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Tom Hayward was nothing if not a gentleman. Well, sure, he liked poetry and mountains a little more than some of his colleagues, and yes he had fallen head over heels with Miss Mary Bennet—but he had kept his head remarkably well in regards to her. Other than the many, many times he wanted to smack William Ryder across the face, and the times he'd forget his words or just stare at her—Tom was losing his train of thought. The point was, he would never do something to make his now-fiancée uncomfortable.
He was a gentleman, after all. Even if that meant he had to sit through hours of what could only be described as complete and utter torture; watching Mary, the most beautiful, smart, vivacious woman he had ever had the fortune to meet work and make wedding preparations and generally be herself, without getting distracted. Even if he just wanted to reach up and adjust her spectacles for her….
"Tom?"
Tom snapped his head up, eyes wide, and stared at Mary. He got the feeling he probably looked like a complete and utter fool, staring at Mary with his mouth agape, the letters he had been trying to read lying abandoned in his lap.
"I—I'm terribly sorry, darling, could you repeat yourself?" He stumbled over the pet name—Mary had never particularly said one way or another if she wanted such terms in their relationship, but if Tom didn't do something to show his affection for the absolute shining sun of a woman in front of him, he was going to bash his head out on a marble floor.
Mary blushed, reaching up to adjust her spectacles. Tom had to bite back a sigh; another moment lost. William would have laughed at him for his reservations, called it shyness and the constraints of society, but that wasn't it at all. Mary was…precious to Tom. He respected her more than anything else, and he could not make her feel uncomfortable around him. These past few weeks had been so special, magical, with a quiet kind of understanding between them that only Miss Bennet could bring. Tom refused to ruin it because he couldn't control his own emotions.
Tom's sisters had raised him to respect women. Respect their struggles and the way life was so, so much harder for them, respect their preferences and restraints. Other than that one perfect kiss, Mary hadn't initiated any kind of…well, any kind of actions beyond what had happened over the course of their friendship. And Tom was determined to respect that. She would be his wife soon—and wasn't that a marvellous thought?—but Tom's decisions wouldn't change.
William had offered Mary freedom, an escape from the chains of the expectations of the society that bound her. She had quietly told Tom about it, with an awkward laugh and a blush and a request not to think any worse of his friend. Tom, of course, would have been ready to punch Will if it hadn't been for the fact that Ryder had already hied himself off to Italy or somewhere like it. Tom wouldn't—couldn't offer Mary the same, but he could offer her all his respect and the option for her to choose exactly what she wanted from their relationship. He hoped it was enough.
Mary scrunched her nose—at this point Tom, if he hadn't known her so well, would have assumed she was trying to make him collapse like a house of cards.
Of course, Mary would attempt nothing of the sort.
He collapsed anyway.
She grinned, nodding to the unopened envelopes Tom hadn't been able to force himself to read. If he read them, he'd have to look away from her.
"I was merely commenting on the fact that we've been sitting here for almost an hour, now, and you've still not read a single one of the letters I so willingly entrusted to you," she said, mirth dripping off her words. "Someone must read and respond to them before the wedding, you know."
Tom chuckled, picking up the first letter and furrowing his brow in mock distaste.
"Ah. Yes. I believe—unless my eyes deceive me—that this very first missive is one from your mother." He glanced above the wire rims of his spectacles at Mary, who pressed a hand to her mouth as she fought back the laughter he had grown so fond of.
"Oh dear," she choked out, ducking her head and tapping her fingers against her leg, "I had rather hoped she'd forget to write." Mary's voice was light, filled with laughter, but there was a truth in her words. Tom hated it. He hated the idea that there was anyone who could look at Mary and be anything less than kind, especially her own mother. It was a special kind of cruelty that someone as brilliant and caring as Mary simply didn't deserve, and Tom hoped to spend the rest of his life making sure that no one ever treated Mary Bennet like that again.
Tom raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the letter in his hands for a moment to gather himself. It probably wouldn't do to start off a marriage despising his mother-in-law, after all. He loved Mary—and just the thought sent chills down his spine and made him fidget nervously; how had he ever been blessed enough to love Mary, and to have her love him in return? Even if she had chosen to marry someone else—the thought made him sick; imagining Mary exchanging vows with some stiff, unknown man—he would count himself lucky enough to be nothing more than her friend. That alone would have been an honour he'd have taken to his grave, but this? This gentle peace, and love, and domesticity, with the woman he adored? Tom was in heaven, he was sure of it.
"Would you like me to open it?" He glanced across the room, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "The fire has been built up quite nicely, today." Tom put as much meaning into his words as he could muster, and was rewarded by Mary throwing her head back and laughing, wisps of hair falling loose from her bun.
"Perhaps quite such drastic measures don't have to be taken," Mary said, "but I'd have to be lying if I said I wasn't considering it."
Tom grinned, forcing himself to look away from Mary so that he could actually open and read the letter. He adored the way he could see Mary blossoming, growing more confident and mischievous through her stay in London. She was still the sweet, reserved woman he would crash his carriage into a tree for, but her confidence had truly bloomed. Like a rose, petals uncurling, soft and bright and—
Right. Letter.
As Tom had expected, Mrs. Bennet's letter was filled with many complaints and admonishments to her daughter. It was one of the reasons he'd offered to take care of the mail they'd received after announcing their engagement—Mary had enough she was dealing with, without needing every detail of the way the pollen affected her mother's health. Tom was used to complicated papers and legal documents, he could sit through one or two letters and give Mary the necessary details afterwards. Mrs. Bennet's other four daughters had already been married—although Tom couldn't fathom why he'd been the one to win Mary's heart when surely there had been other men in her life who had seen the way she'd shone—and that meant that Mrs. Bennet was filled with useless, and occasionally cruel, advice to Mary.
Tom had learned to ignore it, of course, but even he could only sit through so many instructions on how to, essentially, keep himself from cheating on his fiancée before he wanted to have some strong words with Mrs. Bennet. Honestly, it was insulting. Insulting to Mary, sending her advice on how to keep him happy, and insulting to him—he would rather die than leave her. It showed the lack of trust Mrs. Bennet had in both of them, and it was frustrating, to say the absolute least. Not to mention horribly improper. He wasn't sure how he'd handle Mrs. Bennet's inevitable visit, closer to the wedding, but he'd have to find a way. For Mary. Tom looked up, ready to jokingly recite the contents of the letter, but….
Mary had her head bowed over what she was working on; a wedding seating chart, he thought—she always had been particular about important details, even though the Gardiners had offered to pay for whatever organisation or wedding things they needed. It was as kind as it was unnecessary; Tom was perfectly capable of funding the kind of wedding they wanted, and Mary wanted to make sure everything was perfect herself.
Wisps of hair fell into her eyes, dark and pretty and almost wild, like the untamed moors; he'd heard her lamenting the fact that they wouldn't hold a curl, but he thought they were perfect. He thought everything about Mary was perfect, actually. Except, maybe, her taste in sermons; he'd never been partial to Fordyce, but that could have just been Will's influence on him.
Tom cleared his throat, glancing down at the letter in his hands. His eyes caught on a single sentence of Mrs. Bennet's scratchy handwriting, and he winced. It read 'remember, Mary, to count yourself lucky that you've found a husband at all. If his eyes roam—' Tom forced himself to stop reading there, pointedly unclenching his fists before he addressed his fiancé. As if any other woman could come close to the beauty of Mary Bennet. As if he would ever even consider not giving her his complete and utter attention, for the rest of his days.
"She complains of the weather," he started, "and cautions you to—keep yourself safe. From the changing seasons."
Mary glanced up at him, her gaze sharp and piercing. He caught himself leaning towards her and forced himself to sit back in his chair, awkwardly looking away from her. It was a rare experience, but Tom found himself wishing that Mary was a little less intelligent or insightful, because she was sure to know he was lying.
She didn't mention it, though, and Tom folded Mrs. Bennet's letter and tucked it into his pocket, to dispose of later. He began working his way through the rest of his and Mary's correspondence, sorting them into different piles depending on how quickly the letters were due responses. Most, if not all, of the other letters were people sending word that they would be attending his and Mary's wedding—oh, stars, he and Mary were going to get married. A thrill of happiness ran through him at the thought—and didn't require urgent responses or much thought at all.
It was still hard to get through them, with Mary in the same room as him. They kept stopping their respective duties to discuss things, getting into several animated conversations before they remembered what they were doing and reluctantly stopped. For something that would bind them together, it was certainly frustrating that their wedding plans were getting in the way of the time he wanted to spend with Mary.
Mary sat, perfectly emotionless, in front of her bedroom mirror. She was staying with the Gardiners, after they most graciously offered for her to continue on in their residence until the wedding.
Mary tugged out the last pin from her bun and untwisted her hair, separating it into sections to make it more manageable to comb. She rested her hands against the wooden top of the vanity, gathering herself for a moment before she picked up her brush and began gently running it through her hair. She did it the way Mrs. Hill had taught her, starting from the very bottom of her mousy brown hair and working her way up, carefully combing out the tangles.
There was a soft knock on her door and Mary jumped, scrambling for her dressing gown so that whoever it was wouldn't see her wearing just a nightgown. She hastily wrapped the ties around her waist and folded her arms across her chest before calling for the other person to come in.
Mrs. Gardiner pushed the door open and slipped into the room. Mary bit back a sigh of relief, sitting down with a thump on her bed. While she couldn't imagine any need for anyone else to come up to her bedroom at night, she was grateful it was Mrs. Gardiner.
Mrs. Gardiner sat down beside Mary, her eyes filled with a soft kind of concern that Mary had never seen in her own mother's eyes. She'd seen it in Lizzie's, though, when Mary had been particularly despondent, or when Jane had been ill at Netherfield.
"Are you alright, Mary?" The question was kind, and more frank that Mary had come to expect from the older woman, with all her confusing metaphors and talk of bonnets.
Mary nodded. Mrs. Gardiner didn't say anything. Mary sighed and shook her head, burying her face on her hands. She took several deep breaths, trying to keep herself from crying, and felt Mrs. Gardiner's hand rest on her shoulder.
"It's about—Mr. Hayward," Mary said, straightening up and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Mrs. Gardiner nodded, her gaze sympathetic. She didn't say anything, just waited for Mary to collect herself and keep talking.
"I am worried," Mary started, carefully choosing her words as she struggled against the tears pricking at her eyes, "that I—that he—that we do not feel the same way about each other," she finished lamely, ducking her head.
"Oh, Mary," Mrs. Gardiner said, her voice filled with kindness. Mary choked back a sob and buried her face in Mrs. Gardiner's shoulder, shaking as she tried to fight back her tears to no avail.
Mrs. Gardiner rubbed between Mary's shoulders, her touch gentle and comforting.
"What makes you think that?" Mrs. Gardiner sounded like she wanted to say more, but kept silent as Mary tried to speak.
"I…." She took a deep breath, curling her arms around Mrs. Gardiner and completely ignoring all dictates of propriety in favour of the comfort that Mrs. Gardiner gave her.
Mary glanced over at the flowers drying above her vanity. She knew Tom cared about her, knew it as sure as the sky was blue, but still. Some part of her longed to be loved and love in return, regardless. Mary knew it was a selfish thing to want. So many people had such unhappy marriages, and she was lucky enough to be engaged to someone who respected and cared for her. Mary couldn't truly want for anything more, but still.
Tom bought her flowers and talked with her and was so, so kind, but Mary loved him. Was it too much to ask that he loved her in return? Maybe it was.
"I have been studying," Mary started, thinking of the pile of penny-novels she had forced herself to read before shoving them underneath her bed, "and while most things in my research are—not something I would be interested in, it appears that the normal state of affairs for couples in love involves more…obvious displays of affection."
"Ah." Mrs. Gardiner paused. "And you're worried that since Mr. Hayward doesn't express affection in similar ways, that he doesn't share your feelings?"
Mary laughed, sitting up and scrubbing the tears from her face before looking down and picking at the skin around her fingernails.
"It sounds silly when it's said like that, doesn't it?"
Mrs. Gardiner shook her head, scooting a little closer to Mary on the bed.
"I don't think it's silly all. What exactly is it that you feel like Mr. Hayward isn't attempting?"
Mary cleared her throat, fighting to find a way to express her fears and reservations without making herself sound like a complete fool.
"Well. I don't—I don't quite know. It—his mannerisms haven't seemed to change since we were simply friends, and I…I don't know how to feel about that." She took a deep breath. "He uses sweet nicknames for me, sometimes, but he always looks like he regretted speaking afterwards, and I know it's foolish but he never even tries to—to hold my hand, even when we're alone and propriety isn't an issue."
She saw Mrs. Gardiner's expression and stumbled over her words, trying to explain herself. "I don't want him to attempt anything untoward! I just…wish I knew…." Mary paused, gathering her thoughts. "I know he respects me, but I don't…he hasn't made it clear to me if he loves me."
Love had always been…complicated for Mary. In reading the books she had purchased for research, she had learned that most, if not all, of the heroines had…feelings upon seeing the interest of their affections. Physical reactions when they first met, like a fluttering feeling in their stomach. That had never happened to Mary, not until she had learned about how kind and smart and funny and lovely Tom was. Then, yes, it felt like a thousand bugs were trying to claw their way out of her insides, but until then she'd never been…drawn to him in that way. Mary was pretty sure that was an odd thing to admit, but still. She was…almost sure that she had always been that way. Regardless, she did love Tom. She knew that much. She loved his mind and his laugh and everything about him. She just…wished she knew, completely and utterly, that he felt the same way.
Mrs. Gardiner hummed, pulling Mary's hair away from her face and beginning to braid it, her touch gentle. She didn't seem nearly as distraught as Mary was, but that was only to be expected; Mrs. Gardiner had been in a loving, happy relationship with her husband for years.
Marriage or misery. Mary knew that both could easily co-exist, and life without marriage didn't necessarily entail misery, but she had spent so long watching other people's happy relationships blossom, and now her own had hit a snag even before the ceremony. The truth was, even if Tom didn't love her, Mary thought she would be quite content to live together as friends. It would just hurt, so much, to learn that the way she felt wasn't reciprocated. Especially after that kiss….
"And have you talked to Tom about this?" Mrs. Gardiner's voice was kind, and she was tactful enough not to mention the way that Mary's eyes fluttered closed when she heard her fiancée's name. Mary's eyes snapped back open, though, when she realised what Mrs. Gardiner was saying.
"I—of course not!" Mary blushed, and pressed her hands to her cheeks in an attempt to hide it. "That's—I can't ask him for—Mrs. Gardiner!" She couldn't go about asking for affection, that was—unthinkable. Ridiculous, even. Most certainly not something she would ever consider. Either Tom loved her in that way or he didn't, but either way they were getting married and Mary would just have to come to terms with whatever happened.
Mrs. Gardiner kept braiding Mary's hair, fastening off the first braid with a ribbon she had gotten from somewhere and moving on to the second, her hands gentle where they combed through Mary's brown locks.
"I think you should," she said simply, leaning over to give Mary a smile. "I've found that most problems that arise between two logical people can be easily solved with proper communication." She took a breath, focusing on braiding Mary's hair for a moment before she continued. "I think Tom loves you very much; my husband often jokes that you're all he talks about, when they see each other." She fastened off the second braid and stood up, offering her hands to Mary. "You needn't worry about that, I assure you."
Mary took Mrs. Gardiner's hands hesitantly. She wasn't sure if she believed Mrs. Gardiner, but then again if did feel horribly distrusting to consider that Tom might not feel the same way about her, after he had asked to marry her. Surely Tom wouldn't offer that if he didn't have some feelings towards Mary, right? Mary just wished that the way he felt was more obvious. It was hard, trying to parse through every action performed by the man she loved.
Mrs. Gardiner helped Mary stand, then gave her a small smile.
"Let's go see if we can rouse up a cup of tea from somewhere, shall we? That always makes me feel better, maybe it'll work for you as well."
Mary nodded, and Mrs. Gardiner's smile broadened.
The next day, Mary and Tom were walking in one of London's parks, Mary's skirt swishing around her ankles as she did her best to keep her hand from brushing Tom's, even when she wanted to twine her fingers around his so very badly. She couldn't help but remember that one perfect kiss, when their very beings had felt intertwined, and now their was this horrible wall set up between them that she didn't know how to break. She couldn't exactly kiss him again, not while they were in public, and certainly not until she was sure that was something he wanted.
She had worn her favourite bonnet, one with a bright lace trim, but she was beginning to regret her choice when she realised that the shape of it kept her from glancing across at Tom while they walked next to each other. She'd have to get a different bonnet for the next time they walked together.
Mary had never been good at starting awkward conversations. At least, not on purpose. She could think of dozens of times she'd asked the wrong question, or said the wrong things, or had gotten trapped in a conversation with truly annoying people, but she simply wasn't the kind of person to seek out any kind of conflict. She wanted things to run smoothly, to keep working, and she most certainly did not want to ruin the quiet peace she had found with Tom.
Tom made some quiet, inconsequential remark on the wildlife, and Mary found herself melting. She loved him so much it hurt, her chest aching as invisible insects crawled over her skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Maybe it wasn't the most romantic way to describe the effects her love for Tom had on her, the thought of being covered in insects wasn't exactly the sweetest thing in the world. It was accurate, though.
"Tom," Mary started eventually, pushing through her own self-consciousness. Mrs. Gardiner had said it would help, and Mary trusted her aunt. Tom and Mary had found a bench and were sitting just a few inches apart, a small bush on either side of them as they watched the ducks swimming in the pond in front of their bench.
Tom hummed his acknowledgement, looking across at Mary. Suddenly, she was grateful for her bonnet—it hid her blush.
"Tom," Mary said again, continuing bravely onwards, even though her voice shook, "do you love me?"
Tom's jaw dropped. For a moment he just sat there, stunned, staring at Mary—his betrothed—and wondering where on earth he could have gone so wrong.
Do you love me?
He was horrified to even hear the words pass her lips. Hadn't it been obvious? He had barely been holding himself back since that day they had kissed, and yet Mary was wondering if he loved her. God, he had messed up. Badly. Tom frantically thought back—he had gotten her flowers, and complimented her, and he was head-over-heels in love with her—but now that he was thinking about it, had he ever said that? Could his attempts at propriety have been interpreted as rejection? The ring box he had brought on their walk weighed heavily in his pocket.
"Mary," Tom whispered, his voice on the verge of breaking. "I love you more than anyone else I have ever met. I love you more than the grass and the sky and the air and—" he took a deep breath, stilling his trembling hands. "I—Mary. You're everything to me."
Something seemed to lift off Mary's shoulders—how had he not noticed the weight resting there before?—and her face broke into a smile. She leaned back, looking at the lake, relieved tears sparkling in her eyes.
"Well, then. That settles it."
That absolutely did not settle it. Mary had thought—had asked—Mary had thought that he hadn't loved her, and Tom was still in shock. He would cross the oceans for Mary Bennet, would love and cherish her for the rest of his life. And, somehow, he hadn't made that clear.
Tom had never been one for dramatic displays of affection. He wasn't Will; he was the kind of person to take Mary off somewhere quiet and secluded to read her poetry or something of the sort, but. Well.
He was on his knees in an instant, pulling out the ring box and holding it out to Mary. Her eyes were wide and she stared at him, and all he could manage was a stupid grin. She was beautiful. The sun caught on her bonnet, a soft golden glow that almost framed her face, and her eyes shone, and she was reaching out with a trembling hand—
"Darling," Mary said, tripping over the pet name, "you're—on the ground."
Tom's grin only widened.
"I suppose I am. Here." He offered her the box and she took it, turning it over in her hands. He stayed kneeling, looking up at Mary and doing his absolute best not to topple backwards into the lake whenever he remembered that he got to marry her.
Mary looked at him, concerned, and Tom relented. He stood up, bowing to her, and sat back down on the bench, his leg brushing up against his skirt. She was close enough that he could smell the perfume she was wearing, and it felt like being smacked in the face with a brick. In a good way.
Mary opened the ring box and stared down at the piece of jewellery inside, different colours of precious stones set into a gold band staring back at her. Tom could see her lips moving as she whispered letters to herself, figuring out what it meant. His grin, somehow, got bigger. Of course she had figured out that it was a riddle; she was Mary Bennet, after all.
"Does this…does this spell out adore?" She turned to look at him, her mouth hanging slightly open, and Tom nodded enthusiastically. He reached forward, gently taking the ring out of the box—their hands brushed—and sliding it onto Mary's finger.
Mary stared down at the ring, then at Tom. She looked stunned, but happy, and Tom blinked back the tears of joy that stung at his eyes. He leaned forward, pausing for a moment, and tipped his head to one side. Mary nodded, grinning, and Tom raised a hand and pushed back her bonnet, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss against her hairline. Mary curled her arms around him and he hugged her back, resting his chin on top of her head and whispering reassurances as they both wept.
After a long moment that wasn't nearly long enough, Mary pulled away. She adjusted her bonnet and cleared her throat, her face a bright red. Instead of commenting on the impropriety of their actions, though, she just stuck out her hand. The ring sparkled in the sunlight.
"Communication?"
Tom nodded, taking her hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles, as gently as he could.
"Communication."
They spent a long time in the park after that. Mary took her bonnet off and rested it on the bench between them, and they held hands beneath it. Occasionally, Tom glanced over, saw Mary, and couldn't help the grin that came. Somehow, Mary loved him. And he was going to make sure she knew he felt the same, every day of their lives.