A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading/reviewing, it really makes my week! :D
And now, finally, Mary meets a certain someone ;)
Chapter 3: A Chance Encounter
The next morning, Mary decided to take a stroll along the grounds after breakfast, bringing along a book from the Pemberley library. She had had half a mind to find a quiet place to sit with it, but once she saw the fair weather, the warm but gentle sun, and the intense hues of green that stretched before her, she gave in to her temptation to take a lengthier walk before retiring to her reading.
The grounds were vast, and she did not remember them well. She headed absently north of the house, following a path which she thought might lead her to the gardens. As she walked, she thought of what she might contemplate, but for each topic which she chose, she found her mind wandering aimlessly.
'Focus,' she thought sharply. 'You are very much not yourself this morning.'
And indeed she was not – perhaps it was the rapture of the grounds and the weather, but she was inclined towards mawkishness. As her thoughts continued to slip from subject to subject, not able to gain purchase on any of them, she felt unexpectedly a sharp and earnest pang of desire, to have someone with whom she could converse – not simply a friendly companion, who might twitter of trivialities and provide only idle amusement – but one who might share her passion of rhetoric and philosophy, who might provide stimulating discourse, and even exude appreciation of her own knowledge and ideas rather than dismissing them as frivolous occupation.
To have such a companion, rather than one who merely humored her on a whim, as did Mr. Bennet, or one who was prone to laugh away her graveness, as did Lizzy, was something for which Mary had never before wished as earnestly as she did now; it was a melancholy, almost absent wish, however, and one which was void of hope for its realization.
So lost in thought was she that she had no sense of the path she walked, nor where it led, nor where she had wandered at that moment; and when she was in such moods of deep contemplation it was in fact very difficult to rouse her from them, or to regain her attention.
It was to be considered an accomplishment, then, that her attention was instantly reclaimed by a loud exclamation on the other side of the hedge past which she walked – and it startled her out of her thoughts, not only by its loudness, but by its most uncouth nature.
"Blast it! D–– this wind!"
She stopped and stared in strong disapprobation at the offending hedge, though she could think of no response to such an interjection which might be suitably severe and censuring. She was distracted from crafting reply by a stray leaf of paper which flew over the hedge, clearly the object of the voice's ire. She could no sooner decide it would be most prudent to apprehend it and return it to its owner, no matter that owner's coarse language, than the wind had ruled on the matter on her behalf, and skittered the paper away and out-of-sight deeper into the gardens.
"Are you taking a stroll, Mary? You shouldn't mind if I join you, should you? I do so like company on my walks, and Lizzy is seeing to some business this morning." Georgiana had just appeared from the small copse which shrouded the gardens from the west, her cheeks pink with youthful exertion, her pale blue dress most becoming and vernal, and only missing the delicate flowers threaded through her golden blonde hair to complete the illusion of Titania emerging from her fairyland.
Overwhelmed at all these sudden accosts to her solitude, Mary found herself nodding mechanically and agreeing that, 'yes, it was certainly much better with company,' though herself quite unused to having a companion who might join her on walks.
However, Georgiana seemed to be quite pleased, and their previous encounters to be generally forgotten; and so Georgiana passed her arm through Mary's, a gesture which in youth was often bestowed so thoughtlessly and generously on fellow acquaintances, but which to Mary was disconcerting and wholly unfamiliar in its intimacy, if not entirely unpleasant.
As they began their walk along the path, Mary attempted briefly to note if the person on the other side of the hedge stood there still; but she could hear not the slightest noise from that corner, and so presumed he had made his departure just as Georgiana had appeared from the other side.
They walked a few moments in silence, and then Georgiana began to speak, asking her of her morning, of her previous afternoon, and general pleasantries which seemed not so natural to her as they should be, given her breeding and education. Mary fared not much better, and their conversation was stilted and rather staccato until Mary asked her how her afternoon yesterday had been, and stumbled unwittingly on a subject which to Georgiana was quite dear.
"Oh, it was lovely! We took out our paints and easels to the hill just behind Milton (I had not brought mine, for they had insisted on lending me theirs, as they so often do), and we had the most delightful time painting the vista of the valley that stretches before us, the cozy villages and the forests beyond that. Emma and Charlotte are far more skilled at it than myself, of course, but they are always so modest and make pretense of being amateurs. It was such a shame you could not join us, but I am sure we shall all do it again quite soon, for it is the promise on which we parted yesterday, and we shall certainly insist that you join us then."
Mary could think of no suitable response to this which would preserve civility but would free her from obligation, so in the stead of replying, she steered the conversation to a different subject. "Lizzy tells me there will be a dinner party held at Pemberley in a few weeks' time."
Georgiana took on this new topic with the relief of a subject which one knew well. "Yes, you shall have a chance to meet all of our neighbors, and be introduced to the present company we keep. Lord and Lady Langton shall be there, they live in Selwart Hall, to the east. Their children have all grown and married, so it is often just them, unless they have their grandchildren to visit them; but then they are still quite young, only ten or so, so they do not bring them. Colonel Birmingham and his wife, and the Birmingham boy, will be there. He is quite young, younger than us, and a hopeless scoundrel" – this with a fond smile – "And of course the Bensons will be there, Lord and Lady Benson, and the Miss Bensons; and we expect their brother, Mr. Benson, will join as well, as he will be just arrived from London."
The name of the brother was spoken with an undeniable consternation, and Mary glanced at her curiously in time to see a look of distress appear and pass rapidly across her face at his mention.
"Shall we turn back here, and head towards the chapel?" Georgiana asked.
Mary acquiesced, and they began to retrace their steps.
"Oh, and I almost forgot Mr. Crawford!" Georgiana exclaimed. "He shall be there. I only forgot him because he often dines with us even when there is no party, so I have come to think of him as part of our own company."
"Mr. Crawford?" Mary asked, who wondered that Georgiana should expect him to be known to her.
"Yes, have you not met him yet? I thought you might have stumbled upon him this morning. He spends his afternoons in our hothouse with the exotics, but one is liable to find him in our gardens in the morning, sketching our grounds. He is a botanist, you see, quite esteemed in his field, so my brother says. He is illustrating our collections of exotic plants. Ours is quite extensive, apparently. Once he is done, we shall have the illustrations, and he shall keep them for his studies as well – some sort of compendium they are assembling, I believe."
Mary recalled now the mention in Elizabeth's letter. "And with which did he start first, the arts or the sciences?"
"The arts first, from my understanding."
At this, Mary sniffed. She had never before met a botanist, but she had once met a painter commissioned by the Lucas family for their portrait, who had visited them on account of being an acquaintance of the Gardiners. He had been old and bulbous, had puffed on pipes and smelt vaguely of whiskey or brandy, and had been prone to referring to himself as a polymath ('yes, of course, being a bit of a polymath myself…') which was, in Mary's opinion, rather undeserved, seeing as she had once heard him mistake Rousseau for a composer.
They had stopped at the corner of a hedge for Georgiana to inspect a pink rose which was shyly entering into bloom, and at this Mary took the opportunity to detach herself from her arm. "I see. I was curious, in which he professed himself to be knowledgeable, for in my view, he can be knowledgeable only in one. I can only presume him to be an artist who has had chance to attend a society lecture on rose cuttings, and now considers himself to be a renowned expert." And Mary saw quite clearly the image of Mr. Drake before her, affecting knowledge of abscissions and leaf venation, '…being, of course, a bit of a polymath myself…'
Georgiana, who had finally unbowed from her inspection of the rose, had a sudden and intense distress pass across her face, but it was too late for Mary to heed it, for she, who had been no great admirer of Mr. Drake, was now warming to her topic with the assurance that in Mr. Crawford she was bound to find a faithful reproduction.
"I should not wonder that he should choose botany for his pretense, however," Mary therefore continued stolidly, "for in my opinion, botany is transforming into the popular science, that is, the everyman's science, being, as it is, the simplest in which to feign comprehension. Chemistry, psychology, philosophy – these are all studies which require fundamental understandings to discuss with any sort of authority; but in botany, all one must do is intersperse several Latin names throughout their speech and make vague remarks on moisture and soil fertility, and pretend to distinguish the markings between the North African and English ivy."
Georgiana attempted weakly to intervene. "I happen to think botany to be an admirable science – " but Mary interrupted, too swept up in the throes of her arguments, as she was often wont to be, to stop until her case was complete.
"It is not so much a question on whether botany is an admirable science, for with those botanists who are engaged in exploration and discovery of species, it certainly may be called admirable. Rather-" (Georgiana now looked dangerously close to fainting), "it is a question of who is practicing it, for it has plainly been so disseminated among the common man and the erudite elite that every man seems today to be an amateur naturalist, so long as he collects plants, and adequately sketches species of orchid, and subscribes to a botanical society." And it was true, unfortunately; the fad had even reached Hertfordshire, where Lady Lucas, upon perusing once Philosophia Botanica, had become quite ardent in the sketching and cataloguing of her hydrangeas.
"Oh," Georgiana said quite faintly.
"And so, I am quite certain, it goes with these botanical illustrators," Mary said, with the air of having carried her argument home. "A painter does not a scientist make."
"Nor, indeed, a scientist a painter," the unfamiliar voice of a man responded.
Far too late, as she made to turn the corner of the hedge, Mary finally realized the cause of Georgiana's excessive distress – namely, the gentleman seated with a sketchbook on its opposing side, just in the view of Georgiana, but not at all in the view of Mary.
"Mr. Crawford," Georgiana breathed most fretfully, her voice pitched with embarrassment at the circumstance. "What a delightful surprise to find you here" – though she herself had been in plain view of him for some minutes already – "May I have the pleasure of introducing to you Mrs. Darcy's sister, Miss Mary Bennet?"
Mr. Crawford stood at last, and gave her a bow so low it seemed to drift into the realm of irony. "Miss Bennet, a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
He was a tall man, dressed in fine clothes which Mary presumed to be of the latest fashion, for they had an illogic about them which things of fashion so often did. As such, a more contrasting image to Mr. Drake could not be presented, for Mr. Crawford was slender of build, fair-haired, with a decidedly handsome face, and smelt neither of smoke nor of spirits.
Mary's sanctimony had deflated; her cheeks flamed intensely. She was most disconcerted by the sudden appearance of Mr. Crawford, and felt somehow caught out, as a small child, in doing that which she had been instructed not to do. And the circumstances were regrettable, certainly, and Lizzy should be quite cross with her if she were to hear of it; and yet, Mary felt unable to renounce her opinions, it went most deeply against her character to do so, and would be insincere and unconvincing; and moreover, she had no idea how she would set about doing it.
She therefore drew herself up, with an air of defensiveness, and as much stateliness as she could muster, and responded, "And a pleasure to make yours, Mr. Crawford." And if her cheeks flamed still, it was only from the heat of the morning.
She was about to bid him a good day and effect a hasty exit, more for alleviating Georgiana's pains than her own, but Mr. Crawford seemed collected and entirely unperturbed by the circumstances, and said, quite amicably, "Might I just placate your concerns, Miss Bennet, by assuring you I have thus far reaped little benefit from my charlatan ways; for all the academics believe I am an artist, and all the artists that I am an academic, and in consequence, I have not been invited to a dinner party in some years." And he smiled at her most agreeably, but in his eyes was a look which was familiar, to which she had grown accustomed and in parts inured, but which nevertheless offered provocation – she was certain now that he mocked her.
Georgiana laughed weakly. "Has not the weather been particularly pleasant this morning, Mr. Crawford?"
But Mary was now no longer remorseful, but instead provoked, in that intense, feeling way which only a heady and contradictory mixture of injury and self-reproach could enact. She was not to allow herself to be the object of derision, would not blush and avert her eyes as the ladies of her age were so wont to do at the slightest offense, while he stood there as calmly and indifferently as if she were a pitiable fly.
"And which of the two groups do you believe is correct?" she inquired, ignoring Georgiana entirely.
"Do you know," Mr. Crawford said in the same easy tone, "I am not quite sure myself, Miss Bennet. That is why I while away my time with the aristocracy, who do not appear to much care either way."
Again, Georgiana laughed, most painfully now, so that Mr. Crawford seemed to at last take pity on her. "But far be it from me to continue to keep you from your morning stroll, Miss Darcy. Regrettably, I must turn from the fairness of you and your friend, and return to the far inferior beauty of the vista."
Georgiana blushed most gratifyingly, but Mary reddened with embarrassment, for she could see by the way his gaze lingered on her a moment too long that the words had been meant to discomfit her.
"Yes, a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Mary said, "and I do hope the wind shall not continue to be a cruel opponent to your art, for the next time you are forced to express your frustration at it, there might be ladies about. Good day, sir."
And, receiving the little satisfaction which she could from Mr. Crawford's brow being raised in surprise, Mary looped her arm through Georgiana's and steered the two of them away so briskly that poor Georgiana could not but gather her wits before they were already on the other side of the gardens.