Chapter Text
Mrs Mary Ryder.
A day had passed, twenty-four whole hours, since Mr William Ryder sat across from her - in this very room - took her hand and, just as her mother had predicted, asked for her hand in marriage. She had not been shocked, per se, by the proposal. After all, Mr Ryder was not one to be subtle about his emotions, had been nothing less than attentive to her and had now asked her to be his wife.
There was no logical reason to say no, and so Mary - sensible, rational Mary Bennet - did what was expected of her. What would make her mother and sisters exceedingly happy.
She said yes.
Her fiancé - a strange way to refer to him and so she would continue to call him Mr Ryder - left that morning for Kent. His visit to his aunt had already been delayed, and, with his news, was keen to reach her and let her know of his plans.
Now, Mary found herself trying to figure out why, as she practiced writing the name that would be hers, it did not feel right.
Emotion should have had nought to do with it. She knew she did not love Mr Ryder, not as a wife should love her husband.
Yet, when she looked at it: her first name and his last together, it bothered her, beyond the obvious.
On her first attempt she had believed the issue lay in the way she had written the ‘y’ in Ryder. It was not until she said it out loud, on the second attempt and realised that her first name and his last could very easily meld into one whole word. She would have to be conscious of that, she noted, when she introduced herself.
Lest she refer herself as ‘Maryder’ and embarrass herself and her future husband.
Even knowing that that was where the issue lay, Mary still looked at the name, written as it was, and could not find any degree of satisfaction in it.
A thought - a terrible, sinful thought - crossed her brain. Silly, girlish. The kind of thing Kitty and Lydia would do in their youth as they discussed which officer they would like to marry.
Mary looked around - she was very much alone - which allowed her to dare to try it.
Mrs Mary Hayward.
She almost crossed it out immediately, with wide brush strokes which would blot it from the page - and her memory - forever. Still, she could not bring herself to do it.
She had only had to write it once, to feel a certain sense of peace in it. It evoked images of a comfortable home, of bespectacled children. Of debates over poetry and facts and which would triumph in the minds of those children.
A home that would be so full of love. Love that was infinite and patient and never judgemental.
A life that would never be.
If anything, thought Mary, Mr Hayward would likely be engaged by now as well, to Ann Baxter.
Mary tried to find any degree of happiness in that and found she could not.
She felt terrible for even considering something as silly as what she’d just written.
Just then, before she could consider scoring it out again, she heard her mother’s voice summoning her - wedding planning, thought Mary, would be an ordeal; one that she was not ready for.
Instead, fearing her mother might cross into the room at any moment, Mary folded the paper and shoved it into the nearby copy of Lyrical Ballads.
If it signified, she did not let herself think about it.
Mrs Jane Bingley and Mrs Elizabeth Darcy were, all things considered, thrilled by the events of the day before.
Their younger sister - the last unmarried - had accepted a proposal from an eligible young man of fortune and connections. More so, thought Elizabeth, he was a man who clearly held a great deal of affection for her little sister. Mary, too, seemed to enjoy his company a great deal.
The match was a good one.
At the moment Mary was in conference with their mother, who, with the engagement not even officially formalised - Mr Ryder had wished to speak with his aunt first and Elizabeth did not envy him that conversation - had thrown herself into the planning with a zeal that was a far cry from her illness of a week or so.
“I am happy for her,” Jane said, as the sisters settled in the library which Mary had just vacated. Jane with an embroidery hoop, Elizabeth with a book. “I only hope she is as happy as we are.”
Elizabeth wagered that she and her sister were two of the happiest - if not the happiest - married women in all of England.
“I hope so too,” Elizabeth murmured.
Restless, for a reason she could not put her finger on, she left Jane with her embroidery. Her book was forgotten too. Elizabeth walked over to the window which gave a spectacular view of Pemberley’s grounds. Elizabeth smiled softly; it was a view she would never tire of, this was a life she would never trade for anything.
The nearby table, she noticed, had Mary’s correspondence. A half-written letter to the Gardiner’s lay. As did the book Elizabeth had taken a special notice of recently, for how unusual it was to see Mary with poetry.
Jane hummed in agreement, when Elizabeth expressed this strangeness.
“Do you suppose,” Elizabeth ventured, “that Mr Ryder has been the one to suggest poetry to our dear sister?”
Jane considered this for a moment, paused on her stitch, and turned to Elizabeth with a wide smile.
“Oh I hope so, Lizzy,” she confessed. “How romantic would that be?”
Elizabeth picked the book up, thumbed through the pages. A piece of paper fell from the book.
Jane, who had since joined her, picked it up. When she unfurled the page, a small smile settled on her face.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.
Just as Jane was about to answer, something else must’ve caught her eye. Her expression changed, a little more concerned than before. Jane had never had a particularly good poker face. It came, Elizabeth figured, from her inherent goodness. It made her a terrible liar.
Elizabeth, concerned herself, joined her oldest sister.
At first, Elizabeth did not see anything wrong. It was endearing, even, to see Mary enjoy what their father would call frivolous, joining her name with Mr Ryder’s.
Something that Kitty or Lydia would do, thought Elizabeth, stifling a giggle.
“But look Lizzy,” Jane said, quietly, stabbing a finger to the name written near the bottom, in Mary’s unmistakeable hand.
Hayward.
Well, thought Elizabeth, this raised a question in her mind.
The book was missing.
When Mary had returned from the main sitting room - after almost an hour of listening to her mother discussing a trousseau and wedding clothes and the church and the wedding breakfast, only stopped when she realised it was almost time for luncheon - to the library, the book was missing.
She’d torn the room apart, in every nook and cranny, wondering where in the world it could have gone.
It was Mr Hayward’s book, she thought worriedly. She could not be allowed, would not allow herself, to lose it.
She made her way back to the main sitting room - though she was entirely sure she had left the volume on the desk, next to her attempt at a letter to her aunt and her uncle - she could not be completely sure.
The main sitting room was quiet, everyone getting ready for luncheon.
Apart from her sister.
Mary stopped when she noticed the copy of Lyrical Ballads in Lizzy’s lap.
“Did you take my book?” Mary asked, frustrated, but also relieved to find it in one piece.
She’d had terrible images of Duchess ripping the pages to shreds. How could she have faced Mr Hayward after that?
Lizzy stood up. Mary held out her hand and walked forward. Instead of handing her the book, Lizzy raised the arm which held it and shook her head.
In Lizzy’s other hand there was a plain piece of paper.
Mary, so distracted had she been by the list of things her mother had barked at her earlier, had forgotten about the offending piece of paper.
And what was written on it.
Still, she schooled her features, determined that Lizzy would not see her doubt.
“Mary,” Lizzy said, lowering her arm and placing Lyrical Ballads on the seat. She tucked the piece of paper inside the front cover, and then sat down. She gestured for Mary to sit as well, seemingly content that Mary would not simply take the book and then run.
“Elizabeth.”
Lizzy tilted her head, in that considerate way, even at the curt use of her full name.
“Dear Mary,” Lizzy said. “You do-please do not feel me impertinent for asking-you do wish to marry Mr Ryder, don’t you?”
Mary did not think ‘wishing’ came much into it. Mr Ryder was a man whose company she very much enjoyed, he made her laugh and seemed to enjoy her company too. It might not be a marriage built on great love but it would not be miserable, either.
Or at least, that was what Mary hoped.
Mary did not know how best to say such a thing to her sister, as madly in love with Mr Darcy as she knew her to be.
“The poetry,” Lizzy said, veering the topic away when she was aware she would not get such an answer right now, “was it Mr Ryder who introduced you to it.”
“No,” Mary said, knowing almost immediately she had said it too quickly. Mary continued, even as Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed at her: “It was another friend from London,” she explained, too aware of what she had written on the piece of paper Lizzy had shown her earlier.
How, she thought, had her sister even found it? Why was she rifling through her belongings in such a manner?
“I see,” Lizzy said, as if she understood.
Mary thought it was impossible that she could.
“Can I have my book back,” Mary said, and at Lizzy’s raised eyebrow added a customary, “please,” though she did not feel much like being civil.
Lizzy looked at her as though she could see through her. Her pretensions, her deepest feelings, thought Mary, her elder sister could identify. Even if it was an absurd thought, Mary could not help it.
“This friend in London,” Lizzy said, taking the book and placing it on her lap, the piece of paper now safely tucked inside, “is he a gentleman?”
“I do not see how that signifies.”
Lizzy gave her a look that said it signified very much. Mary did not agree. Could not agree. She could not think about him, a man who belonged to another.
Especially now. When she too was bound to another man.
“You should burn it,” Lizzy said quietly, passing the book to Mary. “Not the book, of course, but the name.” A meaningful pause. “The other name.”
With those parting words, Lizzy left her.
His understanding with Ann Baxter was over.
There was no real heartache, Tom thought. There should have been, he knew, after an agreement of three years. Three years of planning, of hard work, of determination to build a life that a young woman like Ann Baxter deserved.
“We do not feel what we felt all those years ago,” Ann had told him, matter-of-factly. “I don’t know if we ever even really loved each other in the way we ought to have. We both know it. We only went along with it because it was easy, because it was expected.”
She had been right, of course.
But now another offer had come along. Mr Powell. He wanted to marry her, now. Not put it off out of an obligation to provide, because he already could.
It was sensible, Tom thought.
And again, there was no heartache at the realisation.
“Do you love him?” Tom had asked, the most important consideration. While they only had an understanding, there might still be whispers.
He still cared for Ann. He would always care for her, hoped they would always remain friends.
Ann had nodded.
“I believe so,” she admitted, almost giddily. “Or if I don’t yet, I am surely halfway there.”
“Then you must follow your heart,” Tom had said, all the while knowing these as words of a hypocrite.
His heart was, after all, in Derbyshire.
Recognition flitted across Ann’s features then. Ann knew, knew the meaning of his words. She extended her hand and placed it on his forearm. She squeezed, the last act of intimacy that would ever be shared between them.
“You should follow yours too, Tom,” she told him, forcefully. “You deserve to be happy, too.” With a reassuring smile she said: “You will make her very happy.”
It was not until Ann left that he considered the specificity of her statement at all.