Mary and her aunt made their excuses to the shopman, who promised to keep the samples in readiness for them until they returned; and, together with Mr Hayward, they made their way through a series of colonnaded rooms until they arrived at a salon, whose tall windows overlooked the trees and lawns of St James’s. Once they were settled, with tea and cakes laid out before them, Mrs Gardiner turned to Mr Hayward with an enquiring look.
‘So, Tom, are you writing anything just now? It’s a while since I’ve had the pleasure of reading something of yours. Is there a work “on the stocks”, as I believe you writers say?’
Mary put down her cup, suddenly alert and interested.
‘Are you an author, sir?’
‘Indeed he is,’ replied Mrs Gardiner. ‘He has written several extremely interesting pieces.’
‘Your aunt is very kind,’ said Mr Hayward, laying down his slice of fruitcake, ‘but I fear “author” is a title I don’t really deserve. It suggests far too much. I have contributed a few articles to magazines – but as a reviewer of the work of others, rather than producing something original of my own.’
‘But that is not to be dismissed,’ ventured Mary. ‘The work of the critic is essential to the formation of correct taste. And it must be a wonderful thing to support yourself by your pen.’
‘Yes, Miss Bennet, I’m sure it is. But I cannot lay claim to such distinction. I am a lawyer, ma’am.’
He poured himself another cup of tea and returned to his fruitcake.
‘And a very good one,’ added Mrs Gardiner. ‘He has finished eating his dinners at the Temple and is now a barrister.’
‘Quite a junior one, I am afraid.’
‘But not for long, I am sure,’ said Mrs Gardiner indulgently. ‘We have great hopes for you, Tom.’
‘Do you write about legal matters, then?’ asked Mary. ‘Constitutional questions, perhaps?’
‘No, I do not. The law is my profession, but my passion is poetry.’
Mary could hardly believe what she heard. To meet a man who wrote for magazines was surprising enough, but to discover the subject of his pen was poetry was doubly astounding. She was not sure how she imagined such a person might look and sound, but Mr Hayward, with his frank, open manner, dark curly hair, and healthy appetite was not what she would have expected.
‘Poetry, sir?’
‘Poetry, ma’am. Do you care for it yourself?’
‘I cannot say I do. I used to read Young’s “Night Thoughts” quite often, but I haven’t looked at it for many years.’
‘If that gloomy verse was your sole experience of the poetic art, I’m not surprised you gave it up. Have you really read nothing more recent?’
‘I’m afraid not, or if I have, I do not remember it.’
For the first time since Mary had met him, Mr Hayward was now wholly serious – serious enough to put down his second piece of cake and throw his napkin onto the table.
‘Really, Miss Bennet, this is a sad thing to hear. You cannot remain in this unenlightened state – you must allow me to introduce you to some newer works! If my favourites don’t affect you as they do me – don’t strike you speechless with admiration – then I promise never to mention them again.’
‘Let us not begin upon poetry now,’ said Mrs Gardiner, looking warily at Mr Hayward. ‘Once we start, we shall never stop. And we still have shopping to do.’
Mr Hayward looked sheepish. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I tend to bore on the subject if not checked.’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Mary earnestly, ‘it is very exciting to hear someone speak with such conviction about things of the mind.’
Mr Hayward’s gratified smile encouraged her to go on.
‘My ignorance of modern poetry is a great weakness in my reading, and one I should very much like to remedy,’ she said hastily, as if to get out what she wished to say before her courage failed her. ‘If you were kind enough to make any recommendations, you can be sure I would apply my mind to them very assiduously.’
‘I’d be honoured to do so,’ said Mr Hayward. ‘Although I think, once you begin upon them, you’ll see that your mind will take you only so far in appreciating them. They must be read with the heart as well as the head.’
He looked at her steadily. It was Mary who turned away first. Then the waiter arrived at the table to ask if they required anything more; he clearly wished them to take their leave, and Mrs Gardiner began to prepare herself to go.
‘It appears we have outstayed our welcome and must be off,’ she said. ‘We shall return to our silks and cottons, but you and Tom may continue your conversation at our next dinner. Mr Hayward is one of our regulars, so he will have every opportunity to persuade you to share his enthusiasms when he is next at Gracechurch Street.’
Mr Hayward stood up and bowed again.
‘I very much hope so. I shall endeavour to make a poetry lover of you yet, Miss Bennet. And I urge the green and gold stripe upon you, I promise you will not regret it.’
Mary said her farewells and followed her aunt away from the table. When they reached the door, she could not resist glancing back. Mr Hayward was occupied in paying the waiter while an impatient couple quickly claimed possession of their vacated chairs. She turned away hurriedly. She would have been deeply embarrassed if had he seen her looking. She was glad when her aunt took her arm and they began to make their way back to the fabric hall.
‘Tom Hayward is a great favourite of mine,’ Mrs Gardiner confided as they passed a great display of gentlemen’s handkerchiefs. ‘He is one of the best-natured men I know – excepting Mr Gardiner, of course. I have known him since he was a boy and cannot recall him saying an unkind word.’
‘He was in an excellent humour today,’ replied Mary. ‘It seemed as though he found everything around him amusing.’
‘Yes,’ admitted her aunt. ‘If Tom has a fault, it is that he is inclined to be whimsical. He gives in too easily to flights of fancy, sometimes to entertain others and sometimes, I think, merely to please himself. I have mentioned it to him before – you will have observed I did so today – but I’m afraid he doesn’t attend.’
Suddenly Mrs Gardiner came to a halt, struck by the appearance of a pair of gloves that, from a distance, seemed to be exactly what she had been looking for. But on closer inspection, they revealed themselves to be the wrong shade of yellow, and they walked on, Mrs Gardiner returning once more to the subject of Mr Hayward.
‘Tom is naturally of a very lively disposition,’ she went on, ‘and does love to exercise his wit. It would be a great mistake, however, to imagine that because he is inclined to be jocular, he is incapable of serious feeling. Underneath his light-hearted manner, there is a very thoughtful young man, as steady and sensible as anyone I know.’
‘As a lawyer, I should have thought those were essential qualities, if he hoped to rise in his profession.’
‘Indeed; and I understand he is very highly regarded at the Inns of Court. Mr Gardiner says that in his professional capacity, Tom is always exacting and precise, quite unlike the easygoing character he chooses to adopt when amongst his friends.’
They had arrived at the counter once more. Chairs were pulled up for them; the shopman retrieved the book of samples they had been studying and placed it with a flourish before them; but Mrs Gardiner was as yet reluctant to relinquish the interesting subject of Mr Hayward and return to the cottons.
‘It is a strange thing, Mary, but in my experience, most men like to think of themselves as serious beings. They cultivate a sense of dignity and enjoy being considered grave and severe. But it is quite the opposite with Tom. He prefers to hide his seriousness away. It appears now and then, of course, but he does not care to broadcast it.’
‘Perhaps,’ suggested Mary, ‘spending so much time with lawyers has exhausted his appetite for sobriety. Maybe he fears becoming as pompous as they are if he does not cultivate a livelier turn of mind?’
‘I suppose that is possible,’ agreed Mrs Gardiner. ‘And he comes from quite a numerous family, so he will have been obliged to speak up and tell a joke or two in order to be heard!’
‘You mentioned he is a relative of yours?’
‘His mother is a cousin of mine, somewhat older than myself. She married Tom’s father, as his second wife. They lived happily until his death two years ago. I have not seen her since then, but we still write to each other.’
Mrs Gardiner opened the book of samples, as if to begin upon the cottons once more, but now it was Mary who seemed reluctant to abandon the interesting topic of Mr Hayward.
‘So are the sisters Mr Hayward mentioned the daughters of your cousin, or his first wife?’
‘They are my cousin’s daughters. All of them are married now. Her husband had a son by his first marriage, and he inherited the family estate. As the younger boy, Tom always knew he would have to make his own way in the world. And, to his credit, he has done so with admirable determination and very good grace.’
Mary was silent for a moment, absorbing all she had heard.
‘And what about the poetry?’ she asked. ‘Where does that passion come from?’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Mrs Gardiner. ‘I really cannot say. That’s too deep a question for me to answer. You’ll have to ask him yourself.’
She looked at the great clock on the wall.
‘And on that note, I think we must leave Tom alone and return to our shopping. Have you made a decision yet?’
Mary glanced quickly at the samples and closed the book, much to the relief of the shopman, who had approached with a questioning air.
‘I believe Mr Hayward may have been right about the green,’ she said. ‘I do believe we should take it.’
Once Mary’s dresses were ordered and being made up, Mrs Gardiner turned her mind to Mary’s spectacles, carrying her to see Mr Dolland the oculist. There Mary’s eyes were examined again and her glasses studied closely.
‘The lenses are of excellent workmanship for a country practice,’ observed Mr Dolland. ‘But I think we may provide you with something a little more tasteful in the way of a frame.’
‘They were made for me by a very talented young man,’ Mary replied in a low voice. ‘I believe he is now studying at one of the hospitals here in London.’
‘Where no doubt he will do very well, if this is an example of his capabilities. Now, ma’am, may I beg you to look in this direction?’
Mary peered through pair after pair of spectacles. Once the consultation was over, she chose two handsome examples with delicate silver frames, which Mr Dolland urged upon her.
‘Much more suitable to a young face, I feel. Do you want to keep the old ones? I can dispose of them if you wish.’
Mr Dolland held out the glasses on a clean white cloth. Next to the new ones they seemed heavy and perhaps a little clumsy; but Mary’s heart contracted a little as she looked at them.
‘I should like to keep them, if you please.’
He handed the old spectacles to his assistant, who wrapped them carefully in cotton wool.
Once back in Gracechurch Street, Mary carried the little package to her room and gently unpacked it. She held the spectacles in her hands, thinking of everything that had happened since the day in the Longbourn drawing room when John Sparrow had shyly declared his intention to grind the lenses himself. That world was gone now, its inhabitants scattered and dispersed. It could never be recovered. What was done was done. She raised the spectacles to her lips and kissed them gently before folding them up in the cotton wool. Then she opened her dressing-table drawer and placed them carefully at the very back, next to the little Greek dictionary.
As for Mr Hayward, she did not allow herself to think of him at all. It was only after she had blown out her candle and fallen asleep that he sprang unbidden into her mind. There was nothing she could do to prevent him appearing in her dreams, gazing at her quizzically while holding a book of poetry in one hand and carrying a length of the green and gold cotton in the other.