slept.
He watched her in quiet wonder, scarcely daring to believe his happiness.
It was Mrs. Gardiner who discovered them the next morning—both asleep, hands entwined, their expressions peaceful.
She smiled.
Everything had turned out exactly as she had hoped.