Chapter Text
I can't help but imagine what you say when you speak with me
You're a spark in the dark and my clothes all caught aflame
You should feel how I feel when somebody says your name
- Olivia Rodrigo, "stupid song"
By the time Tom Hayward arrived at the secret garden, the once-blue London sky was now the overcast white which always preceded rain. Tom fiddled with the key to the garden in his coat pocket as he watched the first drops soak into the stone path from the safety of the entrance roof. He’d carefully scanned the evening skies from his rooms the night before, but the clouds had come despite his hopes for a clear morning.
He was fifteen minutes early. He intended to be earlier, just in case, but try as he might he couldn’t get his cravat bow to be centered. A slight tremble in his fingers always left the loops askew. By the time he was walking to the garden he began to feel a thrill in his chest. He was usually nervous before any kind of presentation or public performance, but his time as a junior barrister had mostly dulled that response over time.
As the weather ebbed and flowed between rain and mist, his thoughts wandered to the poem he chose for this surprise recital, as well as his approaching audience.
Tom knew that he wanted to move to London from the first time he read William Wordsworth’s Composed Upon Westminster Bridge. He had been a shy, ungainly child, who discovered poetry a month after being sent away to school. Young Tom held onto his books of verse the way a shipwrecked sailor clung to a barrel bobbing in the tides. Wordsworth came to him when he was fifteen years old, in a package from his parents during a particularly difficult school term. Without these verses to help Tom escape from overbearing professors and sneering schoolmates, he wasn’t quite sure how he would have survived that year.
Westminster Bridge appeared some years later while he was in university. He hadn’t given much thought to where he would practice law once he had graduated, but Wordsworth’s enchanting descriptions of a city half-asleep piqued in Tom a kind of homesickness for a place he had never been.
A fire had been lit in him then: Tom had promised himself that if he worked hard, if he made his family proud, London would become the place where he would make his living.
Now as a more stable, though still ungainly, young man, living his dream of becoming a Londoner, he could look back on those moments with a kind of gratitude. Those experiences, along with their invaluable education towards both law and his own character, gave Tom an intrinsic desire to share poetry with anyone who would listen to him. It was how he turned acquaintances into friends once he had escaped public school and was surrounded by like-minded men at Oxford. It was how he grew his relationship with the Gardiners after he moved into their attic apartment. A handful of well-timed verses accompanied happy memories throughout his three year courtship with Miss Ann Baxter.
And this morning, he would use those words and verses to argue the merits of poetry, and London itself, with his newest acquaintance: the Gardiner’s niece, Miss Mary Bennet.
Tom wasn’t sure what he expected when he heard his friends would be hosting their niece as an interim governess for their three children. When he was their tenant, he had been regaled with stories of the Gardiners' nieces: beautiful Jane and witty Lizzy, kind Kitty and outrageous Lydia. Mary, he recalled, was often described as “accomplished.”
“I think you will get along quite well with Mary,” Mrs. Gardiner told him over dinner the week before Miss Bennet’s arrival. Tom had a standing invitation to dine with the Gardiners on Sundays, but they welcomed him into their home and table whenever he, or they, desired it. “She is very well-read and intelligent, I think she could rattle off a fact about almost anything.”
“That’s true,” agreed her husband, “but she can be a bit shy at first. You mustn't take offence if she doesn’t speak much when you first meet her.”
“Yes, Mary tends to favor the background over the heart of the action.”
Tom understood such inclinations, being somewhat of a wallflower himself.
“Well it sounds like Miss Bennet could use a warm welcome to the city, which I am all too happy to oblige,” Tom offered.
“Do you think Miss Baxter would be interested in joining you for the initial meeting?”
“I believe she is indisposed that evening, but I know she would be happy to make Miss Bennet feel welcome as soon as she can.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Mrs. Gardiner smiled at him over the table. Conversation continued to a new topic.
Tom left the house and didn’t think too much of the upcoming introductions until a week later, when he opened the door to the Gardiner’s school room and found a young woman standing at the front of the room, holding a globe, trying to not look overwhelmed as the Gardiner children rushed away from their table to greet him.
Then he remembered: The niece, acting as governess, and today was her first day in that role. A brief flutter of remorse shot through him; surely he wouldn’t have liked his first day as an instructor to be interrupted by some stranger.
Well then, he thought, let us be strangers no longer.
“You must be Miss Bennet.”
“Well, I - I must be…”
Tom also recalled Mr. Gardiner's advice on Mary’s shyness. He quickly tried to salvage the situation by introducing himself with a polite bow: “Tom Hayward, friend of the family.”
After putting on his spectacles, he observed that Miss Bennet was quite pretty. After helping her search for her lost cousin-turned-pupil-turned-rabbit, he confirmed that Miss Bennet was quite intelligent.
The young woman intrigued him, there was no getting around that. She was open to his careful playfulness and even began to play along by the time they discovered Rebecca in the toy trunk. Her austere countenance began to thaw further as soon as they left the school room, but throughout dinner he noticed how Miss Bennet seemed to be unsure of how to fully relax.
Some moments she would listen openly and ask thoughtful questions, other times she would shut in on herself altogether. His mention of Catherine McAuley appeared to make her genuinely happy, and Tom wished that he had been given the chance to hear what she would have to say about Miss McAuley’s work had George not redirected their attention. But when confronted with a game of Graces, not only did Miss Bennet become unignorably withdrawn, she had insisted, without a hint of self-pity or any invitation to argue otherwise, that she would “only spoil it.”
This surprised Tom, as his ungainly nature usually led to hoops flying into corners and sticks clacking into furniture. Case in point, the first two times the hoop was sent his way he both ripped his jacket sleeve and completely missed the hoop, which ended up landing at Miss Bennet’s feet.
When she handed it back to him their fingertips brushed, just for a moment. Just a brush and a smile and a muttered “thank you,” as Tom went back to his spot on the floor and Mary leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap once again.
It was Tom’s turn to serve. The hoop landed just where he intended it to go.
Though she may not have intended it, these first impressions greatly endeared Miss Bennet to Tom, and he left the house soon after the round of Graces concluded, looking forward to when they would meet again.
Miss Bennet used a similar tone the next day when, by chance, he met her and her aunt at the haberdashery. He was meant to return to his desk to work on a case that had been nagging him for weeks, but a swish of green and white plaid caught his eye through the window.
He thought that the brief could wait a few minutes more.
It was supposed to be a quick visit to say hello, but, as she often did with people she liked, Mrs. Gardiner pulled Tom further into her orbit. This orbital path landed him in front of a book of fabric samples with Miss Bennet, with clear instructions to help her pick out a color for a new dress.
Miss Bennet seemed, at first, much happier than she was the evening prior. However, after she corrected his pronunciation of a sample color, and thus ending a joke they were sharing at the expense of the catalogue’s rather creative naming system, the self-deprecating tone returned.
“I’m not quite sure what to choose. I find myself quite overwhelmed by choice and, well, you see, my mother has always said it’s terribly difficult to get any color to work with my complexion. I usually settle for something… beige, usually.”
Tom was unsure how to respond to this. But as he watched the young woman draw into herself once more, he knew he had to say something.
“I think my advice would be to choose the colors that make one feel more like oneself."
He watched Miss Bennet turn that advice over in her head before asking, with a timid edge to her voice “And… what if I don’t know how to do that?”
Mrs. Gardiner saved Tom from having to address the question by rounding the ribbon shelf with three bolts of fabric, eager for Mary to cast her eye over them to see which she preferred.
He wished he could stay to see what she chose, to get a glimpse of Miss Bennet’s preferences, but it was as if the brief was knocking on the door of his focus.
“I’m sorry to not be of more use. But I should return to my desk and a particularly unexciting land negotiation that awaits me there.”
He bowed and left the shop, turning to wave at Miss Bennet one last time through the window. She caught his eye immediately through the glass and nodded at him, her smile returning in a smooth motion.
He walked back to his desk at the Middle Temple and worked through the brief at last, all the while wondering if he would ever see Miss Bennet with her walls down.
Imagine Tom’s surprise when, three days later, his impromptu call upon the Gardiner’s house began with a Graces hoop being launched at his head.
After he recovered (without ripping his jacket again, he noted gratefully), he looked up to see Miss Bennet, alone in the drawing room, holding Graces sticks and appearing both surprised and mildly mortified.
Miss Bennet was attempting to learn how to play Graces… on her own.
At that moment a tiny crack formed in the corner of Tom Hayward’s sensible, sensitive heart. He initially believed it to be nothing more than curiosity.
Ever the gentleman, Tom offered to play the game with her, resulting in Miss Bennet’s most unguarded moment yet. She landed the hoop on Tom’s sticks at her first try, even with his restrained movements so as to not re-tear his newly mended coat. When she saw her success, Miss Bennet let out a quick laugh in delight before reigning in her excitement.
“I did it.” She said it so simply, so factually. But even while composed, she was giving Tom her first genuine, unguarded smile.
It had an overwhelmingly endearing effect on the junior barrister.
“You did! A natural.”
“Beginner’s luck,” she replied unconvincingly.
Tom got in position to serve. “Ready?”
Miss Bennet got in position, when Tom recalled his coat. He felt a bit silly shedding it and rolling up his shirtsleeves, but he couldn’t be going to the tailor’s every morning this week. Miss Bennet milled about as he readied himself, probably losing interest in the game the longer he rolled his sleeves. He put away his spectacles for good measure, as he didn't need too much distance sight when indoors.
This may have been presumptuous of him.
Tom’s lack of coordination on the return toss sent the hoop flying into the air and he and Miss Bennet subsequently went flying into each other in a rush to catch it.
They awkwardly regained their footing and their distance, laughing and shuffling to put away their game. For his part, Tom went to pick up the book he had brought with him, hoping his flustered blush would subside by then.
He always got winded when he played games. Surely that was it.
“I-I brought a book for Mrs. Gardiner.”
“Oh, of course, yes…” Miss Bennet took it from him and curiously read the title. Tom was readying himself to discuss poetry, something he had been eager to do since their meeting.
“Ah, poetry. Hmm.”
“Do you like poetry, Miss Bennet?”
Tom was anticipating a typical response that he’d get when he brought up poetry. Usually people hadn’t read much but were politely curious to know more, or they had a single poet they preferred but wanted recommendations on how to branch out. A handful said they weren’t interested and changed the subject.
Surprisingly, Miss Bennet showed an attitude Tom had not yet been privy to in his past discussions: Skepticism.
“I prefer facts to whimsy.”
At first he laughed, but when she didn’t join him, Tom realized she was being serious. “Whimsy?”
“Er - I’ve tried, um, Cowper, Byron, even some Dryden, but, well, it seems to me that it’s just all…” Mary paused. “...words...”
He blinked. “What were you expecting?”
Mary blinked back. “Are you a scholar, sir?”
“No, I’m a barrister. Junior. And though the law is my business, poetry is my passion.”
Mary blinked once again.
Tom decided to venture further with one of his favorite questions to ask someone. “What do you like to read?”
“Oh, er, works of non-fiction. Histories and, er, geology.” Tom noticed that Miss Bennet shared this information with some reserve, as if she was unsure how much she wanted to disclose. But even in her reticence, there was a spark in her eyes by the end, showing Tom how much she enjoyed these subjects.
“And what do you like to read for pleasure?” Tom already knew she was proficient in non-fiction from their previous meeting in the schoolroom, he wanted to get the heart of what she enjoyed.
“That is reading for pleasure.” Miss Bennet strayed her gaze across the room, refusing to look at him as she answered.
Tom pressed. “There is nothing you like about poetry?” He mentally smacked his forehead the second he spoke, hoping his question didn’t come off sounding judgmental.
Miss Bennet, thankfully, was considering this as she had done with all of his other questions. “Some poems are mercifully short.”
She was continuing her streak of answers that evaded anticipation. He knew she wasn’t trying to be funny, but such a blunt answer with no hint of irony struck Tom as quite amusing and, once again, endearing. Miss Bennet was the first person he’d ever met who challenged his opinions on poetry like this. Although he was initially taken aback, Tom found that he enjoyed the back-and-forth, the call to back up his argument and present his evidence.
He had no choice but to answer the challenge.
“Well, now that you have thrown down the gauntlet, I will not rest until you have appreciated the merits of poetry.”
Miss Bennet looked skeptical and unsure, glancing down at Lyrical Ballads as if it were going to admonish her. An idea came to him, one that appealed to him in ways he didn’t quite have time to investigate before speaking once more.
He reached out and tapped the cover with his knuckle.
“I believe that this is the book that will open the heart of Miss Mary Bennet.”
Tom wasn’t sure why he said her full name but he was gratified that it got her to look at him again. Her gaze was full of curiosity now, which gave Tom the impression that she was not the kind of person to turn down a book.
They held each other’s gaze for a beat. All she offered in response was a noncommittal, “Oh?”
She paired this response with a small laugh and for some reason Tom’s vision was beginning to tunnel at the edges. He was about to share how poetry had opened his own heart back in school, something he wasn’t usually in the habit of sharing, when the front door squeaked open and brought Tom’s vision back to its usual wide angle.
“Ah, the Gardiners are home —” Mary looked up towards the door.
“Oh, ah, yes, um…”
“Yes —”
“Of course —”
They were both shuffling around the drawing room, creating distance, breaking tension, Tom now sharply aware that he had been standing close to a young woman while her guardians were absent and he was talking about opening her heart to something he very much wanted her to enjoy. The two of them brushed arms when they went into the hallway to greet the Gardiners.
Such a surprising touch pushed at the crack on Tom’s heart.
This time, Tom called that crack invigoration, which naturally stemmed from the joys of sharing poetry with another. Nothing more, surely.
Unfortunately Tom could not stay long. He had truly meant to just drop off the book before meeting Miss Ann Baxter for a walk. He shared as much with the lady of the house as Mary was pulled back into the drawing room to be shown the children’s new shoes with great enthusiasm.
“It appears I still owe you a copy of Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads, Mrs. Gardiner. Please forgive my impulsiveness to lend it to your niece in your absence.”
“Oh, think nothing of it, Tom.” Mrs. Gardiner quickly glanced at his rolled sleeves. “Remind me, will you and Miss Baxter be coming to our soiree tomorrow evening?”
“We will be attending, although I expect to be fashionably late due to a meeting at the Inns.”
“Well we shall have something set aside for you just in case it goes over.”
Tom felt warmth blossom in his chest. He read somewhere that to be known was to be loved, and moments like this solidified that he was cherished by the Gardiners.
As he said his goodbyes he rolled down his sleeves and put on his jacket. Miss Bennet watched him do so through the drawing room doorway. He met her eyes as he put on his spectacles, once again becoming the most put-together version of himself. As he walked towards Central London, Tom had an odd feeling that he was resuming a performance of himself that he had momentarily been able to shed.
As it turns out, Mrs. Gardiner was right to reserve him some food. Tom knew he would be grateful for some nourishment after his meeting went over by thirty minutes and he had to pace his walk to get to the Gardiner’s soiree at a polite time without breaking a sweat to do so.
He thought about hiring a hackney to make better time, but he’d already hired one yesterday to meet Miss Baxter for their walk and he did not care for another expenditure of that nature to account for.
It was a weekly tradition for them to take a few turns in St. James's Park since they came to an understanding about their future together nearly three years ago, and in those three years Tom knew Ann grew glum if he was late. In her grace and patience she would never show her displeasure, she knew he was working hard to secure a comfortable future for them, but it always took a few minutes to get her to warm to him when he arrived late to their outings, winded and distracted.
In his mind’s eye, Tom saw Ann waiting for him in the Gardiner’s house as she always did, bored and mingling without complaint, and a small twinge of guilt flitted through his veins.
But tonight would be different, he thought, as Ann expressed great interest in his recount of his time with Miss Bennet. She laughed at the story of Rebecca pretending to be a rabbit, looked concerned when she heard why Miss Bennet didn’t want to play Graces, and was thoughtful at the story of the haberdashery.
“I must tell Mrs. Gardiner to call on me next time they go out for another errand there. I would love to help Miss Bennet with such a choice in the future!”
Tom was excited for Ann and Miss Bennet to meet, surely that was why he was so eager to get to the Gardiner’s house.
He ultimately arrived an hour after the soiree had begun, a little winded but clear-headed, famished yet excited for a night spent among friends. He passed by a few soiree attendees smoking outside the house and tipped his hat at them.
The footman let him inside and he heard a piano picking out a cotillion. Hoping his absence could be endured by Ann for a moment longer, he walked over to a servant and asked if a plate had been put aside for him. When she returned with a plate laden with bread, meat, cheese, and a Chelsea bun, Tom thanked her warmly.
The dance finished just as Tom ate the last bite of the bun (the gooey swirl at the center was his favorite bit) and he knew it was time to make an appearance. Tom walked into the parlor to see Ann, dressed in one of her fashionable velvet gowns, the picture of gentility and grace, finishing a dance with none other than Miss Bennet, who was the picture of…
Tom found he couldn’t finish the thought.
Tom was immediately struck by the absence of Miss Bennet’s spectacles. Without them her eyes appeared rounder, more curious. He then noticed her bright crimson gown, which was a striking shift from the neutral clothing she’d worn before. The trim was a bold, contrasting green, and Tom was wracking his mind to recall the color’s name in the sample book when Ann noticed he’d arrived.
She was leading Miss Bennet over to him. He caught a portion of her introduction. “...like you to meet. We have something of an understanding…”
Tom wasn’t sure which part of the following conversation had made him start to feel warm. It could have been the common transformation of excitement into nerves when new acquaintances meet long-term connections. It could have been when he completely misremembered the color of the trim and Miss Bennet had to awkwardly correct him.
Or it could have been right at the start, when Miss Bennet’s open delight changed into something more polite and withdrawn as she spoke with him and Ann. She didn’t even look at him when Mr. Gardiner pulled him away to meet one of his colleagues.
He could hardly pay attention to Mr. Gardiner’s acquaintance Mr. May and quickly went to grab a refreshment for himself and Ann.
When he returned, Miss Bennet had returned to the dance floor, this time with the Gardiner children, and Ann was watching her with pleasure in her eyes.
“You were right,” she told him as he handed her a glass. “Miss Bennet is quite the young lady. I’m excited to get to know her better this season.” Ann playfully clinked her glass against Tom’s and gazed out at the dance floor once again. When Tom did so he caught some movement from Miss Bennet, who was just turning away from where they stood.
Tom was most attentive to Ann while they drank and mingled and danced. Which is why he couldn’t possibly be looking at Miss Bennet as she would fix her expression into one of enthusiasm when she had the children’s attention, only to let the mask slip between moments of engagement and reveal something quieter underneath.
Miss Bennet did so when she thought no one was looking.
Tom wondered if she was used to no one looking at her.
Miss Bennet spent the rest of the evening with the children. She did not dance again, save for the boulanger that concluded the evening. She did not speak with Tom again except for when she bid him and Ann good night, and told Ann she was looking forward to being shown around London.
Tom was trying his hardest to not let his gaze linger on her as she went upstairs with the children. Ann was across the dining room saying goodbye to one of her friends.
“Can you believe it’s only been a week since Mary arrived?” Mr. Gardiner was next to him now, also watching Miss Bennet’s exit.
Tom felt a small tug at his lips at the sound of Miss Bennet’s Christian name.
“It’s been nice to get to know her. She is most amiable, and even more accomplished than you initially described her.”
“Mrs. G and I are encouraged that she's made friends so quickly.” He paused, as if weighing what he would say next. Mr. Gardiner signed before continuing. “Yes, Mary is quite special. We've always felt her family doesn’t understand that about her. It’s a shame that her father passed before he could see how she’d grow into herself.”
Tom whipped his head around. “Miss Bennet’s father passed away?”
“Yes, two months ago. A heart attack, there was nothing to be done. It came as a great shock to the whole family, especially since it left the Bennet home and fortune in the hands of a distant cousin, a ridiculous man who swooped in to take his inheritance not two weeks after the funeral was held.”
Tom was moved. No wonder Miss Bennet had been so reserved, so withdrawn, she had surely been moving under a great burden. He already thought her brave for moving to a new city and taking an occupation, now he thought her strong as well.
The crack on his heart tonight, he thought, was admiration of character.
Tom had the idea when he was staring out the window by his desk. It was a beautiful spring day with a clear blue sky. For a brief moment Tom recalled a similar shade from the fabric sample catalogue — The haberdasher might label the sky as Jordy Blue.
This was not the first time today that his thoughts wandered to Miss Bennet. Tom didn’t think it too unusual. After all, he and Ann had discussed her at length the day before, after Ann gave her a tour of Ann’s favorite neighborhoods, shops, and parks in central London.
“She was such a darling, Tom, truly one of the most attentive people I have ever met. You know, she actually took notes during my tour? Every address and preference of mine, taken down in her pocket book.”
Tom voiced his approval of such attentive behavior, before asking if Miss Bennet had been shown any of the libraries or museums in the area.
“I leave that to you, Mr. Hayward. After my cousins had to see every landmark and museum in the city back in April I vowed I would take at least a year before stepping into those hallowed halls again.”
Ann laughed then moved her attention elsewhere, while Tom tried to ignore the excitement of potentially being the one to take Miss Bennet, easily the most studious person he knew, to her first museum. For a moment he envisioned her green eyes going round at the geological samples he'd seen last time he visited the museum in the Montagu House with Ann's cousins.
They continued their walk, but Tom’s thoughts still lingered on what else Miss Bennet should see. He primarily thought of the places which transformed him from a Yorkshire transplant into a Londoner.
His planning expanded into the evening and now to the following day, where he was thoroughly ignoring his brief on a property dispute and instead thinking about how Miss Bennet could become a Londoner herself.
Tom looked at the skyline again. Unbidden, a line came to him: Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie open unto the fields, and to the sky…
How anyone could think of that as just words was —
Tom sat up.
That was it, the perfect way to continue Miss Bennet’s foray into poetry while making a case for London as a whole: A recital of Wordsworth’s Composed Upon Westminster Bridge in the heart of London, showing Miss Bennet both the beauty of the city and the power of poetry when given the chance to really feel the author’s intent.
For the next few days Tom rehearsed and planned and applied for the use of a garden that he’d only seen through a gate on various walks. It was exciting to have a project to work on, something to rattle him out of the daily routines to which he was accustomed.
Ann was supportive of the project, but on their next walk, when he invited her to join in on the fun, she politely informed him she had a dress fitting in Soho that morning. Tom didn’t press her on it.
The afternoon before the recital Tom went to call on the Gardiners to bestow what he hoped was an enticing invitation to join him for an event that would “break through their rational reserve and move their hearts, as well as their heads.”
It took him two hours in his rooms to come up with that phrasing and he still wasn’t quite pleased with it.
Tom was watching the sidewalk, workshopping potential edits to his invitation, when he turned towards the Gardiner’s doorway and very nearly ran headfirst into Miss Bennet.
He was hoping to see her when he shared his invitation and was all the more delighted to have her be the first person he met on this errand.
“How are you? Eager to hear how you’ve been getting on with the poetry!”
Miss Bennet did seem to share his pleasure at his arrival.
“Oh, well, uh… I’m not sure I have the mind to appreciate it completely.” She seemed distracted, even agitated, to be asked about such things. “I keep hoping Mr. Coleridge will explain himself or, or that Mr. Wordsworth w-will say what he really means, but they seem to enjoy keeping their secrets...”
“Well, do not blame yourself. I think some poets enjoy being difficult to understand.” He offered an encouraging smile, which he immediately realized was unwelcome.
Miss Bennet did not appear pleased with this response, indeed did not seem pleased at Tom’s appearance altogether. Tom thought back to when his own father passed away, four years ago now, how he was prone to frustration at something as trivial as an ink stain on his fingers.
Could her grief be what was vexing her?
He took off his spectacles to better convey his condolences. “Miss Bennet, I was so sorry to hear about your father.” Miss Bennet’s expression remained unchanged, but Tom, who remembered his own similar reactions, moved forward. “Moving to the city, without your family, you not having your mother to confide in, or your sisters —”
“Oh, it’s a relief to be without her. In fact, it’s something of a relief to be without any of them.”
Tom imagined that Miss Bennet had left much behind when she moved to London. He didn’t imagine that it would have been a relief to have done so. Not a week went by without a letter to or from his desk that held evidence of how much he missed his own family, now scattered throughout England, all four of his sisters with families of their own. He assumed such familial affections were a rather universal experience.
He was incorrect.
Unsure what to say, Tom opted to give her a moment, to not have to reply to anything or offer any opinions. He could not say he knew Miss Bennet intimately, but something about the severity of her voice, the monotone at which she delivered such bluntness, struck him as very unlike her.
Indeed, she looked regretful at her outburst, her eyes flitting around at anything besides him. No, he did not know her totally, but he wanted to. And at this moment, he was starting to recognize a nervous habit she indulged in when she wasn’t sure what to do next.
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling yourself.”
Miss Bennet’s cheeks began to color and she spoke thickly, not to evade, but to confide.
“I’m afraid I’m not. I’m just not finding my — my place here as easily as I thought.”
Her honesty moved him, but before he could offer any words of comfort she excused herself and brushed past him onto the road.
The situation became more confusing when, upon the appearance of the Gardiners at the door, Miss Bennet turned her heel and excused herself again, this time inside the house Tom had just watched her leave.
Had something happened? One did not go from taking notes on shop addresses to dismissing the idea of London altogether without some kind of incident. Tom was unsettled by this second meeting between them that ended in extended distance and Miss Bennet appearing to be hiding some emotion deep within her.
His idea now took on a heavier responsibility: to offer Miss Bennet some respite from the thoughts or feelings which had been bothering her for the past week.
Tom watched the door close, and the crack on his heart splintered across its surface. This time, he decided the ache was concern.
The rattling of an incoming carriage shook Tom out of his reflections. He braced himself against the now steady rain as he went out to meet his audience.
He opened the carriage with a flourish and welcomed them warmly.
“I have conspired with the City of London and William Wordsworth himself for a morning recital unlike any other — in a hidden garden.”
The first thing Tom noticed was the color of Miss Bennet’s jacket. The intersecting lines of pink, purple, and green matched the garden's blossoming wisteria and camellias perfectly. In the back of his mind he hoped that this could be a meaningful sign; Maybe Miss Bennet will at last understand the merits of poetry? Would this lift her spirits as he hoped?
Would she let him catch her eye once more?
Mr. Gardiner interrupted Tom’s train of thought. “Will Miss Baxter be joining us?”
Tom shrugged lightly. “I’m afraid Miss Baxter has a variety of excuses that she skillfully deploys to avoid such events.”
Tom’s earlier question was answered by the second thing he noticed: Miss Bennet's expression of solemn wariness. Was she still so affected by her discomfort in the city?
Mrs. Gardiner appeared enthusiastic for his surprise recital. Tom chuckled at Mr. Gardiner's good-humored teasing about the rain. They got out of the carriage and, in the habit of a gentleman, he reached out his hand to help Miss Bennet down the carriage’s slippery step.
She took his hand. As a reflex, he closed his hand around hers as he helped her down.
Their eyes met over Miss Bennet’s glasses and Tom felt a flash of pure, unfiltered nervousness course through him.
Their touch ended as quickly as it began. Miss Bennet carefully removed her hand from his, but the effect of her lingered as he unlocked the garden gate and led the party inside. So calm before, now his hand trembled slightly as he positioned himself on the garden steps.
“Please excuse the theatrics. I had given Miss Bennet the impossible task of understanding poetry without any real sense of how to… feel it.”
He looked at Miss Bennet now. She was looking around him, but although she was still shifting to get comfortable on the damp stone bench, Tom could tell that her scholar’s mind was absorbing his introduction.
But would that same mind reject this… whimsy? Would they still be words, and nothing more?
“Sometimes, with poetry…the more I think, the less I understand.”
Tom took a breath and envisioned the poem in his mind. It was on a soft sheaf of paper, sewn into a slim volume with a green and red marbled cover. It was lit by candlelight, open on the messy bedside table of a fifteen year old boy who didn’t know how to put words to his loneliness, but was beginning to hope for his future.
And he began.
He immediately felt self-conscious.
Tom had practiced many times in the mirror of his rooms, playing with different cadences and gestures to try and highlight some of the feeling and language. But as soon as it was here, real, in the open air with St. Paul’s cathedral looking down at him, Tom felt like he was back at a school recital.
His nerves were crawling up his spine now, threatening to put a tremor in his voice and disrupt the careful cadence he worked so hard to perfect. This wouldn’t make for an adequate appeal in favor of poetry.
If his barrister’s training taught him anything, it was the art of adaptation. When an argument wasn’t working he had to shift gears at a moment’s notice, alter his presentation of the facts; and so it would be now. Tom slowly dropped the artifice from his voice, and put away his more theatrical gestures. Instead of gazing at the skyline that inspired such verses, he lowered his eyes to his most important audience member.
Tom was warmed to see that Miss Bennet had ceased fidgeting and was finally looking at him directly, her green eyes both alert and soft.
“Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!”
Tom thought he was making these changes solely for the benefit of Miss Bennet, but he felt his own emotions latch onto the language as well. This shift stripped him of walls he did not realize he had been putting up prior to this moment: He was no longer performing, in fact he no longer felt like he was arguing something, per se, but sharing. In this rainy garden in the middle of London, Tom Hayward was no longer a barrister or a Londoner or a friend of the family. He was a man who loved poetry, a man who was now trying to explain away the widening crack in his heart when he looked at Miss Bennet as residual nerves from doing something so vulnerable.
“The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;”
Miss Bennet's eyes grew shiny. Tom was speaking only to her now, understanding now that the poem was not only about London, but about Mary, too, as he concluded:
“And all that mighty heart is lying still!”
Tom’s own heart, however, had begun to beat a measure faster than it had before. The crack pulsed dangerously with each rhythmic beat.
As Miss Bennet closed her eyes to soak in Wordsworth’s final line, a single tear fell onto her cheek. She recovered quickly, fixing her expression to one of gratitude as she joined her aunt and uncle in their applause.
Tom tried to soak in the warm reception, tried to not look too focused on every one of Miss Bennet's movements.
Her control was momentary, however, and by the time the Gardiners announced they would take a turn around the garden Miss Bennet had retreated to a young cherry blossom tree, exhaling loudly and breathing deeply as she removed her bonnet.
Tom approached her slowly, trying to appear casual and unaffected, unsure of the reception he would receive.
“Well, Miss Bennet…how do you feel?”
“I…” she sighed, shaking her head, once more unwilling to meet his gaze.
He waited for her anyway.
Miss Bennet was quite still but her rapid blinking and flexing mouth were betraying a great deal of effort being spent somewhere.
“Well… For once, I have nothing to say…”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“No, I wish to say something…inspiring, but I do not know how.” Her gaze was sweeping over every leaf and blossom and pillar around them, as if the words she sought would be found on their surfaces. “You have such varied ways to express your feelings. Mine feel…frozen, or, feeble, or, entirely unknowable.”
Tom could sense that this confession was difficult for her. But he was puzzled as well: Here she spoke of frozen feelings when he could see evidence of their existence in her very countenance.
“I do not know, Miss Bennet. I use the words of others to puzzle through things I do not understand.” He paused. “But I - I - I do not believe that you are truly a stranger to strong emotions.”
Tom attempted a smile to comfort her. Miss Bennet still appeared so downtrodden, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
But, at last, she was looking at him now, those green eyes staring into his own.
In those seconds of silence, something shifted.
That something was hanging in the air between them, an emotion Tom was not quite sure how to address, let alone name. He was feeling a light kind of confusion; he wanted her to know he hadn’t meant to make her feel frozen or feeble, but quite the opposite. He wanted her to see herself as the Gardiners did, as Ann did. As Tom did.
Tom’s mind was whirring again. His barrister’s mind was summarizing the situation, looking for a way to change the focus of their discussion away from Miss Bennet’s perceived shortcomings.
A flutter of movement caught his eye. A cherry blossom petal landed in her hair, right above the temple of her spectacles.
Tom Hayward was a man used to thinking actions through. One could not be a man of law without such instincts. But with Miss Bennet before him, at last moved by poetry and feelings that flowed deeper than she gave herself credit for, that barrister’s mind which whirred and summarized and observed began to malfunction.
So, instead of observing, he acted.
Tom reached out his hand with the intention of gently lifting the petal away from her spectacles and flyaways. A friendly gesture, he believed. Surely she would do the same if a petal had landed on him.
Miss Bennet was still at first, but his ungainliness reared when he needed it the least, and he wasn't able to grasp the petal cleanly.
During his fumbling, Miss Bennet had leaned into his touch, just pressing her temple to his fingertips. It could have been an accident, it could have been intentional. But all Tom knew is that the brush of her cool skin on his did nothing to break the tension, but made it even more apparent.
As if she could sense it herself, Miss Bennet grew flustered and pushed his hand away.
“Sorry Miss Bennet, I —”
She shook her head at him and adjusted her glasses with a renewed attempt to shut herself away from the world, away from him.
“It was just a petal.”
Part of him grew sad that he could already recognize her attempts to withdraw after only a few weeks of acquaintance.
“Mr. Hayward, I… I think I must leave London.”
Tom stilled. He must have misheard her. “But you’ve only just arrived!”
“It’s no great event. My — my mother needs a companion.”
“I see.”
Tom did not see.
Miss Bennet wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was now addressing his lapels.
“And, well, you will likely be…very busy soon. What with, er, social engagements and, er, Miss Baxter.”
Ann’s name shifted things into an uncomfortable perspective. His clenching heart froze at this, the something between him and Miss Bennet leaving him rooted to the spot.
“Right.”
It was a soft, noncommittal response. It was all he could give.
“I’m sure you’ll scarcely have time to notice I am gone.” Miss Bennet attempted levity with a weak smile. The weight of her words pulled it down immediately.
Miss Bennet was in the habit of surprising him this morning. Tom was so taken aback he couldn’t speak at all. Could one so thoughtful and endearing really think herself so forgettable?
Tom had prepared for discussions on symbolism and extended metaphor, which he believed Miss Bennet's quick wit would pick up and ruminate on throughout the recital. He was hopeful to give Miss Bennet a tour of the garden, to suggest they purchase a sweet bun for all of them to share before he had to work for the day. Perhaps he could call on the family in the evening to discuss the poem further. If Miss Bennet had Lyrical Ballads with her, he could earmark his favorite poems for her.
Tom was not prepared for Miss Bennet to declare her intention to leave the city as soon as he finished reciting. He was not prepared for this all to go so wrong.
He was not prepared for something to hover over the damp grass between them.
“I had hoped that this would restore your spirits.” Tom heard the plea in his voice.
“Oh, indeed, it did, thank you…”
For a moment Tom was pleased to hear he achieved his mission. But then another tear fell from Miss Bennet’s green eyes and all pleasure was washed away in its tracks. She wiped it away and tried to play off her emotions.
“I’m sorry to be acting… I - I don’t feel much deserving of this morning’s efforts.”
“Deserving? Miss Bennet, everything I have done today has been done happily, with no expectations attached.”
Miss Bennet looked up at him, but her gaze was unfocused, as if she was recalling something.
“You are a very kind-hearted man, Mr. Hayward. I shall never forget this.”
For a final time, Mary Bennet lowered her gaze from his. She bowed her head and walked back to her aunt and uncle across the garden.
Tom watched her leave, already playing over the conversation and trying to find the place where everything fell apart.
The crack in Tom’s heart inched forward. He took a ragged breath at the stab it caused.
Tom called the ache confusion, but a tiny voice from a corner of his mind hinted that it could be something called wanting.