Mary was quick to decide upon her choice of book. In Mr Gardiner’s library, she found the volumes of Mrs Macaulay’s History of England, which had so enthralled her when she first discovered them at Longbourn. She could not help but notice, as she opened them, that they did not look as though they had been much read; but then Mr Gardiner, unlike her father, had a business to run, and perhaps preferred less demanding fare in his leisure hours. He certainly raised no objection when she asked if she might borrow them. She took them away to her room, looking forward to the moment when she should present them to Mr Hayward.
A few days later, she and Mrs Gardiner were sitting in the drawing room when his name was announced. The children, who were supposed to be reading, leapt up with excitement, for Mr Hayward was known to carry peppermints with him on his visits, and once, on an occasion that was never to be forgotten, had presented each of them with an entire candied orange. Mary was almost as excited as the young Gardiners, as their mother could not help but observe.
‘You look very expectant,’ she remarked. ‘Are you hoping Tom might have sweets for you as well?’
‘Oh, no, it is something far better than that. Mr Hayward and I have set ourselves a little task. He is to read a book of my choosing; and I am to read one of his.’
Mrs Gardiner frowned. ‘Poor Tom, I suspect he has drawn the worst of the deal. I hope you are not planning to give him anything too indigestible?’
‘Only Mrs Macaulay’s history,’ replied Mary airily. ‘And just two volumes, so he has nothing to fear.’
As Mr Hayward strode into the room, still innocent of what awaited him, he was assailed on all sides by the children begging to know what he had brought them. Ah, he said, it was really too bad – he had intended to bring lemon drops – but had forgot them – he had meant to pick up some pralines – but they had slipped his mind – had thought to buy sherbets – but had been distracted. He could only hope they would forgive him. Then, just as they began to think they were really to be disappointed, he pulled from his pocket a very large bag of sugarplums, which sent them happily away to the corner of the room, where they consumed their booty in silent satisfaction.
‘You spoil them, Tom.’
Mr Hayward shrugged good-naturedly and sat down upon one of Mrs Gardiner’s pale sofas.
‘I am come to learn what fate Miss Bennet has in store for me. You will have heard about the task we have set each other?’
‘Yes, I understand you are contracted to it and that there is no escape for you now.’
Mary leapt up eagerly.
‘I wondered if we might begin with my choice,’ she said. ‘I have it waiting for you upstairs.’
Mr Hayward said he would be delighted; and Mary rushed to her room to bring down Mrs Macaulay. When she placed it on the table in front of him, Mr Hayward’s face fell.
‘Come, Miss Bennet, what is this? Two volumes? We agreed on one book, singular, as I recall.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right, but I hoped I might persuade you to read the chapters on the Civil War. I long to hear your opinion on what she has to say about it. And I’m afraid half the story is in one volume, and half in the other.’
Mr Hayward picked up the two volumes, and held them in his hands, as if weighing up whether to accept them or not.
‘I’m not sure that doesn’t amount to a breach of our agreement.’
‘But surely,’ Mary protested, ‘it’s true to the spirit of what we intended, even if not to the letter of the law.’
‘I think you’ll find it is the letter of the thing that counts, as far as the law is concerned,’ observed Mr Hayward dryly. He replaced the books carefully on the table, rose from the sofa, and walked to the long window, staring out into the street with a very severe expression. ‘I must consider my position, Miss Bennet, if you will grant me a moment.’
Mary knew he was teasing, but was too excited to indulge him any further.
‘Please say you’ll read it.’
‘Indeed, I believe you must,’ interjected Mrs Gardiner, ‘if you aren’t to show yourself up as a man of feeble spirit and no powers of concentration.’
‘Very well,’ declared Mr Hayward. ‘I throw myself upon the mercy of this honourable court. I undertake to read the chapters up to and including the restoration of Charles II – but nothing further.’
He held out his hand to Mary – and after a moment’s hesitation, she shook it.
It was ten days before Mr Hayward returned, bringing with him the two volumes of Mrs Macaulay, a notebook full of jottings, and peppermints for the children. Mr Gardiner had agreed they might have use of his library, and for the rest of the afternoon, Mary and Mr Hayward were closeted there, discussing what he’d read.
At first, Mrs Gardiner called in upon them now and then, to offer them tea and see how Mr Hayward was bearing up; but each time she did so, she found them either deep in discussion of the role of church and state, or arguing animatedly about the guilt of Charles I or the virtues of Oliver Cromwell. Having satisfied herself that Mr Hayward was in no need of rescuing, and indeed seemed to be enjoying himself quite as much as Mary, she decided to leave them alone. They did not emerge until Mr Gardiner appeared at the library door to tell them it would shortly be time for dinner, and that he assumed Tom would join them?
When they sat down at the table, Mary felt as invigorated as if she had just finished a long and very breezy country walk.
‘So, Tom,’ said Mr Gardiner as he carved the beef at the head of the table. ‘You appear to have survived your encounter with Mrs Macaulay.’
‘I don’t think he found her anywhere near as tedious as he expected,’ declared Mary, glancing at Mr Hayward with a triumphant air. ‘He certainly entered into a very lively discussion of her work.’
‘You must never forget,’ remarked Mrs Gardiner, ‘that Tom is trained to argue – it might be said that debate is his calling, so we should expect him to be good at it.’
Mr Hayward put down his knife and fork. ‘I cannot let that pass, ma’am. This was a purely private encounter, nothing in the professional line at all. I argued with Miss Bennet purely for the love of it.’
He smiled at her over the dish of peas and carrots that was making its way down the table; and Mary felt happiness flood through her as she placed a spoonful of each on her plate. She hoped her pleasure was not as apparent to the others as it was to herself.
‘It was an excellent recommendation,’ continued Mr Hayward, ‘because it reminded me not only that Mrs Macaulay is singularly well informed, but that she marshals her facts with admirable skill.’
‘I suppose that counts as praise,’ remarked Mr Gardiner, ‘if not of the most effusive kind.’
Mr Hayward attacked his beef, and declined to reply.
‘You have obviously been much improved by it,’ observed Mrs Gardiner. ‘I cannot wait to hear what task you intend to offer Mary.’
Everyone turned in her direction; but this time Mary did not look away as she might once have done.
‘I hope I’ll be able to rise to your challenge with as much enthusiasm as you have to mine.’
‘Well said,’ cried Mr Gardiner. ‘That’s the spirit!’
‘I’ve already chosen the work,’ said Mr Hayward, ‘and it is of a rather different nature to Mrs Macaulay. It speaks less to the intellect than to the emotions.’
‘I see. And shall I enjoy it, do you think?’
‘I will deliver it to you later this week, so you won’t have to wait too long to find out.’
As they ate their lemon posset, Mary did all she could to persuade Mr Hayward to divulge the title of his choice, but he would not be drawn; and by the time coffee was served, she had resigned herself to its remaining a surprise. She very much hoped it might turn out not to be poetry, but she thought it very probable that it would.
The next day, a package arrived for her. As she carried it to her room, it did not feel heavy enough to be a novel, let alone something more scholarly. Her heart sank – there seemed little doubt it must be verse. She pulled out the small volume and opened it. ‘Lyrical Ballads by W. Wordsworth.’ It was a name she recognised, but she had never read anything of his. She frowned slightly as she turned the pages. Between them, she found a note.
My dear Miss Bennet,
I have no doubt your worst suspicions are confirmed now that you hold my choice of book in your hands. I urge you, however, not to give in to first impressions, but to persevere, with the same energy with which I tackled Mrs Macaulay. Mr Wordsworth is in my opinion the greatest poet now living in England. He very much deserves your unprejudiced attention, which I beg you will extend to him. I should not presume to suggest which poem you should read first or with most care; any of them will well repay the time spent in their company. Some do not give up their meaning easily, but if you approach them with an open, generous mind, I think you cannot fail to be affected by them. Remember what I said – that this is writing for the heart, not the head. That may be unfamiliar or even at first unwelcome to you, but I do not doubt you have it within you to appreciate it. Time will prove if I am right.
Tho. Hayward
Mary held the book in her hands, struck by the directness of Mr Hayward’s words. She thought of him saying them in person, his grey eyes fixed upon her – for she was aware now that his eyes were grey – and imagined the playful tone in which he would have spoken. But this would not do – this was no way to think. She picked up her shawl, and wrapped it tightly around her. She did not look forward to the task before her. She thought it was unlikely she should enjoy Mr Wordsworth’s poems, but it was her duty to read them with the open, generous spirit which Mr Hayward had urged upon her. She would do her best to satisfy his request, and would begin tomorrow.