Although the children had begun to think it would never happen, the night of the Vauxhall excursion came around at last. When they finally set out, the little Gardiners could barely contain themselves. Even the journey there excited them, for it involved a rare trip across Westminster Bridge to the city’s southern side. This was a treat in itself, and there was much cheering and hallooing as the carriage made its way over the Thames. Shortly afterwards, they were dropped off at the tall iron gates which marked the entrance to the gardens and were quickly absorbed into the large crowd of well-dressed visitors, who milled around, waiting to be joined by tardy friends and family. It was some time before they caught sight of Mr Hayward, deftly making his way towards them through the knots of people, looking like a man with every expectation of enjoying himself. Once they had shaken hands, kissed cheeks, rumpled the children’s hair – in short, had done everything necessary to signal their readiness to embrace all that the gardens had to offer, – they headed to the great turnstile, where upon presenting their tickets they were admitted to the cool green park within.
Once inside, they found themselves walking on gravel paths through avenues of high trees, towards a spacious, elegant square, lined on each side by four stately colonnades. In the centre, on a little plinth, strung all about with tiny lights, an orchestra played. At one side of the small stage stood a statue of Handel, above which a single lamp was hung, so that it appeared to illuminate his genius. Around them strolled other visitors, families, friends, couples, all in their best clothes and determined to appear as smart and as at their ease as possible. It was clearly not done to look too impressed by the surroundings – only a bumpkin would gape and stare – but Mary had never seen anything like it and was not afraid to express her wonder.
‘Oh, it is so beautifully done – the effect of the trees and the vistas they produce is truly lovely – and the sound of the music in the open air is wonderful!’
It was a fine evening, still warm and light enough to explore the woodland walks, where their little company marvelled at the music that accompanied them wherever they went – ‘there are musicians stationed all around us so that there is always something pleasing to hear,’ explained Mr Gardiner, who, as an old stalwart of the gardens, considered it his duty to supply such information to those less familiar with their pleasures. He led them towards the Rotunda, a huge circular building with an elaborately painted interior. ‘It can seat two thousand persons,’ he declared proudly. His wife added in an aside to Mary that it was intended to provide patrons with somewhere to shelter from the rain; but Mr Gardiner seemed to feel this detracted from its dignity, and looked faintly affronted.
‘I suppose that may be said of anywhere with a roof that does not leak; but this splendid place has a far greater claim to fame – it has been the scene of many extraordinary performances by the most notable artists. It was here, my dear, that we saw the incomparable Anna Maria Leary sing – do you recall it?’
‘Indeed I do,’ replied Mrs Gardiner. ‘“The Siren of Vauxhall”. What a talent she was.’
There were, however, no concerts to be heard that night. Instead they watched a display of horsemanship, extremely well done, and a remarkable acrobatic exhibition on a tightrope, which thrilled all who watched it; but, in the opinion of the children, neither could compete with what followed. This was the performance they had dreamed of, featuring a trio of dancing dogs, two of whom stood on their hind legs while the third caught oranges in his mouth, which was worth the price of admission on its own.
By the time Mr Gardiner had walked them round the gushing fountains, it was almost time for dinner, and they began to make its way to the supper boxes where it would be served. Mr and Mrs Gardiner walked in front, shepherding their children before them, and Mary followed behind with Mr Hayward. To entertain them on their walk, Mr Hayward, who was in high spirits, set himself the task of inventing imaginary characters for the visitors whom they passed on the crowded path.
‘There,’ he whispered, nodding discreetly towards an overdressed gentleman whose finery looked shabbier with every step that drew him closer to them, ‘is Lord So-and-So, an unlucky gambler living off his expectations at very much the wrong end of Brook Street with a single blackguardly manservant. He’s here tonight looking for some wealthy widow, who’ll fall gratefully into his arms and provide him with the income he knows he deserves.’
Mary felt a little guilty as she laughed. ‘Really, Mr Hayward, for shame! I’m sure he is a most respectable person.’
‘Not with that hat and waistcoat. Both suggest a man capable of the most desperate acts. Very unlike the large family making so much noise to our left, who, I suggest, are exactly what they seem to be. Up from the country, Somerset by their accents, on their yearly jaunt to town, where they are fleeced mercilessly at every turn, but greet every new outrage with the greatest good humour. I believe they’re relations of Squire Allworthy. Don’t they remind you of him?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know the Allworthys, sir. Are they acquaintances of yours?’
‘Only through Mr Fielding’s great book. Have you not read Tom Jones, Miss Bennet?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Mary said, a little ashamed to be so exposed. ‘I’m not well acquainted with fiction, as I believe I have told you.’
‘Yes, but not to know Fielding when you know so much else! Your reading is like a two-legged stool, well-supplied in some respects and completely deficient in others. I see we must add some novels to our reading scheme.’
Her discomfort at having the gaps in her knowledge shown up was instantly expunged by pleasure at his suggestion he would be keen to rectify it. Soon she felt bold enough to join in his little game, drawing his attention to a group of elegantly dressed females, sauntering along the opposite path, arm in arm, laughing and joking as they went.
‘And what story do you imagine for those ladies, Mr Hayward?’
Mr Hayward looked towards the smart little group, only to have his gaze coolly returned by one of their number, unblinking and direct.
‘I’m not sure they are ladies, or at least not of the kind you would be expected to know.’ He lowered his voice to explain. ‘They are women of the town, I’m afraid. The more discreet of the sisterhood are allowed to walk in the gardens, providing they behave respectably.’
Mary glanced quickly back at the women, who strolled onwards, unhurried and unashamed.
‘Lord, sir, I can certainly say I have seen something of the world tonight! I should never have known them if you had not explained. They look like women of the highest fashion.’
‘Yes, they are very much at the upper end of their trade. Evelina meets a similar group of ladies in Miss Burney’s book, do you remember?’
‘I must disappoint you once again. I’ve tried to read Miss Burney’s books, but I’m afraid I could never finish them.’
‘I’m surprised you should not like her, for in many respects, she is exactly the author for you – a sharp mind, a keen idea of right and wrong, a great curiosity about how people behave. Now I come to think of it, she rather reminds me of you.’
‘You make her seem so severe that I’m not sure that is much to my credit.’
‘Not at all. She has a delightful wit, which is the most pleasing aspect of her work.’
‘Now I know you’re making game of me. I can’t imagine why you think I merit such a description.’
‘No, you would not see it,’ replied Mr Hayward, ‘but I do. And as you aren’t accustomed to acknowledging your most attractive qualities, I consider it my duty to remind you of them from time to time.’
With that, he smiled and they walked on together. Mary said nothing – but inwardly, she exulted. He had paid her a compliment – how could that not make her happy? She arrived at the supper box reserved by Mr Gardiner with the greatest readiness to be pleased – and it did not disappoint. It was a spacious booth, for their use alone, set into an arcade which faced onto the central square of the gardens. As such, it offered an unrivalled opportunity to indulge in one of the favourite activities of the place – watching the other visitors, as they promenaded about, arm in arm, desiring nothing so much as to see and be seen. When this spectacle paled, there was the box itself to admire, decorated with several handsome painted murals.
‘They are painted to designs made by Mr Hogarth,’ Mr Gardiner observed, leaning to look more closely at the design behind them. ‘This one is The Milkmaid’s Garland, I believe. It must be older than me and has suffered from the ravages of time and stupidity – people will touch them, often with greasy fingers – but you must admit they are still very fine.’
Mr Gardiner had prudently tipped the head waiter handsomely enough to ensure their supper should not fall victim to the gardens’ famously meagre way with portions; and, as a result, the plates of ham served to them were thick and juicy, their chickens large and golden, and the blackcurrant tart that followed handsomely topped with cream. In short, thanks to Mr Gardiner’s carefully bestowed largesse, their supper was everything they could have wished it to be; and everyone was full and happy as the plates were cleared away. Darkness had fallen properly now, and Mr Gardiner took out his watch and turned to his wife.
‘If I’m not mistaken, we are about to witness a very remarkable event.’
A clock struck nine, a loud whistle blew – and at that precise moment, every light in the gardens was instantly illuminated. Small tapers hanging in the trees, large lamps by the paths, each one lit up at the exact same moment. Gasps of astonishment, and a ripple of applause greeted the success of the undertaking, which impressed even the most sophisticated visitors.
‘They do it every night,’ said Mr Gardiner, highly satisfied at seeing a difficult thing well done. ‘Apparently, it has never been known to fail.’
Mr Hayward was explaining to Mary how the trick was achieved – by means of cotton wool fuses and very accurate time-keeping. She was listening with the greatest attention, when, looking up to sip her coffee, she noticed a young man hurrying eagerly towards their table. When he reached them, he called out to Mr Hayward with friendly familiarity.
‘Tom, I thought it was you! I spotted you from afar – have been calling your name this ten minutes or so – I was obliged to run away from my companions to seek you out.’
Mr Hayward rose, smiled in recognition, and shook the hand of the young man, who looked expectantly at the party around the table.
‘May I introduce you all to my friend Mr William Ryder? We studied the law together some years ago. Mr Ryder, may I present Mr and Mrs Gardiner, various small Gardiners, and Miss Bennet.’
As Mr Hayward named everyone at the table, Mr Ryder bowed to each of them, even the children, which made them giggle behind their hands. At this, he bowed to them once more, accompanying his flourish with an exaggerated wink, which, as he had intended, provoked even more delighted laughter. Unperturbed, he turned to the rest of the table, addressing them with the greatest good humour.
‘I beg your pardon for interrupting you. I hope you will forgive me for trespassing on your privacy, but your little circle looked so inviting, I could not resist approaching you.’
‘We are always glad to meet a friend of Mr Hayward’s,’ replied Mr Gardiner. ‘Will you join us for some wine? We shan’t be staying a great deal longer. The lights have been lit, which means it is best for families to take their leave quite soon. But we have time to offer you a glass, if you wish it?’
Mr Ryder, it appeared, did wish it; and in a few moments, he was seated amongst them, a rapidly emptying glass before him, chatting in the liveliest manner. In the course of a quarter of an hour, his hosts learned he had been in the country for the last few months, that he usually lived in Brook Street – here Mary could not help looking towards Mr Hayward, who inclined his head gravely at this news – and that he was a great frequenter of the gardens, visiting them whenever he could. His conversation, though it did not allow much opportunity for others to interrupt its flow, had that transparent willingness to be pleased that rarely fails to recommend itself to its listeners; and it did not take long before Mr Ryder had secured an invitation to take tea at Gracechurch Street the following week. As he was preparing to take his leave, his name was called from a little way across the grass.
Mary looked up – she knew that voice. There on the path, staring towards the Gardiners’ box with a look of barely concealed indignation, stood Caroline Bingley. As their eyes met, Miss Bingley allowed herself a chilly nod of recognition. Beside her stood her sister, Mrs Hurst, and her sister’s husband, neither looking pleased.
‘Ah, I see I am summoned,’ murmured Mr Ryder.
He made his goodbyes and was quickly borne off by his friends, Miss Bingley giving a last toss of her head which left no doubt of her sentiments at having been deserted in such a way. Her gesture was no doubt intended to leave everyone at the table feeling a little affronted, but Mary could not help believing it had been particularly directed at her.
‘How extraordinary to see Miss Bingley again,’ Mrs Gardiner remarked as they left their box. ‘It was not very well bred in her to be so standoffish, especially when you consider she has been entertained in our house. But I am more affronted than surprised.’
Mrs Gardiner looked as if she might have enlarged on this theme, but it was plain that Mr Gardiner had on many previous occasions been compelled to a listen to recitations of Miss Bingley’s faults; and for all the love he bore his wife, he was not eager to hear it again.
‘Your friend is certainly a prodigious talker,’ he said hastily to Mr Hayward, in an attempt to change the subject. ‘I imagine that must be an asset to him in his profession?’
‘It might have been, if he had persevered with it,’ replied Mr Hayward. ‘But he did not finish his studies. I don’t think Ryder was born to be a lawyer.’
‘So how does he support himself?’ asked Mrs Gardiner.
‘He has some money of his own. And he’s related to a great lady in Kent, who makes him an allowance that enables him to live as he wishes.’
‘I wonder, sir,’ asked Mary, suddenly seeing in her mind the pieces of a jigsaw coming together, ‘is Mr Ryder’s benefactress by any chance Lady Catherine de Bourgh? My sister Elizabeth is related to her by marriage, and she is well known to other friends of mine. I wonder if that is how Mr Ryder came to know Miss Bingley? If he is a favourite of Lady Catherine’s, they might have met at family gatherings in Derbyshire.’
‘That could perhaps be the lady’s name,’ replied Mr Hayward, ‘although I cannot quite recollect it.’
Mary was about to ask more, when it occurred to her that even as a subject of conversation, she had no desire to introduce Lady Catherine’s baleful presence into their happy circle.
Now it was dark, as Mr Gardiner had suggested, the gardens had begun to take on a character not at all suited to the presence of families. There were more young men about than Mary had noticed before, and the smart, bold-eyed ladies, whose occupation she now fully understood, paraded with unmistakeable purpose round the colonnades. It was time for the Gardiners’ party to take their leave; and as they traced their way back to their carriage, through the winding paths, illuminated with thousands of tiny candles, Mary found herself again walking alongside Mr Hayward. As they were alone, she felt herself able to indulge her curiosity about his friendship with Mr Ryder.
‘If you and Mr Ryder no longer share a common interest in the law, may I ask what continues to draw you together as friends?’
Mr Hayward shot her a quizzical look.
‘You do ask the most extraordinary questions!’
‘You told me earlier I displayed an interest in human nature, so here I am, seeking to extend my knowledge.’
He turned away to hide a smile.
‘I’m not sure I shall tell you. I think you will laugh.’
‘I’m sure I shall not.’
‘Well, then – the truth is, it was poetry which brought us together. We read it tirelessly when we were students – anything to distract ourselves from the tedious burden of torts and case law. It was my passion, I believe, that drew him to it,’ continued Mr Hayward. ‘I cared for poetry with an even greater intensity then than I do now, if you can imagine such a thing. But I sometimes wonder if I did Ryder much service in encouraging him to share my dedication. I am not persuaded it was entirely good for him.’
Mary drew her coat around her. The night was growing damp. She picked her way carefully along the path, avoiding the wet grass.
‘I’m not sure I understand. Why should it have harmed Mr Ryder to be introduced to something he came to love?’
‘For a nature like mine, which is, I suppose, essentially settled and steady, poetry was like a great, noisy thunderbolt,’ replied Mr Hayward. ‘It woke me up, alerted me to feelings I did not know I had, or certainly had not the words to describe. I don’t doubt I’m better for what it has taught me. I’d be a far duller creature without it.’
You could never be dull, thought Mary fondly; I have never met anyone who less merited that description.
‘But I think poetry had a very different impact upon Will,’ Mr Hayward continued. ‘He was already of a lively and volatile disposition. He needed no further encouragement to give way to his feelings. He has never put a check upon himself, never stood back and tried to think rationally about what he wants. His heart has always ruled his head. I fear the poetry we read together only encouraged this tendency, with results that have not been wholly beneficial to him.’
They walked a few more paces in silence before Mary spoke.
‘That seems a heavy responsibility to lay solely at the feet of poetry. Perhaps if Mr Ryder had been obliged to follow an occupation, had been compelled to apply himself to some useful purpose, he would have learned different habits.’
‘I have often thought so,’ agreed Mr Hayward. ‘The comfortable situation he enjoys has not perhaps been the best friend to him. The world has largely delivered to him anything he desires, with very little effort required on his part to achieve it. He is used to obtaining what he wants merely by asking for it – although I must admit, the asking is always done in the most charming way imaginable, so that it seems a pleasure to indulge him if you can.’
They were nearing the limits of the gardens now, and Mary could see in the darkness a queue of visitors making their way through the gate into the streets beyond, where lines of carriages stood waiting. Suddenly, Mr Hayward stopped and stood still.
‘I confess I am ashamed to hear myself talking about a friend in such an unmanly, ungenerous way. I do not know what can have provoked me to say such things. In my defence, I can only say that I speak to you with a freedom I would not extend to anyone else. It is very easy – perhaps too easy – to tell you what is in my heart. I hope you will not blame me for it.’
‘I could never do that, Mr Hayward.’
‘And I am giving you a very partial picture of Ryder. His impulses are generous and there is no malice in him.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ she replied, thinking nothing at all of Mr Ryder and only of his friend. As they stood amongst the shadows of the darkening trees, she longed to reach out and take his hand. For a heartbeat, she thought he was about to do what she could not – but at that moment, her aunt came hurrying back towards them, declaring that Mr Gardiner had found their carriage, and would Mr Hayward like a ride back across the river?