On the night of the Gardiners’ first dinner, Mary found herself in the unfamiliar situation of having a choice of new clothes to wear. It did not take her long to decide upon the gown made up from the pale cream muslin she had bought at Harding and Howell, which had turned out just as simple and elegant as she had hoped, with not a flounce or a lace trimming to be seen. Mrs Gardiner’s maid put up Mary’s hair into a smooth chignon with only the smallest curl attempted at the sides; she refused all other ornaments. As she stood before the mirror, examining the result of her efforts, Mrs Gardiner appeared at her door.
‘Ah, that is a great improvement! The colour gives you a little warmth, which helps your complexion. The style looks well on you. Indeed, the whole effect is very pleasing.’
To a beautiful woman accustomed to extravagant compliments, this would not have seemed like much; but its sincerity delighted Mary. She stared at her reflection one last time and decided that she too was satisfied with what she saw. She would not embarrass the Gardiners; dressed as she was, she could take her place amongst their party with as much assurance as anyone else. She was nervous; but the knowledge she would not look an oddity at her first London dinner gave her the courage she needed to face it bravely, and even with a little excited anticipation.
There were twenty guests at the table, and Mary was relieved to find them talkative and lively. They were all city people who knew each other too well to stand on ceremony; and soon the conversation flowed freely, with steadily increasing volume. Once a gathering of this kind would have made Mary painfully aware of her own isolation; but she had been relieved to find herself seated next to Mr Hayward, who soon put her at ease. He introduced her to her neighbours, made sure her wineglass was never empty, and helped her to the oyster patties with which the dinner began. In a low voice, he explained who everyone was, discreetly indicating the wealthy banker, the powerful alderman, the cultivated tea importer, and the wife of London’s largest greengrocer. His manner was so genial and his conversation so entertaining that she soon forgot to be self-conscious. When she looked around and took in the splendid dining room, illuminated by more candles than she had ever seen in one place, whose light sparkled against the gilt mirrors and gold picture frames, she did not retreat into herself, calculating how soon it would all be over; but instead gave herself up to enjoying the spectacle, never thinking for a moment that she did not belong there.
When she and Mr Hayward had exhausted the topic of their fellow guests, it was an easy step to begin discussing themselves; and, as the main course was brought in, Mary asked him how he had come to choose the law as his profession. But before he could begin to answer, a fine shoulder of veal was passed in their direction; and it was not until he was satisfied that she had as much of the dish as she wanted that he was ready to reply.
‘It is often said we younger sons have only three careers to choose from – the church, the army, or the law. And as I thought myself entirely unsuited to the first two, it was inevitable I should end up in the third.’
‘Really, Mr Hayward?’ A servant filled her glass with wine. Perhaps it was that which gave her the boldness to continue. ‘You do not strike me as the kind of man who decides upon his life’s occupation merely because it is – well, I shall not say the lesser of three evils, as that would be disrespectful to the clergy, but I think you know what I mean.’
Mr Hayward looked amused.
‘Yes, I cannot deny it. There were many other considerations that propelled me towards the law. As you may have noticed, I enjoy the sound of my own voice, an essential qualification for a barrister.’
‘So I have been told,’ persisted Mary, ‘but I cannot believe that eloquence is the only quality a lawyer requires. It must also demand a good understanding and a great deal of study, the getting of quantities of facts by heart.’
‘You speak as if you imagine those things beyond me!’
‘Why no, sir. Our acquaintance has been as yet too brief for me to make such a judgement. Shall you have some cheese? I can hand it to you if you wish?’
‘Really, Miss Bennet, I am most dreadfully affronted! You seem to suggest I’m incapable of applying myself to weighty subjects. I cannot think of taking any Stilton until I have been allowed to defend my character as a most diligently dull student of the law!’
‘You will excuse me if I try some.’ Mary took a very small piece of cheese and placed it carefully on one of Mrs Gardiner’s best Wedgwood plates.
‘I did not mean to imply you were incapable of serious study. On the contrary, I do not imagine you could have achieved your current place in your profession without it. You must have worked long and hard to master its principles. And to me, that suggests you have more fondness for it than you like to admit. I think you chose the law, not because your other choices were so few, or because it allowed you to exercise your skill in argument – but because there was something in it that you enjoyed and wished to pursue.’
Mr Hayward, who had watched her closely as she spoke, now laughed once more.
‘A hit,’ he exclaimed, ‘a palpable hit! You have clearly missed your own vocation, Miss Bennet. You would be a most formidable addition to the Bar!’
He reached for the cheese and cut himself a piece.
‘You are quite right, however,’ he continued. ‘I went into the law because a part of my mind finds it deeply satisfying. I enjoy its precision and exactness, its attempts to comprehend every eventuality, to provide for every possible occurrence – and to do so with as much cool, calm, one might say, indifferent rationality as possible. The language of the law – which so many find dull and arid – is fascinating to me.’
‘I knew you could not devote yourself to a profession in which you had no real interest,’ declared Mary, triumphant. ‘It took a little effort for you to confess it, but I was certain it was the case.’
‘I’m not sure a taste for the dustier recesses of the law is a thing one would want generally known,’ said Mr Hayward ruefully, ‘but as it seems to have raised me in your estimation, I am prepared to admit it.’
Mary felt her face grow warm. She was not sure whether the cause was Mr Hayward’s amused gaze, or her uncle’s wine, of which she had drunk more than usual. The noise around the table suggested she was not the only guest who might have done so. There was a cheer as the servants came in, carrying three large trifles and a great number of spoons.
‘And yet, you have no such inhibitions about declaring your love for poetry.’
‘No, that is a pursuit of which I have never been ashamed.’
‘May I ask where your passion comes from?’ Mary could not quite believe she was asking more questions, but she could not stop. ‘Has it always been so marked a taste for you?’
‘I cannot remember when I did not care for it,’ replied Mr Hayward simply. ‘I have loved it since I was a boy.’
‘And do you write verse as well as read it? I imagine the two impulses are often found in company.’
‘Indeed, they go together as well as this excellent trifle and this jug of cream. Will you take a little?’
Mary shook her head; it was impossible she should ever eat another mouthful. Even Mr Hayward seemed defeated and pushed away his plate.
‘Yes, I tried to write,’ he said. ‘I tried very hard. Like many another foolish young man, I believed that because I loved poetry so sincerely, I must be able to write it too. But I was wrong. I could not do it.’
‘That must have been a great sadness to you.’
‘At the time, I thought it was the end of the world.’ He smiled in recollection of his youthful grief. ‘Now I’m thankful I understood my limitations so early. If I don’t have the genius to create a thing of beauty myself, at least I have the judgement to appreciate the art of others. It is better to accept what I can do than to yearn hopelessly after what I cannot. “Know thyself”, as the Greeks tell us.’
Mary murmured a phrase, quite low, almost to herself.
‘Really, Miss Bennet, that sounded very like Greek,’ remarked Mr Hayward. ‘Could it have been? It isn’t a language with which young ladies are usually familiar.’
‘Oh!’ cried Mary, embarrassed at having revealed knowledge she was not expected to possess. ‘I really know very little, only the alphabet, some grammar, and a few quotes from the great philosophers. I was taught it – by a friend of the family.’
‘You are full of surprises,’ replied Mr Hayward. ‘I look forward to learning that you also draw in the Chinese style or have lately prepared your own translation of Goethe.’
Mary was suddenly wary. Was he mocking her? She could not bear it if he was. Mr Hayward caught her anxious expression.
‘I see I have upset you. Please understand that was not my intention.’
He appeared genuinely distressed as he sought to make amends.
‘My words were ill-chosen. I will always attempt a witty remark, even when I had far better not. But I did not mean to tease you. A cultivated mind is a wonderful thing in a woman and should be everywhere encouraged, not despised. If I gave the impression I thought otherwise, I am sorry, and ask your forgiveness.’
It was impossible to doubt either his candour or his concern, and Mary felt relief flood through her. She could not recall when she had enjoyed anyone’s company so much, and it would have been painful for the evening to end on an uncomfortable note. For there could be no doubt now that the dinner was coming to a conclusion. The plates had been cleared and the crumbs were being swept from the cloth. For the first time she could remember, Mary did not welcome the prospect of its being over; she had no desire to hurry away.
‘You are very kind. But the offence, such as it is, is not all on your side. I too have a case to answer, for I prodded and poked you about so many things – poetry and the law – and you bore it all with the utmost patience.’
‘Well,’ replied Mr Hayward, his cheerfulness restored, ‘if we are both equally at fault, can I suggest a plan of restitution? You shall recommend a book for me to read that you believe will improve me in some way, and I will do the same for you. The terms are these: the work must be read in its entirety – no skipping – and a full account of the sensations it produced is to be given by the reader to the recommender before a period of not more than fourteen days has expired. What do you say?’
Mary was delighted. There was nothing she would enjoy more.
‘I am pleased to accept your terms and will do all I can to discharge my obligations as required.’
The noise at the other end of the table had now increased to such an extent that ordinary conversation was no longer possible, for one of Mr Gardiner’s friends had announced his intention to favour the party with a song. Knowing that a gesture must take the place of words, silently Mr Hayward raised his glass to toast their agreement; and Mary, shyly, lifted hers.