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There was something beyond chance which led Thomas Hayward to where he was at that moment. Some working of fate and fortune, though he couldn’t tell whether it was good fortune or bad. At the current moment it felt like misfortune indeed. Forcing a smile and making conversation at a coach stop in Oxford with Ann Baxter and her mother. It would have been a stilted conversation at the best of times, but now with his mind very much occupied in its wallowing he could barely string sentences together. His answers were proper but not at all engaged. He barely noticed when Ann next spoke,
“Does this mean you’re heading back to town?” she asked with a brightness in her eyes that reminded Tom painfully of Mary’s.
“Actually, I’ll be spending some time in Yorkshire,” he bowed his head, “I have some family up there,” Ann’s face changed, almost imperceptibly, to displeasure, if he hadn’t known he so long he probably would have missed it.
“Well,” he said, stepping away, “enjoy your journey,”
He found himself a table by a window which looked out over the countryside. The view was wonderful in that painful way that beautiful things often were and he was preparing himself to be sufficiently melancholy when Ann reappeared and placed herself in the seat across from him. He smiled nervously but her face was stony. His smile dropped.
“So you are simply planning on never speaking to Mary about any of this,” she did not elaborate on what “this” was, she did not need to, Tom knew instinctively what she meant,
“I tried Ann, but circumstances changed and I lost the opportunity-”
“You have had every opportunity for months!” she said exasperated, "Admit it, you have been smitten with Mary ever since she first came to London and you saw her at the Gardiners’ house. There have been countless clues, and you certainly cannot deny that you were drawn to her at the ball even though we were still…” she didn’t finish the sentence, it was not a thing to be said out loud in public, but she gave him a significant look which conveyed her meaning,
“Then you show up in the Lake District with all the attentions of an attached man only to turn around at the top of a mountain and claim that “changed circumstances” from a 30 second conversation were enough to alter your entire future” Tom realised dimly between all his shock that Mary must have spoken to Ann about that day, “And worst of all, you callously ignored the letter which Mary wrote to you, even though she told you she loved you!” Ann was breathing heavily now, Tom’s own heart was pounding from a mixture of fear and hope running through his veins,
“What letter?” he said desperately, but Ann only sat shocked, “Ann, what letter?”
He was out the door in what felt like moments. There was no time to waste. He had waited long enough to reconfirm what Ann had said before desperately booking the very next coach to London. Seven hours and forty-five minutes had done very little to calm Tom Hayward’s nerves. Indeed, he was rather more agitated from the wait. Much could happen in eight hours and whilst he tried to bolster his spirit with Ann’s words, occasional moments of deep depression still suffocated him as they had done since the moment Ryder spoke on the summit. He had not been enough for Ann, he could not be enough for Mary. Ryder could easily have proposed since Ann had last seen Mary. He could be too late.
But hope was a resilient little creature, and even now it thrashed inside his chest,
She loves you, it screamed, Ann said that she loves you.
It was all he needed, and before he knew it he was running through the streets of London, propriety be damned. Mary had been brave enough to write to him, so he too would be brave. If he was too late to recover Mary, if he had caused her too much pain to say yes to him, he hoped at least that he could have that letter. He would carry it with him always, and be forever grateful that a woman such as Mary Bennet could once have loved him.
His legs and his hope soon carried him to Gracechurch Street and he was on the verge of climbing the steps to the door when it opened and out stepped Mary herself. She turned and their eyes met. Hers widened in shock, which quickly morphed into a look of exasperated incredulity. It looked beautiful on her.
“I ran into Miss Baxter,” he said as Mary descended the steps, “on my way through Oxford,” it was not the greeting he wanted to give her. More than anything he wanted to step up to her, cradle her face in his hands and kiss her as he had wanted to do since the first time he had caught her playing Graces on her own in the house behind her, but Mary deserved a much better explanation that that, “She rightfully informed me, with a harshness which was very much deserved, that I had been a callous fool who had acted in a manner which cannot be excused,” the corner of Mary’s mouth twitched as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She was close now, so close he could have touched her,
“Ann really said that?” she asked sceptically, Tom bowed his head,
“Not in those exact words, I may have taken the liberty to begin labelling my character with words as poor as it deserves.” He paused for a moment to gather his courage, “She also said, she said you wrote me a letter,” Mary’s face flushed with her brilliant unique shade and she looked up at him defiantly,
“I wrote you two letters,” she said, “and the second was not nearly so pleasant as the first,”
“I have not deserved any pleasant letters from you these past weeks, but I am very glad that you sent them. Miss Bennet, Ann said- she mentioned the contents of your letter and it has given me reason to hope again. Mary I have to ask, do you really love me? And could you love me still after the incomparable mess I have made of things?” She was crying then, tears running down her face and Tom could not discern what emotion they were born from.
“I am still very angry with you Mr Hayward,” she said through her tears. Tom’s hope flickered inside of him, “and I have many, many questions. But to save us any more foolish and frankly unnecessary confusion, I will tell you that yes, I love you. I have loved you since you handed me a book of poems which changed my life forever and I will continue to love you until the Peaks themselves are raised low.”
They were both crying then. Tom could not resist any longer, the wave of relief that washed over him seemed to push him forward. He gathered her in his arms and hooked his chin atop her head, anchoring himself in place.
“I love you” he said, he had been desperate to say it for weeks, months even but the words felt as though he had been saying them aloud all his life, “I have never felt so truly myself than when I am with you and I cannot bear the thought of going another day not knowing- will you- will you allow me to spend the rest of my days at your side? Will you let me talk with you, and argue about poetry and work for a life for us. Will you allow me your hand in marriage?” she stilled beneath him, though not long enough for him to panic. She drew back just enough so that she could look at him and pulled his face gently down so that their foreheads were touching.
“Yes,” she said softly, her breath ghosting across his face, “to all of the above,” it felt as though neither of them moved, or perhaps both of them did because her lips were brushing against his. It was only a moment, but it was theirs and it was electric.
“Mary,” he said against her, and she pulled away with a smile, the tears were gone and only a clear brightness remained in her eyes.
“Come on Thomas,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him up the stairs, “come inside. You still have plenty to answer for,” he laughed and was pulled along easily, for he found, with no surprise, that he would follow her anywhere.