Chapter Text
1826, Philadelphia
Mary watched the bridal carriage rumble away until it was out of sight, the cloud of dust kicked up by its wheels settling back down to the busy streets of central Philadelphia. She stood as if cemented to the sidewalk, frozen as the inhabitants of the city flowed around her, and she fleetingly wondered how all of their lives could be going on as usual while hers had just come to a devastating halt.
Mary had always known that all four of her sisters would marry and leave her behind, but it had always been an abstract concept; something that would happen at an unknown point in the future. But today that future possibility had suddenly arrived with such finality that she felt a physical tightening in her chest, her heart beating thunderously as if to hasten the surging flow of panic and shame that snaked through her veins. It was now a fact that she was the only unmarried Bennet sister, with no prospects and a creeping fear of what would await her on the other side of this moment. While Mary typically enjoyed facts, she found this one to be entirely unwelcome.
“Mary, COME INSIDE AT ONCE. Why must you always make such a spectacle of yourself?!”
She winced as her mother’s shrill rebuke pierced through the open window, drawing stares from several passersby as she turned and began making her way reluctantly up the wide front steps of her family’s stately townhome. Pushing through the large front door, she imagined how bereft the house must now feel. The vivacious Bennet sisters would never again fill its halls with shrieks and giggles, thunder up and down its curved staircases as they fought over ribbons, squeeze into its hidden nooks together as they sighed and whispered over potential suitors. Mary had always been on the outside of these moments, and she felt the judgement of the home settle upon her shoulders with the knowledge that she alone would never be enough to fill it with that verve and zeal again.
Unable to face any additional critique in her present state, Mary slipped quietly down the empty hallway. She skirted the large drawing room where she could hear her mother complaining to a maid about the pattern on her teacup, then tiptoed past her father’s study and up the staircase, hand sliding along the smooth banister as she wound her way up to the small library on the top floor. If she had any refuge in this home it was here, since she knew her mother would never willingly climb so many steps and her father had his own books and work to keep him occupied. She collapsed into an armchair next to a small round window that overlooked the green park across the street, but found no comfort in the view, burying her face in her hands instead as she leaned against the shallow windowsill.
Each of her sisters breezed through life with such ease, secure in the knowledge that their futures would unfold easily before them. That they would be desired and cared for, and that they deserved to be. It was this confidence that was perhaps most incomprehensible to Mary. She had grown up in the same home, with the same parents, education, and community as her sisters, but she had never once felt any sense of confidence that fortune would find her in the same way that it found them. She did not sparkle or charm like they did, so it only stood to reason that she could not expect to reap the same benefits that they collected so effortlessly.
But what would her future hold now? Would she live with her parents forever? Would her world become smaller and smaller until her entire orbit was just this gloomy, oppressive home, filled with memories that were hardly even hers? Where she had only existed on the periphery?
Mary threw herself backward in the chair with an anguished groan, staring blankly ahead at the rows of familiar books on the shelves across from her. After a few moments her gaze sharpened and fixed on a small volume squeezed between several of her father’s old textbooks. Her brow furrowed as she sat forward to pull it out, feeling sure that there was no book in this library that she didn’t know, let alone one that would be shelved so incorrectly. Turning the book over in her hands, she read the front cover: Lyrical Ballads & Other Poems by Wordsworth and Coleridge.
While Mary did not have much appreciation for poetry, she still felt a slight spark of curiosity about how the book had made its way there. Leaning back in her chair she considered a few possibilities, but before long her attention drifted back to her sorry situation and she found that even this mystery couldn’t provide a distraction. Letting the book fall open in her lap, she looked down and noticed that it had opened to a poem called The Dungeon.
And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God?
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d up
By ignorance and parching poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pamper’d mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,
By the lamp’s dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.
These verses did nothing to improve her mood, for she could not foresee any possibility of love or beauty arriving to improve her own bleak future. Chiding herself for comparing her situation to anything remotely like what the poem described, she still couldn't stop the few tears that slid down her cheeks as the emotion and exhaustion of the day overtook her and carried her off to sleep.
****
2026, Philadelphia
Tom Hayward grinned broadly as he jogged up the wide steps of a beautifully renovated townhouse on the edge of a bustling green park in the heart of Philadelphia. Flinging open the front door he strode through bursting rows of bookshelves toward a small cafe at the back of the large open room, offering friendly waves and nods to several busy employees as they assisted customers with their purchases.
“Will it be the usual today?” The barista looked over from where she was preparing a row of elaborate frozen drinks, clearly meant for the group of teenage girls giggling at a table in the corner.
“Oof, it’s getting late so I’d better skip the caffeine. My meeting with the Gardiners ran longer than we expected, so I’m just going to grab a decaf drip to go,” he explained as he made his way behind the counter, filling a ceramic mug before heading back out to the store and ascending its winding staircase toward the second floor. Sliding his hand over the smooth banister, he paused halfway up to take in his favorite view. From this vantage point he could see almost the entire first floor of the bookstore, and he never tired of finding the aisles crowded with customers as they browsed for the perfect book. With a contented sigh he continued on his way down the wide hallway of the second floor. In contrast to the open floor plan below, this floor was lined with doorways leading to several smaller rooms off of the main hall.
“MR. TOMMMMMMM!!!” The screams came from one of those rooms, and he laughed as he stuck his head in the door and offered high fives to the group of 6-year-olds who were regular visitors to the colorful and cozy children’s book room. He loved that parents felt welcome to bring their children here, taking advantage of the comfortable chairs and frequent story time events where Mr. Tom himself was regularly conscripted to be a reader.
After deftly extricating himself from all of the little arms wrapped around his knees and saying his goodbyes, Tom passed through another door to an area of the building not open to the public. It had been renovated to hold two small but well-appointed apartments, and he unlocked the one on the right, easing the door open. Tom shrugged off his jacket while depositing keys and wallet in a small bowl on the hallway console and kicking off his shoes. Abandoning the now-empty coffee mug in the sink, he smiled upon hearing the patter of tiny paws approaching while he opened a cabinet and pulled down a blue pull-top can.
“And how was your day, sir?” This earned him a conversational “meow” in return, as the small ginger cat came around the corner of the kitchen island and began rubbing against Tom’s ankles in a familiar figure eight pattern. He emptied the can of food into a small bowl and set it on the floor with an affectionate scratch behind the cat’s ears.
Once he was comfortably sprawled out on the overstuffed couch on the other side of the room, he grabbed his laptop from the coffee table and began to catch up on the emails that had accumulated throughout the day; most coming from the agents of several prominent local authors who had agreed to do readings and book-signings at a gala event that Tom was coordinating for the bookstore. Proceeds would go to youth literacy initiatives in the city’s public school system, and tickets had sold out almost immediately. He was incredibly gratified by the interest the event was garnering, and was determined to diligently manage the numerous administrative tasks that came along with it.
Tom’s friend Ann Baxter, a pastry chef with a massively popular bakery in Reading Terminal Market, had insisted on providing all of the desserts for the evening, and he was midway through sending her a few details when the cat jumped onto his stomach and curled up squarely in the middle of the keyboard.
“Bookmark, that’s not really a convenient place for you to nap. How about if we just move you over a few–oh okay, and now you’ve sent Ann a message asking what her recommendation would be between the pistachio pastry bites and the…efjiewaf16835. Those choices do make the decision rather straightforward, I suppose.”
Shifting Bookmark further up on his chest, he propped his phone on his shoulder after opening it to the fish app that he knew would keep the cat distracted while he finished his work. After a follow-up email to Ann (Bookmark sends his love!) and marking a few other items off of his to-do list, he dropped his head against the cushion and finally took a moment to let the events of the day sink in, the comforting motor of Bookmark’s powerful purr warm against his chest.
Tom had first begun working at the bookstore as a college intern, shadowing the owners as he pursued a degree in business administration and marketing. He was offered a full-time position upon graduation, and his role and responsibility expanded over the years until recently culminating in an offer of co-ownership.
Earlier that day he’d met with Ed and Madeleine Gardiner, his mentors and now co-owners, to iron out the details of the arrangement. The bookstore was only one of their many ventures, having found the bulk of their success in real estate, and he knew the deal they were offering to him was enormously generous considering his age and relatively few years of experience. He had initially balked at the terms they suggested, but they insisted that he was the only person they would consider entering into this agreement with and that these were the only terms they’d offer. They pointed out how the store had flourished under his careful management, defying the fate of so many similar shops that had fallen victim to the ease and prices of online retailers. In fact, the shop was more profitable now than ever, considered to be a jewel of the city and enormously popular thanks to its innovative slate of events and significant community outreach.
Tom was eventually convinced, but as they’d toasted with champagne in the Gardiners’ kitchen that afternoon he could still hardly believe that it was happening. Good fortune had rarely fallen into Tom’s lap during his life and he’d worked hard toward securing his future from a young age. Today marked a turning point in the realization of a dream that he’d clung to and fought for, so he set aside his natural inclination toward humility for a moment and allowed the warmth of his pride to spread from his chest to the very tips of his fingers and toes.