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It had been such a promising day, Mary despaired, looking unhappily between the pair of the vexing men, and now it is come to this.
Her throat was tight with unspoken frustration, a well of emotion threatening to overspill, though her eyes were mercifully dry. As the wind tugged insistently at the loose strands of her hair, bullying them about at the edge of her vision, she hesitated, caught between two equally unfavourable options when all she wanted felt held just out of reach.
What she wanted was to stay on this mountain, come hell or high water, and force this confusing endeavour to some satisfactory conclusion. Despite his abrupt shift in behaviour and countenance, Mary held to her conviction that Mr Hayward had embarked upon this trip with the most romantic of notions — though he now could scarcely look upon her face, and then only with the most grim of expressions.
Therefore, the temptation to agree with Mr Ryder's wild suggestion struck a chord in her — all the more potent for how it went counter to Mr Hayward's own preference — but as the seconds passed, that spark of anger was doused in a deluge of sadness. She had set off this morning with such high hopes, and now, suddenly, all she wanted was to return to the inn and shut herself away for the evening to repine her change in fate in quiet solitude.
Swallowing a sigh that would've only been snatched away by the wind, she turned one final time to face the view, her decision made. "We should go," she said aloud, unable to look over at them as she said it, reluctant to see disappointment or cold approval on either of their achingly familiar faces.
The grand sprawl of hills fell away beneath an endless sky, the distant shadow of a storm only now blooming into sight upon the far horizon. She sucked in a deep breath, savouring the way the chill mountain air stung slightly against the inside of her lungs, and let it out in a long slow exhale, feeling a solitary tear make its way down her cheek.
Mary felt a half-familiar emotion in her then, something that she had not felt in truth since her youth. It was the same raw hurt in the centre of her that she had endured watching Mr Sparrow hurry away from her awful words, the same sinking feeling she had folded herself around later that night at home, when she realised that whatever suffering they both felt was her fault. A sickening mix of guilt and heartache that made her want to crack open and sob.
But hearing Mr Hayward and Mr Ryder continue their bickering behind her, she steeled herself once more, as she had all those years ago.
"We should go!" she called again, tucking away that spectacular view from Scafell, tucking away her own unspoken hopes, tucking away every part of her that was soft enough to bruise, until only steely determination remained. She turned back and strode over to the quarrelling group, chin lifted but still unable to quite look anyone in the eye. "If the guide says it is unsafe, then we must defer to his good judgement and descend. To do otherwise is foolishness."
"But Miss Bennett, do you not think-"
"No, I do not, Mr Ryder," she replied sharply, no longer caring whether her tone was polite. She had no room left in her for softness. "I think poetry is all well and good, but what is it compared to reality? You may stay here with your Wordsworth and your storm, but I shall return, safely, to the real world." She dipped her head at him perfunctorily and made to walk over to their guide, who had packed up their picnic and was waiting impatiently upon the rise to begin the return trip.
"Thank you, Miss-" Mr Hayward tried, as she passed him, but she cut him off coldly.
"You may save your thanks, Mr Hayward," she sniffed, looking somewhere over his shoulder, "for you had no bearing upon my decision. I wish only that we had never made the climb to begin with." She hurried past before he could reply, taking their guide's lead and beginning the long trip back down.
The return trip, though largely downhill, seemed to take twice as long.
Mary held onto her determination like a clenched fist, sure that if she allowed herself a moment to pause she would unravel like a pulled thread.
No, she commanded herself, as steely as she could manage, I shall make it down this mountain if it is the last thing I do.
This was made all the harder, however, by a second resolution: that she would do it without the help of either Mr Hayward or Mr Ryder.
An awareness of them lingered in the back of her mind — for, despite all her maelstrom of emotions, she could not help her basic humanity — and she glanced back occasionally to ensure they had not lost anyone from their party, but she did not stop. She would forge her own path now, as she knew she must forevermore. It was a truth hard-learned once long ago and firmly remembered now, that she was not meant for the ease or convenience of a conventional life. No, she would make do with the strength of her convictions, the determination of her body and will, and the hardiness of her spirit.
In those brief glances back, she mostly saw Mr Ryder at the elbow of Miss Bingley; he, wearing his disappointment stoically, while she took no pains to conceal her frustration or distress. Mr Hayward lingered somewhere in the middle of their party, never far from Mary, though after the third or so icy rejection he had apparently accepted that his help was neither wanted nor needed and fallen back a respectful distance.
The rain reached them not long after, and she heard their guide's muttered thanks that they were in the latter half of their journey. He took care to point out the safest paths as they travelled, but otherwise seemed as content as she to remain silent. It was a relief not to have to find words to fill the emptiness.
She was sure the inn was almost in sight when it happened — her own fault, surely, for becoming incautious in her eagerness; she peered over towards the edge of the field, craning for some sign of a building through the trees, and stepped too far, her heel slipping on the wet grass and sending her legs out from under her.
"Miss Bennett!" she heard Mr Hayward's startled cry, though he was too far back to reach her in time.
Mary landed hard on her rear, her wet skirts offering little friction as she slid helplessly down the hill, her hands scrabbling in the dirt by her side and tearing up handfuls of grass and small stones to try and slow herself. She had thankfully not skidded far when her boot caught at a rock wedged in the grass and slowed her in a sudden jarring instant.
For a short moment she lay back against the grass, her backside feeling bruised beneath her, palms skinned from scraping roughly against the ground, and a familiar embarrassment welling up within her. She let herself cry silently, eyes screwed up tight, lips pressed together in a trembling line, and then forced her stinging hands beneath her and began pushing back to her feet.
"Miss Bennett, are you alright?" Mr Hayward asked, breathless, slipping to an unsteady stop beside her. His hands were outstretched towards her, his dark curls plastered to his forehead by the rain, and his pale face etched with a look of pure concern. "Do you know how I would feel if anything were to happen to you?"
That look pierced her straight through and she glanced immediately away. How dare he act the part of the caring friend now? After he had abandoned her so abruptly upon the peak.
"Let me-"
"No, thank you," she insisted, though her voice was not nearly as firm as it had been earlier. She feared she now sounded as wretched as she felt. "I will get on fine on my own."
"But-"
"Please," Mary begged, her voice cracking, "Mr Hayward. You have done enough."
He fell silent at that and she dared not look up at his expression as she wobbled carefully back to her feet. She gave herself a moment to find her balance before putting one foot in front of the other and resuming her descent — though she struggled not to wince as the movement pulled at her sore muscles in newly painful ways.
Mary had been half-right at least, as at the bottom of that sloping field the inn sprang into view.
She let out a long breath of relief at the familiar sight of white-washed walls. Mary pushed her dripping hair off her face and glancing back once more to make sure that the others were not far behind her. Then, content that they would surely make it the last distance safely, she lifted her skirts clear of her boots and hurried down the gravel path.
"Mary!" Mr Gardiner called in greeting from the front door, ducking out from under the eaves to meet her in the path. He ushered her in, "Are the others-"
"Not far behind," Mary assured him, the cold hitting her all at once as she stepped inside. She wrapped her arms around herself tightly and shivered as someone draped a blanket over her shoulders. "They'll be here momentarily, I'm sure."
"Mary, my dear," Mrs Gardiner sighed in relief, gathering her up in a hug, despite the water dripping readily from her. "We were so worried when we saw the storm coming in. I'm so happy you made it down alright. Are you well?"
"Nothing a hot bath and some dry clothes won't fix," Mary assured her, as she heard the door opening once again behind her. She looked up and saw their guide and Mr Hayward stepping in, both damp but otherwise unharmed.
"Tom!" Mrs Gardiner called, stepping over and laying her hand on his arm, "We are so relieved to see you return safely. Thank you for taking care of our Mary."
Mary kept her expression neutral, though she felt a tension in her brows and worried that her frown had slipped through. She watched Mr Hayward, caught the moment his eyes snapped over to meet hers, a sliver of utter misery beneath the scant relief, both smothered in a small, tired smile that conveyed no good humour as he looked back to the Gardiners.
"Excuse me," he said, tone flat, "I find myself in need of dry clothes once again."
"Of course, of course," Mr Gardiner agreed heartily, "we will arrange for hot baths for the pair of you — and hot food once you are dressed."
Mary nodded mutely in thanks, all of the chaos of the last several hours catching up with her at once, and swayed unsteadily on her feet. The room seemed to swim for a moment, wall and ceiling melting together, faces blurring past like a dream. "Oh, Mary!" she heard someone call from nearby, an arm tucking under hers to slow her fall as her legs buckled beneath her.
And then strong arms were grasping her, one across her back to support her weight, the other over her body to grip at her hip. Mary felt her eyes flutter shut, helplessly, as the weakness passed through her, and leaned gratefully into the solid figure at her side.
When she blinked her eyes open again, Mrs Gardiner was standing worriedly in front of her, hands fluttering towards Mary. She was speaking, but it took a moment for the words to penetrate through the sudden fugue. "-to her room?"
"Yes, of course," a rough, low voice murmured from startlingly nearby, and Mary tilted her head back to see Mr Hayward, his face looming close over hers as he held her carefully in his arms. His dark eyes were wide and worried behind his wet lenses, his hair spilling damply over his forehead in a tumble of curls, and his mouth pursed into an unhappy frown. "Can you stand, Miss Bennett?" he asked, barely more than a whisper, and she managed a small noise, neither a yes or a no, as she came gradually back to herself.
She was aware, very suddenly, of her hand fisted tightly in his lapel, of her back pressed to the breadth of his chest, some small measure of warmth burning through the contact despite all their wet clothes. "Y-yes, I…think," she managed after a moment, shifting her weight onto her shaky legs and managing at last to stand. He did not release her immediately, as though he didn't trust for her to be safe without him. "Thank you, Mr Hayward," she mumbled, still too shellshocked by her sudden weakness to be truly embarrassed.
"Of course, Miss Bennett," he said softly back, easing slowly away from her, though he did not remove himself entirely. The arm that had been curled around her back and clutching at her side carefully withdrew, until he was only gently cradling her elbow. "But let me help you upstairs, please, just in case."
She nodded woodenly, looking quickly down and away from his pleading look, and silently allowed him to help her off towards the stairs, Mrs Gardiner bustling ahead in front of them to get the door.
He got her to her room, settling her in a chair before the lit fire, where she huddled in her wet clothes and shivered. As he pulled away, she reached to grab at his sleeve, but her fingers were clumsy with cold and missed the damp wool, slipping instead against the warm, damp skin of his wrist. He stopped, letting her feeble grip arrest his movement, and met her eyes with his own furrowed in concern, while she felt the thread of his pulse jumping beneath her fingertips.
"Thank you, Mr Hayward," she whispered again, hoping that some of her genuine appreciation was visible on her unhappy face.
"Always, Miss Bennett," he replied, and this time when he pulled away, she let him.
"I'm quite alright now," Mary assured Mrs Gardiner with a tired smile, as she was settled back against the pillows. "It was only a passing weakness, from the cold and the exertion."
"Well, I would still feel happier if we let the physician take a look at you," Mrs Gardiner insisted, pressing a hand to Mary's now warm cheek.
"I promise I will let you know if I feel any faintness again," Mary assured her. "But I am very sure that a good night's rest will put me to rights."
"Oh, Mary," Mrs Gardiner sighed, smiling sadly, "how did such a lovely day turn out so ill? Was it at least very beautiful at the peak?"
"It was…" Mary shut her eyes, remembering that handful of minutes, between them arriving at the summit and Mr Ryder's untimely interruption. They had been the happiest moments of her life, she was sure, and she knew she would treasure them forever. But now picturing the bright warmth of Mr Hayward's fond look, recalling the fluttering anticipation in her stomach as he spoke of his regard— now it felt soured and bittersweet. "I will never forget it," she finished, eventually, unable to help the sheen of tears that rose to her eyes. She smiled through it, hoping Mrs Gardiner might believe that it was all for the majesty of nature, but she knew only too well how insightful her aunt was.
"Sleep well, Mary," Mrs Gardiner offered, after a short silence, and kissed her lightly on the forehead before drawing away and leaving the room.
Mary lay awake for some time, listening to the crackle of the fireplace, the distant din of laughter and voices echoing up from downstairs. She let her mind play again on that scene upon the mountaintop, though she knew it was folly.
She imagined a hundred scenarios, tried to believe that there was some way it might have played out differently, but there had been a dark finality in Mr Hayward's solemn gaze after speaking with Mr Ryder, and she was sure that was the crux of it.
I shall get to the bottom of it all, tomorrow, she resolved, they owe me that much.
Mary woke early, feeling sore but well-rested.
As predicted, she seemed to have fully recovered from whatever bout of weakness had caused her to swoon, and she blushed now to picture Mr Hayward catching her and holding her in his arms as he had.
Mary looked herself in the mirror, her hair spilling messily out of its braid, her eyes calmer and more focused. She remained fixed in her resolve to understand what had happened, refused to allow her fate to be guided by a conversation she had not even been made privy to.
She dressed in that same quiet determination. Yesterday's depth of feeling was acknowledged only brusquely, in passing: there would be plenty of time for the weight of all her confused emotions later, but right now she needed the facts.
It was still too early for many guests to be awake, but Mary strode out of her chambers and down to the common room. She took a table by the window, asked politely for a cup of tea, and settled in to wait.
As luck would have it, the first familiar face was the one she most pressingly wished to see.
"Mr Ryder," she said, standing up at once.
"Miss Bennett," he replied, not a little surprised, though he hurried over with a quick bow and a broad smile. "It relieves me to see you so well. I must apologise, for I admit I quite lost track of you in the descent."
"Think nothing of it," she assured him, smiling back placidly, "we all made it back safely, did we not?"
"That we did," Mr Ryder said, his face soft and warm and brightening by the moment, though it flickered into a small frown after a moment. "Not entirely, however. Poor Miss Bingley twisted her ankle on the way down. She wishes to see her own physician in London, and I'm afraid I feel it's my duty to escort her back to town. We have resolved to leave after breakfast." He crooked a sad half-smile, "I am sorry not to be able to spend more time with you here in the Lakes, Miss Bennett. I will miss conversing with you."
"Actually," she began, forcing the words out before she lost her nerve, "there is something I would most like to discuss with you. Before you leave."
"Oh?" he prompted, his expression open, curious, and not unhappy.
"It's about yesterday," she continued, hesitantly, "about what you said on the mountain."
His smile didn't so much waver as sharpen, a new feeling dawning on his face. Mr Ryder looked almost hopeful, and Mary felt something of a pang to realise she would be forced to disappoint him. But her original decision from yesterday morning had not changed: if she was to be forced to choose, she knew who it would be — who it must be.
"Perhaps we could take a turn in the garden?" he offered, "If it's not too chill."
"An excellent idea," she agreed, hoping selfishly that the garden might be completely empty at this time of day, and give her the necessary solitude to say what she must. She finished her cup in a quick swallow and wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, walking ahead of him when he gestured politely.
The air outside was biting, the sun scarcely risen above the hills, and some early fog still clung wetly to the plants. It was beautiful and quiet, the trees sheltering them from view, and Mary led them a ways down the walk before stopping and turning to Mr Ryder.
He was still smiling shyly at her, a faint pink in his cheeks and his hands fidgeting nervously. She thought she might be beginning to understand what her sisters had meant when they called him handsome at Pemberley, but a larger part couldn't help an unkind comparison: his eyes were not that lovely shade of warm brown, his cheeks did not form those delightful creases when he smiled, his was not the face that made that feeling swell up overwhelmingly in her chest. In short, he was certainly handsome, but he was not… for her.
"I wondered-"
"I should have-"
They both spoke at once and stopped short, smiling wryly at the timing.
"Please," he gestured elaborately, "continue, Miss Bennett."
"I wondered," she said again, "if you might tell me what it was that you and Mr Hayward spoke of yesterday. For it seemed to be something of grave importance."
"Ah," Mr Ryder said, "that. I had hoped not to begin with- But perhaps it is best…" he nodded eventually, to himself, walking forward a few steps and gazing up towards the trees before he began. "It was never my intention to intrude on your time in the Lakes, but I needed Mr Hayward's help with a legal matter. A… matter of inheritance."
"Inheritance?" Mary repeated, frowning. She felt a little foolish for having assumed their discussion necessarily pertained to her, and no closer to understanding yesterday's conflict.
"Yes, you see, I was named — quite unexpectedly — as the heir to my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. On the mountain I… I informed Mr Hayward of my change in fortune and advised him of my intention to propose you to that very afternoon."
Ah, Mary thought, with a sudden sinking feeling she struggled to keep off her face. "I see."
Mr Ryder paused in front of her, his expression open and optimistic, seemingly relieved to have his cards on the table, so to speak. He stepped closer, hands still clasped together, "He understood what I could — what I can — offer you, and he gave me his blessing." He let the words hang for a moment before swallowing and meeting her eyes with an earnestness that was difficult to see. "Perhaps now would be-"
"I am sorry, Mr Ryder," she interrupted, her heart already aching sympathetically with his plight, "I-"
"Please, just let me," he held his hands up, insistent, and eventually she nodded, pressing her lips together. It would be quicker, and more merciful, to get it over with posthaste. "I have never met anyone who makes me feel as you do, Miss Bennett. You make me think, make me feel, you challenge me and inspire me. I was foolish for the half-hearted offer I made at Pemberley, I see that now. But I also now see a way for us to have those dreams and still meet the expectations of the world we live in." He reached forward and grasped her hand, tucking it between both of his. His hands were warm and careful on her, and she felt tears prick her eyes despite herself, a blush rising to her cheeks at the contact. "Miss Bennett, I shall now do what I should have done weeks ago, and ask… if you would consider accepting my hand in marriage?"
The moment felt stretched, frozen like a scene in a painting. She was vibrantly aware of his hands on hers, his guileless blue eyes open and seeking, of the sound of the trees softly shaking in the wind, of the smell of earth and flowers carried on the air, and of the inn slowly coming to life at the far end of the garden. It felt as though her life were poised on the edge of a knife, ready to fall one way or the other, and it was an immense relief to her not to feel a moment's hesitation. For once, she knew exactly what she wanted, and she was only reluctant to cause the harm it naturally necessitated.
"Mr Ryder," she began, "my answer must of course be…" her eyes flickered over his shoulder, towards the inn, where for a sliver of a moment she could almost swear she saw a face framed in one of the upstairs windows, before the curtain flickered shut and the sight was passed. She let out her breath, looked back at Ryder with a smile tinged with sadness, "…that I do not love you."
A hundred expression chased across his face, before settling with a forced optimism that stung to see. "Could it be that you…" his hands tightened fractionally on hers, as though resisting the realisation that they must soon let go forever, "…you might grow to love me?" he asked, softly, hopefully.
"Not in the way that you deserve to be loved," she told him gently but decisively. Her expression was soft and careful, intending no hurt beyond that which was strictly necessary. For all that his impatient actions yesterday might have ruined an otherwise perfect day, he had been driven as much by well-meaning emotion as any of them. "You are a dear, dear friend, Mr Ryder. I have learned so much about myself from our friendship, but I don't believe I would ever have made you happy." She squeezed his hands once, and then let go. He let them slip away, looking at the gardens with such sweet sorrow that she resisted the urge to reach out to him again. "Go to Italy," she told him, smiling warmly, "go out and seize everything it has to offer. There is a wealth of joy out there for you, Mr Ryder, and true happiness, that I do not doubt."
He looked back at her, his sad smile much dimmed but still carrying a trace of fondness she could only hope would soon fade. "It was a… pleasure to see you again, Miss Bennett," he murmured, "I wish you all the best."
"Goodbye, Mr Ryder."
"Goodbye, Miss Bennett." The words lingered in the cool air between them, like a mist. "I think I will stay here a moment, if you don't mind. And collect my thoughts."
She nodded, smiling one last time, "Of course," she agreed, dipping into a small curtsy, before turning and making for the inn.
At last I think I understand, she reflected, reaching the end of the garden.
It was a relief, sharp and guilty, to be able to close that chapter and move on. She knew she would miss Mr Ryder and the ease of his company, his happy talent for drawing laughter out of her, but the thought of their parting did not threaten to break her open, as Mr Hayward's abrupt change on the mountain had.
Though now, feeling she half understood the motivation for his change of heart, she wasn't sure whether to feel touched or angry.
Angry, she decided, shortly and unequivocally.
Certainly, he must have found some way to justify his position to himself, out of some misplaced concern for her future, no doubt, but, equally, he must have been stupid or- or blind to imagine that any consideration for material gains might have outweighed the workings of her heart.
Rounding the corner of the building, she startled to a stop, "Mr Hayward?" she called reflexively, feeling almost as if he had been conjured up by her thoughts.
He paused, hands fastening in the reins of the horse he stood beside, though he did not look at her. He was dressed smartly in his usual way, top hat tucked neatly under his arm, and a satchel slung over one shoulder.
No, she realised with growing horror, certainly he had not been conjured by her thoughts at all, because even in her worst imaginings she hadn't pictured him leaving.
"Mr Hayward," she said again, walking over as if in a dream, her voice sounding faint, "where are you going?"
"Miss Bennett," he managed, though the words came out slow and rough, and he still did not look at her, "You must excuse me. I did not intend-"
"Did not intend what? To say goodbye?" She was too startled and hurt to properly rein herself in, felt her voice rising up sharply at the end as she continued, "You were just going to saddle up and leave without so much as another word?"
"What else is there to say, Miss Bennett?" he asked her, voice so soft, eyes fixed on the point where his gloved hands gripped tightly to the reins. "Except, perhaps, congratulations."
The word fell like a stone between them.
Mary's mouth opened once, twice, in silent surprise, as she struggled with a thousand things she wanted to say at once. As if her silence confirmed rather than denied something, his lips tightened into a frown and he nodded to himself.
"I am sorry, Miss Bennett, but I cannot-" he broke off, overwrought, "I ought to be pleased for you — I am pleased for you, but-" He shook his head sharply, sucked in a small breath.
"And what," Mary interrupted determinedly, stepping closer, her hand resting on the wall beside her, as though she might need the support, "what about what I might need to say?" she demanded.
At that he finally, finally, turned to look at her, and the sadness on his face broke her heart all over again. She shut her eyes, felt her lips tremble as she fought back the urge to cry. She needed to say this now, she knew, or she might never have another chance. Mary took a shaky breath, opened her eyes and levelled a challenging stare. "You owe me that much, Mr Hayward," she told him, and he shrank back, looking helplessly about as though he might find the answer to her challenge tucked in a bush somewhere.
"Fine," he sighed, eventually, "you may say your piece, Miss Bennett. If you must."
"I must," she insisted. She walked smartly past him and knocked on the door, "Could you please take Mr Hayward's horse? He has decided to temporarily postpone his departure."
"Miss-" One glance over her shoulder silenced him, and he made no further complaints as she saw his horse and belongings tucked away inside. Without another word, she set off down the trail, leaves and twigs crunching crisply underfoot. It was only from the steady sounds of his footsteps behind her that she knew he was following.
They walked for a short time, until fields and trees gave way quite suddenly to the lake.
"Miss Bennett," he complained finally, his voice rough and strained as he drew to a stop, "is this really necessary? What can you say here that you couldn't say at the inn?"
Mary gazed out at the still waters, reflecting the grey clouds overhead. How could it have been only two days ago that they sat on a boat in the middle of that lake? Two days between incandescent happiness and whatever bleak mood followed them now.
"We never finished our conversation from the boat," Mary reminded him lightly as she turned to face him, thought the words caught slightly in her throat.
He huffed, his jaw clenched hard enough she could swear she heard his teeth crack. His eyes were conspicuously averted. "I hardly think it matters now, Miss Bennett."
"Of course it matters, Mr Hayward," she affirmed, stepping closer to him, daring him to look at her, "if it ever mattered at all, it matters now."
"As I said on the mountain, my circumstances-"
"Have changed," she finished, "Yes, I remember. Mr Ryder has told me all about his change of fortune."
Mr Hayward's gaze, which has been aimed desperately out at the lake, snapped over to her, pained. "Then you know why I- why I could not finish our conversation."
"I believe I do know," she agreed, slowly, not dropping his gaze now that she held it, "but I confess I still do not understand."
"What is there not to understand?" he cried in frustration, taking an abortive step forward. "I knew — I know," he corrected himself wretchedly, "that you care for Mr Ryder. I knew quite clearly from his incredibly irritating behaviour that he also had a liking for you. When he told me of his good fortune and his plan to make you an offer of marriage, I… I thought it in your best interest that I graciously step aside."
Mary felt her brows rising, incredulous and increasingly angry. "How kind of you," she replied acidly, "to decide for yourself what is in my best interest."
Mr Hayward looked taken aback, startled briefly from his despondence by this sudden and unaccountable aggression.
"Well, I- I thought-"
"I understand perfectly well what you thought, Mr Hayward," she interrupted scathingly, taking a step forward, "but you thought wrong."
A bird called loudly from the trees, echoing in the open air. She could hear the lapping of the water against the shore, gentle as breathing. She could hear everything with complete clarity, for the both of them were utterly still and silent, regarding each other as if from across a vast space, though there was increasingly little between them.
"I do not understand," he began, looking lost. "Miss Bennett-"
"I have been thinking on something Mr Ryder once said to me," she began boldly, noticing uncomfortably how Mr Hayward flinched visibly at the name, his eyes darting away once before returning helplessly to her. "He told me it was his belief that our inability to say what we really mean is one of the great curses of our age. At the time, I disagreed. Indeed, I still think there are a great many things that are better left unsaid, however…" she trailed off, steeling herself, allowing her gaze to meet his with great intention, to draw courage from the belief she still determinedly held in his fondness for her. "I think you yourself put it best: that during our short time on this Earth, we should be brave."
Mary watched him swallow, watched as his throat bobbed beneath his cravat and his hands twitched restlessly at his sides. She felt her blood thrumming through her entire body, a disconcerting awareness of self anchoring her in his moment.
"Mr Hayward, if you had asked me what I wanted," she told him, and any lingering remnants of anger had drained from her tone, replaced by earnest desperation and a depth of feeling that still now shocked her to the core, "I would have told you. I never wanted Mr Ryder. I have never loved Mr Ryder." She paused, the tears coming now against her will, for bravery could only get one so far. "I love you," she confessed, hearing her voice crack, unable to look at his face, "I have only ever loved you-"
His hands caught hers and she looked up at him again, and that mask of misery was gone, washed away beneath shock and awe and hope and a wave of emotion that threatened to pull her under. "I love you," he breathed in quiet desperation, surging forward, still cradling her hands in his own, "I have always loved you. From the very first time I caught you playing Graces on your own when you thought no one was at home," his face broke into a smile at last, and she felt herself laughing too, despite it all. "I have spent my life on the outside of things, but with you, I am right in the middle of it all."
They gazed at each other then, for a long moment, basking in this newfound happiness, this mutual love that seemed almost to bloom in the air around them now that it had finally been acknowledged; she could see it, shining in his eyes, his smile, and wondered how she had ever doubted at it.
"Mary Bennett," he asked, voice warm and serious, the words spilling out of him as though he could hardly hold them back, "would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?"
Mary looked up at him through a veil of happy tears, blinking them quickly away as she nodded fiercely, "Yes," she whispered, "yes," and then before she knew it Mr Hayward was leaning down and capturing her mouth in a kiss.
She leaned into it, smiling against his lips and feeling him smile back, their mouths working together for a blissful moment, as their hands were trapped between them in a joyful knot. He rested his forehead against hers and they were both laughing again, as though the joy had nowhere else to go but out. "That was a yes from me, Mr Hayward, in case you didn't catch it."
"Mary," he said, his voice overcome with emotion, "I think now that we've kissed, you can probably call me Tom."
She laughed again and looked up at his glowing face, then fell back in towards him as he leaned in, and kissed him back with all her love and joy and the thrilling awareness that she would get to do it countless times again in the future they would inhabit together.
His arms came around her and held her to his chest, while Mary's hands clenched in the lapels of his coat, and they swayed together, in front of the lake, beneath the endless sky, and bathed in the happiness of their moment.