Chapter Text
Tom’s journey to Yorkshire had been agonizing. He could only imagine how pathetic he looked- arriving at his parents’ doorstep unannounced, hat in hand -for them to have rushed him into the house as quickly as they did. His mother had practically thrown him down onto the sofa, and brushed through his brown curls as she touched the back of her hand to his forehead.
“Oh, my dear boy! What has happened to you? We must get Mrs. Lucas to fetch you some tea– I'm sure she's around here somewhere... Mrs. Lucas!”
Mrs. Lucas hurried into the drawing room, clearly startled by the urgency in his mother’s voice. She nodded fervently as Mrs. Hayward relayed the request, only pausing once to take in the man sitting before her. Tom avoided her eyes, not wanting to receive any more pity than he already had, and eventually heard her footsteps scurry out of the room. He tapped his fingers against his thigh as he debated which events of the past few weeks to share with his family.
“Thank you, mother, but I am quite alright,” he said, gently pushing her arm away. Her worry was palpable, and he decided it would be best to spare her the details of his visit to the Lakes; the gossip that had already been spread around London would more than suffice. “I was paid a visit, last week, by Miss Baxter.”
Her eyes widened. “Yes?”
“We have ended our agreement. She is engaged to Mr. Powell.”
“Oh, my sweet boy!” his mother gasped. She took his hands in hers as she tried to comfort him, rambling on about youth these days and impatient hearts. Her words had a venom to them, and Tom realized the conclusions she was likely coming to in her mind.
“Mother, really, I am fine! It was a mutual decision; we had outgrown our understanding long before it ended.”
She scoffed. “There is no need to protect your pride around your mother- look at you! I have never seen you so disheartened.”
He hadn't the heart to tell her the true reason behind his demeanor. That would require him to speak of his reason for going to the Lakes, which would require him to speak of Miss Bennet, and he did not yet trust himself to do so without losing his composure. Miss Bennet would likely be engaged soon anyways, and the last thing he wanted was to ruin her nuptial bliss with gossip. For all his family knew, he had returned to Yorkshire to escape the pain of terminating his understanding with Miss Baxter, and that was the narrative he was sticking to.
“I suppose it did come as a bit of a shock,” he sighed, “but it was necessary. I assure you I have no ill feelings towards Miss Baxter.” He looked at his mother pointedly as he finished, urging her to put the subject to rest. Ann had become a great friend to him over the years, as he had to her, and they both truly wished for the other’s happiness. She had just been the one brave enough to admit that they would not find it with each other.
His mother softened as she felt the sincerity of his words. She glanced over to his father, who had been standing in the corner of the room, watching the whole conversation unfold with concerned eyes. He had always been a reserved man– Tom had only seen him shed a tear once in his life, when they received word that their grandmother had passed –and returned her gaze as if to say; “if he insists, why press it further?”
She turned back, and taking a long look at Tom before letting out a sigh of defeat. “Well, then, I am glad to hear it.” She ran her thumb over the back of her son's hand, hoping to comfort whatever feelings she suspected he was hiding. “And you are a fine gentleman. Any young woman would be lucky to marry you.”
Tom looked down, a lump forming in his throat as the memories from Scafell flashed through his mind. Not as lucky as they would be to marry William Ryder.
Tom stood face to face with Mary, the soft sound of the fountain behind them filling the air.
He had travelled straight to Gracechurch Street after receiving Miss Bingley's letter, where Mrs. Gardiner had informed him that Mary was out for an afternoon stroll. He ran through the streets like a madman, calling her name down every alley he passed- but he knew her usual routes. He knew that on a temperate spring day like today, she would want to walk in the gardens; the flowers were just beginning to bloom, and she preferred to enjoy them before the dreadful heat of summer set in. He knew that she would perch herself just outside the centre monument, where she could observe the people passing by in full view, and that she would likely be carrying a book with her- geology, or maybe history. He continued to shout her name as he followed the path through the grass, until he finally caught sight of her pink spencer jacket on the other side of the clearing, standing in exactly the spot he had pictured. He felt a pang of pride as he realized his search had been successful, and that despite their months apart, he had still known her; she was still his Mary.
Mary approached him slowly, her expression appearing confused, then relieved, and then completely unreadable. Tom must have imagined this meeting a million times on his journey from Yorkshire. He had rehearsed every line, wanting to ensure that he explained each of his actions at the Lakes carefully. He told Mary of his thought process at the time: how he had noticed Ryder had also taken a liking to her, how Ryder had shared the news of his inheritance with him at the summit, and how he knew that he could never provide for her in a similar manner, no matter how prosperous his career may become. He told her that, even though it tore him apart, he had stepped aside for her own well-being. His speech flowed out from him like a sonnet, each phrase aligning perfectly with the next, and he had hoped more than anything that she would understand him.
She furrowed her brow as she processed what she had just heard. “You and Mr. Ryder, between you, thought that you would just decide on my fate and I would just accept it? Like I’m a– like I’m a grateful cat?”
This was not going how Tom had planned.
"When you put it like that, it does not sound good-"
“Why didn’t you just ask me what I thought?”
“I was reading between the lines.”
“There were no lines, Mr. Hayward!" Mary yelled, exasperated. "There were no lines!”
The words pierced through Tom’s heart, but the look on Mary’s face had shattered him entirely. Her green eyes glistened in the afternoon sun, filling with tears despite her best efforts to keep them at bay. She held her lips tightly shut, as if her whole heart would spill out if she released them, and dug her nails into her palms at her side. She was heartbroken; purely, utterly, heartbroken, and Tom wanted only to ease her pain.
“Mary, please. Please allow me to make it up to you–”
“No– Mr. Hayward,” Mary interrupted, a shudder going through her at the use of her Christian name. She looked down as she spoke, knowing that if her eyes met those of the man standing before her, her composure would falter. She could not allow it. “All of my life I have been an afterthought, having decisions made for me despite my own convictions. I never thought that I would be one to you as well.”
Tom stood silent, hanging his head in shame. He had convinced himself that she would be better off with William, that he had been the object standing in the way of her happiness. He couldn't have allowed himself to think otherwise, or else he would have never given his blessing on that fateful day. As he stood here now, he wished desperately that he hadn't. He hated himself for what he had done, for the pain he had caused; and he hated how selfish he felt now for thinking of how beautiful Miss Bennet looked in this moment, with the wind breezing through her hair. He had no right to those thoughts at present.
"You could never be an afterthought."
Mary raised her head. Tom's breath hitched in his throat as she met his gaze, and for a brief moment, he had hope. In her eyes he saw a future: libraries filled with poetry and geography, quarrels of semantics over the breakfast table, and, Lord willing, Saturday mornings spent playing games with the children. It all felt as real to him now as it had atop of that mountain, and he prayed she felt the same.
She turned away.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hayward. I think– I think I need some time.”
Tom thought his heart had stopped beating. The world froze around him as every scenario he had played out in his head turned to fantasy; there would be no grand reunion, no profound confession of love, no delicate laughter as they both forgot their mistakes of the past. It had been foolish to expect anything otherwise. He had abandoned the woman he loved, hurt her in the most personal of ways, and now he was facing the consequences.
The garden suddenly seemed very public. Tom felt every pair of eyes surrounding them burn into the back of his head, and was now quite conscious of the spectacle he had caused. His face turned bright red in embarrassment. Whether it was reality or his imagination– he did not know –all he knew was that it would be in both of their best interests to leave, with haste, and put this humiliating display to rest.
Tom’s memory blurred after that. He knew that he had mumbled out some form of apology, excusing himself for having spoken out of terms, and that he had given Miss Bennet the fastest bow of his life before he turned away. He remembered how it had taken all of his strength to return home before falling apart, and how he crumbled to the floor as soon as his door shut behind him. He remembered the cold of the hardwood floor against his hands, and how empty his home now seemed since he had allowed himself to dream of sharing it. He did not remember when he had made it to his study, nor when he had poured himself his first whisky, but he had awoken in the early hours of the next morning face-down on his desk, with a throbbing in his head, and an empty glass still in hand.
The barrister he apprenticed under, Mr. Norwood, had told Tom to take as much time to himself as he needed after hearing of the end of his agreement with Miss Baxter. At the time, Tom had accepted out of propriety, not wanting to beg any questions by appearing too happy with his change of circumstances. Now, he was most grateful for it. Though it was not the one Mr. Norwood had suspected, Tom was indeed nursing a heartache, and was in no position to stand before a client- let alone a court of law.
He forced himself down to the kitchen, each step causing the pounding in his head to grow stronger. There was little grace to his actions as he started the kettle, praying that the mistakes of yesterday could be washed away with a cup, or five, of tea. He collapsed into a chair at the table as he waited for the water to boil.
“All of my life I have been an afterthought, having decisions made for me despite my own convictions. I never thought that I would be one to you as well.”
An afterthought? He buried his face in his hands as the words rang through his mind. How could she not see that she was anything but? She had haunted him: at the ball, at the Lakes, in Yorkshire. She pressed so prominently on his mind that he could not think- could not breathe without her, and yet he hadn't thought to ask her wishes directly. The kettle finally whistled. Tom prepared a pot to steep as he tried to stop the flashbacks from returning, but his efforts were futile.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hayward. I think– I think I need some time.”
There had been such a heaviness in her voice as she said it. At the time, Tom had only heard what it meant for him in that moment; Miss Bennet was not yet ready to forgive him. But as he stirred his tea this morning, he found in it a glimmer of hope that had escaped him yesterday; Miss Bennet was not yet ready to forgive him. Yet.
If time was what Mary needed, then time was what she would get. Tom had let her slip away once before, and he was determined not to make the same mistake again. He took a large sip of his tea as he debated how to proceed. He needed to be patient, that much was obvious, and allow her sufficient space to work through her emotions- but not so much space that she feels forgotten. He would have to be present, but not pressing, and make his continued devotion known, without being overwhelming. His head throbbed at the thought.
Tom poured himself a second cup of tea, resolving that this may be a problem best solved by a sober mind. For now, he would take comfort in the small hope that semantics had given him, and sleep away his aches in his room. As he made his way upstairs, rubbing the knot that had formed in the back of his neck from a night hunched over his desk, he did not yet know what his plan would be- but he was quite certain that it would not involve whiskey, for at least the foreseeable future.