A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay (as usual). This chapter's a little longer than normal, for what it's worth. I hope you enjoy :)

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London, 1917.

"Mary, Mary look – " she felt an elbow dig into her ribs, and turned to stare at the girl who had poked her.

"What is it?"

Samantha Williams' eyes were wide with excitement. "It's that man, the one who's been staring at you all night. He's coming over here!"

Mary blinked, and looked out across the crowded dance floor. A young man was indeed coming towards them, an easy smile on his handsome face. Mary felt her insides freeze.

"I – I don't – " but there wasn't time to think of a reasonable excuse. Sam giggled again and ducked behind her fan, and a moment later the man was standing in front of them and bowing politely.

"Miss Lennox?" he enquired, his eyes flicking to Sam, who was practically shaking in hysterics, and back to Mary. "We were introduced earlier in the evening, if you recall. I am – "

"Captain Crawford. Yes, I remember." She had spoken without thinking, and knew she appeared rude. Sam's eyes were all but popping out of her head, but the Captain only smiled affably.

"That's right. Would you care to dance?"

There was no way she could refuse. Mary nodded and rose gracefully to her feet, feeling tight and uncomfortable. She was wearing far more accessories than she was accustomed to, and her hair was pinned up in an elaborate style that Mrs Williams insisted was the latest fashion, but which made Mary's head hurt. At least she had managed to avoid wearing a corset – they were apparently going out of style, thank God. She saw Sam give her an encouraging smile and a wink as she took the Captain's hand and let him lead her onto the dance floor.

"It's a lovely ball you've arranged," said the man conversationally, placing a hand on her waist and moving smoothly into position. Mary forced herself not to think of that other dance, at Thwaite, when she and Dickon had danced together in the darkness. That memory had been threatening to overwhelm her all night.

"Mmm."

"You herald from Yorkshire, correct?" he asked. They began to dance, and she moved through the steps with ease. She knew them off by heart, after all; but her mind was far away.

"That's correct."

"And India before that?"

She blinked, wondering how he had come by that information. It wasn't something very many people knew about her. "That's right."

"Do you ever miss it? India, I mean."

His question caught her by surprise, and she looked at him. He was still smiling, but there was a slight crease to his brow that showed he was studying her. "I – not really," she answered honestly. "India was – it was not a pleasant place for me."

"Ah." He span her again, and the line of dancers shifted, meaning there was no opportunity for more conversation. When they reconnected, he was still smiling. It was beginning to annoy her – normally, by this stage, most men had taken the hint of how disinterested she was.

"I miss it quite a bit, myself," he said, and for a moment she didn't know what he was talking about. When she remembered, surprise made her incautious.

"India?" she blurted out incredulously, and he laughed.

"Absolutely. I grew up there, after all."

She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time that evening. He was handsome, no doubt, with dark hair that fell across his forehead, grey eyes and a mouth that looked like it was used to smiling.

"Where in India?" she asked suspiciously.

"Oh, here, there, and everywhere. You still don't remember me, do you?"

Her heart began to thump, and she came close to pulling her hands out of his. "No, I don't," she said crossly. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't play games with me."

He didn't seem at all perturbed by her anger. In fact he seemed amused by it. "I suppose it has been a long time. But I never forgot who you were, Mistress Mary."

And suddenly, she knew exactly who he was. Crawford… why hadn't she recognised it before? "Basil?" she asked stupidly, stopping short in her surprise.

He grinned at her. "Ah, she finally remembers! I was beginning to think I'd have to spell it out for you."

"But – how – what are you doing here?" She forced herself to resume the dance before they attracted any attention.

"You mean England? We moved back shortly after you did. India just wasn't the same, once you left." His grin was positively impish.

She scowled at him. "And how exactly did you manage to secure an invitation tonight?"

He laughed as he twirled her. "Oh, that part was easy. You'd be surprised how well-connected a British Captain is these days, poor family or no. Not quite on the same level as a Lord, I suppose, but we can more than hold our own. I'm only on leave for a short while, but when I saw your name in the events pages I knew I had to see you."

She didn't reply. Her mind was reeling from the sudden reminder of her childhood. It took her back to India, to the heat and disagreeability of it all. She remembered the long ship ride to England, of the other children's teasing and how much she had hated them.

"What's wrong?" Basil asked, frowning slightly. "You look sad, all of a sudden."

"Just… remembering what a wretched creature I was back then," she said without thinking. "I'm surprised you wanted to see me at all, given how horrible I was to you."

"If I remember correctly, I was just as horrible back," he said lightly. "And I'd be lying if I said I didn't find your contrariness rather intriguing. I always wondered what happened to you." There was a curious expression in his eyes, and she raised her brows.

"What is it?"

"Only that – " he seemed suddenly hesitant. "That I never imagined you would be quite so beautiful."

She flushed deeply, but the partners were changing again, and it was a while before she was back facing him.

"How long are you in London?" he asked, as though there had been nothing awkward about their previous conversation.

"I… I'm not sure," she said, and then, because she couldn't help herself, "I – I have to ask… the war. How is it?"

His own features tightened and his expression became solemn. "War is war," he said darkly. "Hardly fit conversation for a pretty lady's ball."

"Yes, but… "

"Why do you want to know?" He was studying her closely now.

"Doesn't everybody want to know?" she countered, but when he continued to stare at her she relented. "It's just that someone… someone very dear to me is fighting on the front. At least I think that's where he is."

His expression changed. "Ah."

"Don't look like that," she snapped. "It's not… he's just a friend."

He only smiled tightly, and twirled her again.

"You didn't answer the question," she reminded him when they reunited.

Basil sighed. "If you want me to assure you that your friend is safe… I can't."

She winced, but nodded. "I appreciate your honesty."

"To be perfectly frank, the latest offensive has been nothing short of an unmitigated disaster." His eyes took on a far-away look. "We've lost so many men… but it's drawing to a close now, with the winter coming. If your man has lasted this far, and so long as the cold doesn't get him, he should make it through to spring, at least."

Her heart clenched at his words, but she forced herself to maintain a stoic expression. She had asked for honesty, and he had given it to her; she wasn't going to repay that by becoming hysterical. Besides, there was hope enough in what he had said. Fighting would be over for the year soon, and maybe then… maybe then he would come home. Not that there was any reason to expect that he would want to see her, she reminded herself harshly. Dickon had made his feelings on that abundantly clear before he left…

Basil's hands tightened around her own, and she was brought back to the present. "If I could bring your sweetheart home safely, I would," he muttered, his voice so low she had to lean forward to hear him. "If I could bring all the sweethearts home, I would."

The pain in his voice was unbearable. Mary sought desperately for a lighter subject. "You've certainly grown up, haven't you? I'd never have recognised you for that bratty little boy in India."

He smiled, somewhat bitterly. "We've all grown up, I fear."

Then the music ended, and he took a step back, lifting her hand to his lips for a brief moment before releasing it. "It was a pleasure, Miss Lennox."

"Shall I… shall I see you again, before you leave?" she asked, unable to bear the thought of another departure, another goodbye. Never mind that she barely knew this man.

The look he gave her was searching. "I leave the day after tomorrow," he said at last. "I'm afraid it won't be possible."

She took a deep breath, wondering why this bothered her so much. "I see. Well, do come back safely, won't you? It would be such a waste should…if…" she couldn't say it.

He nodded. "Farewell then, Mary." And he turned and vanished into the crowd.

Mary stared after him, struggling to make sense of her turbulent thoughts. She caught Sam making her way towards her, the younger girl's eyes alight with the prospect of gossip, and suddenly she couldn't stand the thought of being there a minute longer. She needed peace and quiet to sort through the encounter she had just had.

Hurriedly she ducked in the opposite direction, pretending not to have seen Sam. She wove through the crowd until she spotted Colin's blonde head, striding purposefully toward him.

Her cousin was standing with several of his friends from university, and as usual he was talking animatedly, his hands moving as he elaborated on some intellectual point. He cut quite an impressive figure, now well over six foot and dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, and there were several girls eyeing him shyly from nearby. Mary strode up to him and poked him roughly in the back, and he started, whirling around.

"Mary! You startled me."

She brushed this aside. "I need to be alone. Make some excuses for me."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she was gone before he could speak, weaving through the crowd with her head bowed to avoid eye-contact. She knew it was improper, to leave one's own debutante ball early, but she didn't really care. Seeing Basil had awoken something in her, a remnant of that rebellious spirit of her youth when she had done what she wanted whenever she wanted without a care for anyone else; when she had been as selfish and contrary as could be. Dickon had taught her that such behaviour was wrong… but then, Dickon wasn't there anymore.

She sagged with relief when she entered her own, blissfully silent bedchamber. Kicking off her tight, uncomfortable shoes, she sank onto her bed with a sigh. Her eyes swept across the room, surveying the contents of it with cold detachment and something akin to disgust. She had been in London more than a year, and yet there was hardly a trace of home about this room. It looked as unlived in as it had when she first arrived. Soulless.

She thought of Basil, and of how people could change. Then, as though out of the blue, she remembered the ivory elephant she had brought back with her from India, the sole remaining token of her childhood. She was sure it was here somewhere, perhaps still buried in the bottom of her trunk where it had been thrown many months ago. Mary went to kneel before her trunk, her fingers scrabbling through the layer of debris at the bottom in search of a touch of ivory. After a moment's struggle she found it, and was about to draw it out when something else caught her eye.

It was a small envelope, a parcel really, barely the size of her palm. Its edges were yellowed with age and neglect, and there were dark spots of damp just starting to show in the corners. Mary stared at it for a long time, then drew it out slowly and reverently with trembling hands. She couldn't believe that she had forgotten this, had tossed it aside so thoughtlessly as if it was nothing. She must truly have been living in a daze, to forget Martha's parting gift so completely.

Hardly daring to breathe, Mary peeled it open. Inside were two slips of paper, and nothing else. Mary felt a twinge of disappointment; Martha had said it was something to remember him by, but this was nothing more than a scrap of parchment. It was probably just an old letter or -

She unfolded the first slip, and gasped.

She had known Dickon could draw, of course; had seen him sketching regularly, faithful imitations of the moor and all its life forms, birds and animals and flowers created with love and skill. She had known the talent he held with a pencil. But she had never… she had never realised…

Before her was a drawing of a girl. A beautiful girl, her eyes alive with life, her pretty mouth curved into a smile, and her long, slightly curly hair cascading over her shoulders. She was kneeling on the ground beneath a tree, and in her arms was a tiny creature; a baby lamb. The girl was feeding it with one hand, while her other curled itself into the soft wool of its back. Her eyes focused on someone out of the picture, and there was something cheeky in their sparkle, a message shared between her and that other person. It was a look that took Mary's breath away.

He must have drawn it from memory, she thought. He hadn't had his sketch pad with him that day; she knew he hadn't. How, then, had he captured the moment so perfectly, so that it was like looking at a photograph rather than a sketch made on a scrap of paper? Her heart thudding, she unfolded the second slip. This time it was impossible to choke back her sob. For she knew this picture, knew it as clearly as she knew the letters written on the other side. It had been the first drawing anyone had ever given her, and she had treasured it as a priceless gift for years.

It was a picture much simpler than the first, given that he was only twelve when he drew it. A bird – she hadn't known it was a misselthrush back then – sitting on a nest, its beak poking about busily. And underneath the image were the simple, printed letters that had given her such joy the first time she read them:

I will cum bak.

She didn't even realise she was crying until a fat tear dropped from her chin onto the picture. Hurriedly she shook it off, then held the paper to her chest as sobs began to wrack through her. He had promised to come back, and he always had. Now he was further away than ever, and he had made no promise at all. But she had to believe. She had to believe that he cared, and that he would come back to her. The alternative was unthinkable.

Giving in to her tears, Mary sank back into the embrace of her bed, the two pictures clutched tight against her. They were her lifeline, her proof that it hadn't just been a dream. I will cum bak. Oh God let it be true.

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A/N: As ever, I cherish each and every review.

Peace and love, ~A