Work Text:
I keep these longings locked
In lowercase inside a vault
Someone told me
There's no such thing as bad thoughts
Only your actions talk
—
For maybe the fifth time that night — but certainly not for the last — Thomas Hayward debated whether dumping his head in the bowl of punch to scream or knocking his head against the very fine marble of Lady Winspear’s ballroom repeatedly would cause social scandal and earn himself an one way ticket to a very nice mental institution on the countryside.
At present, all he could do was clench his jawline, take a sip again from his glass — his second of the evening already, more than he usually allowed himself to partake in and from the way he was draining it quite fast he would find himself with a third one on his hand soon — and attempt to not let it show on his face how his control was slowly slipping away from him as he stood beside Miss Baxter — with whom he had a standing understanding, he reminded himself — and watched Miss Bennet twirl around the dance floor in the arms of none other than William Ryder.
“It is the onions,” Miss Baxter said to him with a very satisfied smile as Ryder said something that caused Mary — Miss Bennet, he corrected himself — to let out a laugh that illuminated her entire face, her eyes sparkling and her face flushing.
Tom had no idea what that meant but he was inclined to ban onions from entering his small bachelor lodging’s kitchen for the unforeseen future.
He would like to think that she was merely flushed as a result from the dance — a gavotte, out of everything, while he had to resign himself with only a minuet — and Ryder’s obvious tendency to disregard common norms and make it entirely more strenuous than the norm dictated. Tom doubted that Ryder’s very strict and serious dance instructors would have taught him to dramaticise the steps in the way he was currently doing. In the way that he had somehow convinced Mary to do too, an act that she seemed to be enjoying with gusto as he saw her smile get bigger and laugh again as they turned.
In his subconscious, however, he was secretly hoping that it was not a result of being in Ryder’s company, his chest aching in pain and his hands getting clammy with nerves at the mere thought.
Tom tried to tell himself that it was good to see Miss Bennet clearly enjoying tonight's ball. After the disastrous poetry recital he had presented to the Gardiners and Miss Bennet — even if she had said that it had raised her spirits, he had found it hard to believe when she still declared her intention to leave — Tom had resigned himself to the idea of Miss Bennet leaving London.
The recital had proved to be not only disastrous in regards to its failing to convince Miss Bennet that she had a place in London but also because it made him realise that he did not care solely for her as a friend.
No, since that early rainy day amidst a garden of wisteria Thomas Hayward had begun to realise that his feelings were slowly but surely walking away from the grounds of friendship.
All the while he had an understanding with Miss Baxter.
For the better part of three years and still going until he achieved a promotion at the chambers and could provide a comfortable life that made her wish for nothing.
So he had decided to gather that feeling, lock it in a chest, hide it behind a vault and vow to himself to not entertain such thoughts again. Mentally closing the vault's door in his mind, he walked away from it, not to return again.
Until the day of charades at the Gardiners where Mary sparkled brighter than the fireworks at the Vauxhall Gardens.
Where William Ryder had made her laugh, raised her spirits when he could not.
The chest had rattled open, the vault had shaken.
But its door held close by his mental fortitude, and all he did was smile tightly beside Miss Baxter as she and Ryder rained some well deserved praise on Miss Bennet.
However, only a mere fortnight later at Lady Winspear’s evening ball and his subsequent dance with Miss Bennet had made the chest’s lid go entirely off hinge.
Only the vault stood intact now, but it grew precarious with each passing note of the music sheet played by the musicians as he watched Mary — Miss Bennet, he chastised himself — on William Ryder’s arms.
You are a gentleman, he firmly scolded himself, and gentlemen do not stare and brood over the fact that the unattached niece of his close acquaintances is dancing and having a lovely time with a very eligible young man.
Yes, Thomas Hayward was a gentleman.
Despite the fact that he had come from humble beginnings, from a family of lower gentry (not quite wealthy but respectable) he had been raised as one, made sure not only by his parents but also his eldest brother and even more by his four sisters. They made sure since he was but a small boy that he knew precisely how to treat a woman respectfully.
The Hayward sisters were such fearless beings that little Tommy learned early on that his only advantage against them was merely the advantage of being born as the opposite sex and all its freedoms when compared to the restricted manual all four of them were expected to follow to the best of their abilities: have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, the modern languages, extensive reading and even a certain manner of walking. Not to mention, having to secure a husband before being considered a “spinster” at the age of six and twenty whereas a gentleman could be nine and twenty and be unmarried still.
So Thomas Hayward would do what he did best.
He would do what his sisters had taught him and be a gentleman.
He would not stare longingly at Miss Bennet while Miss Baxter chatted with some acquaintance by his side.
He would not interrupt their dance — he wanted to but that would not only be social suicide but also ruin Mary’s happinness and enjoyment and he could not bring himself to cause her even a flicker of pain.
You served your purpose, he thought to himself lamely, you danced with her to help her attract a suitor and that is exactly what happened.
Nursing his third glass of punch, Tom recalled when Miss Baxter and Miss Bennet had arrived, being early for once having managed to leave Chambers at a reasonable time.
He had been on the sidelines of the room when he spotted the two ladies arriving arm in arm, promptly walking in their direction, his heart missing a beat when he saw Miss Bennet.
“Doesn’t Miss Bennet look beautiful?” Miss Baxter had asked him a smile, her arm intertwined with Miss Bennet.
And indeed she looked beautiful.
More than beautiful, she looked angelic.
The white dress and gloves made her look as one of the angels descended from heaven to bestow grace upon the mortals, the green ribbon accentuating her waist and the flowers perfectly complimenting her fair skin.
Her lovely hair had been masterfully arranged, a simple pearl necklace adorning her lovely neck.
And her eyes, oh her eyes seemed to be able to read Tom’s entire soul as she looked at him, having foregone her glasses for the occasion.
He could not help but be reminded of one of Wordsworth’s poems.
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
“Mr. Hayward, how would you like to dance with Miss Bennet?” Miss Baxter had enquired him as soon as the current set had finished, a pointed look that left him a bit speechless for a second and indicated that he should say yes.
At the moment, he had not known whether to hug Miss Baxter from joy over her question — he had been debating all day before the ball if he should ask Miss Bennet for a dance, if it would be proper, if she would say yes — or to shake her in distress because he had been trying so very hard to be a gentleman and not think about Miss Bennet that he had not known if he would survive the mere thought of standing close to her and act unbothered, let alone spend an entire set dancing with her.
“No, I couldn't,” Mary had said softly, and he felt his heart deflate a little at the thought that she would rather stay standing in the sidelines than dance with him.
“It will show how eligible you are,” Miss Baxter had replied firmly.
That had made Tom freeze for a moment.
Initially, his spirits had risen seeing Miss Bennet at Lady Winspear’s evening ball.
Her presence indicated that after the night of games at the Gardiners she had changed her mind about leaving.
The happiness of being able to keep seeing her and spending time with her overpowered his slightly hurt pride that he had not been the reason for the change in her spirits. Regardless, he was glad that Miss Baxter and the Gardiners — and even Ryder, he begrudgingly admitted — had been able to do what his recital had not.
But her change of heart was motivated by the sudden desire to find a suitable match?
A husband?
Tom knew he was being perfectly nonsensical.
Miss Bennet was a very eligible young lady.
She was one of the smartest women he knew — more intelligent even than some people he had shared classes with at Cambridge — and absolutely beautiful.
And he knew that even if the Gardiners assured her that she could stay with them indefinitely and maintain her position as a governess with some other family, marriage was still the safest means that Mary could guarantee her security and protection were something to happen.
That did not help the sudden wave of nausea that overcame him when he pictured Mary at church exchanging vows with some faceless man.
“I don’t suppose you have much room for me…” he had taken a deep breath, least he vomited the appetizers he had eaten on her feet “on your card”
That was all he had managed to say, in fear he would end up blurting out something he most definitely should not.
“But if there is, I would be very glad to dance with you” he had added with what he had hoped was a friendly smile, trying not to seem very eager.
It was perfectly acceptable for him to dance with Miss Bennet. They were, after all, friendly with each other and Tom was a close acquaintance of her relatives.
Nevermind that he avoided dancing if possible, only partaking in the strict necessary number of sets expected of him given his and Miss Baxter’s understanding.
If he could somehow bring a little cheer to Mary he would do so, nevermind the possibility of making a fool of himself.
“Oh, uh, there might… there might be,” she had fumbled with her dance card, Miss Baxter smiling encouragingly at her.
“Let me just…check” she had added quietly, opening her dance card to see.
Her eyes had rovered over the small piece of paper and Tom had held his breath.
“Ah, yes” she had announced, Miss Baxter nodding with a smile beside her “Yes, we could dance”
Tom had smiled at her, praying to the heavens he did not appear as eager and as relieved as he felt inside.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayward” Miss Bennet had looked straight ahead as she thanked him, as if preparing herself mentally.
Tom had exchanged a glance with Miss Baxter, who had grinned at him, satisfied that everything was going according to her intentions.
They had joined the others on the dance floor, and Tom had sent a silent prayer that he did not ruin this blessing that had been bestowed upon him.
His prayers, however, were not entirely heard.
Maybe he had spent all his luck getting this chance to dance with Miss Bennet.
For starters, he was so thoroughly lost in Mary’s eyes when she had curtsied at him — her melodic voice saying “Mr. Hayward, how are you?” in a way that made him want to bottle the sound so he could listen to it whenever he felt himself missing her company — that not only did his responding greeting get interrupted but he also got startled by the start of the dance, his shoes squeaking loudly when he moved along everyone else to his right.
Great, he had thought to himself as he moved around the dance floor, the minuet has barely started and I have already made half a spectacle of myself.
His eyes followed Miss Bennet as she turned in a circle with the other ladies, counting his steps under his breath.
When they stood once again side by side and touched their palms together — he cursed propriety and the need for her to wear gloves, remembering how warm and soft her hands had felt against his when he had helped her down the carriage weeks ago during his surprise for her and the Gardiners — he lost count of the steps, shoes squeaking again as he almost crashed against the other dancers.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry” he had apologised quickly, feeling his ears getting warm.
Nothing had prepared him for what was coming next, however.
Tom stood ramrod straight as Mary approached, turning his head sideways to watch as she breezed past him.
He took a deep breath as she stood behind him, spinning in a circle.
Lavender.
Orange blossom.
The hint of a spicy blend from perfume.
Another sweet and enticing essence he could not properly name, but that he could say was distinctive Mary’s.
Tom almost fell to his knees, her lovely scent making home in his lungs, becoming a permanent olfactory memory in his brain.
He could not look away from her.
He prayed that everyone else was too busy mingling or in their little world with their dance partners to take notice of the way he looked at Mary as she breezed by his side, moving to stay in front of him on the other side.
He could not help himself.
He could not help but follow her every move, losing all sense of reason and propriety as he gazed at the vision that she was in that white dress.
You are a gentleman, his subconscious was trying to remind him.
Then it was his turn to circle her.
Even then his eyes refused to lose sight of her.
You are a gentleman, his rational side informed again as he stood behind her.
Tom promptly told his rational side to sod off as he gazed at her slender neck, her updo making her curls barely brush her nape.
He was devouring her with his eyes, trying to imprint Mary in that moment on his mind so he would never forget it.
It is not a bad thought, he tried to reason with himself as he watched Mary join the other ladies in a circle, I am not doing anything.
Thomas Hayward may have been raised a gentleman, but at the current moment all gentlemanly thoughts had been brushed aside.
His reasonable side had lost the battle.
All he could think of was when the next step would come and he would be rejoined at Mary’s side again.
If he walked a bit closer to her than the dance required when he and the other gentleman were taking a turn, no one would be able to tell.
Finally, he internally sighed in relief as he met Mary in the middle, their palms touching once again.
He tried to prolong the contact as much as he could without disturbing the dance, imprinting the feeling of her hand against his, nevermind the gloves she wore.
He felt himself becoming desperate as he felt that the dance was nearing its end.
He turned a bit faster than demanded, his eyes eager to find her again.
They took their initial positions once more, each on the other side of the dance floor, all the couples aligned.
You are a gentleman, a voice that distinctively sounded like his elder brother tried to reason with him, but it came weakly, as if far away.
Tom bowed as the orchestra played the last notes of the minuet.
His eyes did not leave her face for even a second.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayward” Mary had said as the other guests applauded the dancing couples.
“Miss Bennet,” he breathed out softly, trying to will his soul back to his body.
Trying to take control once again of his own body, which was still lost in the memory of her hand against his.
Of that maddening scent that would never leave his system.
Tom wondered whether it would be insanity to go to an apothecary and demand they recreate that scent.
He would keep a small vial of it on his writing table, opening the bottle to smell that alluring scent whenever he felt himself tired or despairing over a particularly tricky clause.
Miss Baxter had welcomed them back with a bright smile, complementing the minuet.
And then Miss Bennet had urged him and Miss Baxter to dance together.
Tom had deflated a little.
He had wanted to talk to her about her change of heart.
Inquire how her days had been since they had last met, if she had made any progress with her poetry, if the Gardiner children were missing her classes now that their old governess had returned from the North.
But he was a gentleman.
And gentlemen did not refuse to dance with the young lady they had an understanding with because they would rather spend their time beside an unattached young lady.
So Tom and Miss Baxter moved to the dance floor.
And when the next set began he saw Mary in William Ryder’s arms.
Their chests were touching, her hand on his shoulder and his on her waist as Ryder led the dance.
Thomas Hayward was a gentleman but he wanted to storm to the middle of the dance floor and break them apart.
His control was slowly slipping, and he smiled tightly as Miss Baxter happily talked about how her idea had been a success.
After what an entire lifetime had come and gone, the gavotte finally ended.
Excusing himself to take his glass to a passing servant — three glasses were his limit, unless he wanted to wake up with a pounding headache the next morning — Tom avoided having to greet Mary and Ryder as they left the dance floor.
When he returned, Mary was flushed, her eyes sparkling with delight.
She was so beautiful that it robbed his breath.
“We were just talking about Mr. Ryder,” Miss Baxter informed him.
“Yes,” he said tightly, trying not to grimace “William Ryder”
Tom tried to reign his temper as Ryder returned with glaces for both ladies, giving the biggest to Mary.
You are a gentleman, he stiffly repeated to himself for what most have been the fiftieth time during the night.
But the chest did not have a lid anymore.
And the vault had a small crack.
Yes, Thomas Hayward was a gentleman.
All that remained to be seen was if he would keep being one during the continuation of his acquaintance with Miss Mary Bennet.