A/N: Happy Friday, everyone! I really appreciate everyone's reviews and follows, and everyone who's just been reading and enjoying!
As promised, we finally have the return of Mr. Crawford. Hope you enjoy, and reviews are always greatly appreciated! :D
Chapter 6: The Art of Scientific Discourse
The time which Mary did not spend in Georgiana's company – those mornings or afternoons when her friend was claimed by the Miss Bensons, or when she was applied to her studies – this time Mary spent unfailingly in exploring the Pemberley library.
New friendships are often wont to be exciting and all-consuming; and certainly, Mary derived much gratification from it; but indeed, it would have been a foolhardy endeavor for any person, even one as amiable as Georgiana, to attempt to supplant, in such short time, the sacred vestibule of Mary's heart which had been so long devoted to her reading.
The Pemberley library to her was equal parts safe refuge and paragon. Unlike the library at Longbourn, which was as a whole outdated and leaned heavily towards the reading preferences of Mr. Bennet, the library at Pemberley was a collection which was being always fastidiously and expertly expanded, no doubt through the careful guide of Mr. Darcy and, now, the newly minted Mrs. Darcy. Mary would marvel to see books which had been published only months before, spines uncreased, stood already at home on the shelves – but clearly, it was no arbitrary fickleness which haphazardly steered the choice of new additions - there were no cheap, bawdy novels here, nor any obscure, unqualified academic texts - those books that were chosen were of only the highest quality and taste, in keeping with a balanced selection of subjects, and meant clearly to complement rather than substitute those volumes which were already in possession.
To Mary, this was testament to its great virtue enough – but even greater virtue was to be had in that unlike the Longbourn library, that favorite place of retreat and evasion for Mr. Bennet, the Pemberley library was often uninhabited – Mr. Darcy conducted his business mainly in his study; if there was a book he wished to peruse, he would retrieve it and return to his desk; and similarly Georgiana and Lizzy, who both much preferred to read in the parlour or the sitting room. Therefore, when Mary took to the Pemberley library, it was often with the freedom to roam its confines unobserved and unrestrained, to survey the various and innumerable titles at her leisure, without giving anyone disturbance, and to sink into an unearthly quietude to enjoy her reading, which had so often been absent in Longbourn, from the presence of either her sisters or Mrs. Bennet.
And it was to this which Mary looked forward this morning, Georgiana having gone out with Lizzy for shopping at Lambton, and indeed, as usual, she found the library uninhabited – but not, in fact, entirely undisturbed, for upon the writing desk which was usually bare were strewn some papers, left behind by someone, perhaps in haste – or perhaps absently.
She came closer to the desk, and found them to be sketches of flowers, hastily done, and all at varying stages of completion; no signature or notes marked any of them, but with their singular subject laid before her thus, she could well enough guess at the identity of their owner nevertheless.
Despite their encounter being some weeks ago, Mr. Crawford still remained for Mary a somewhat sensitive point. She was not particularly keen to run into him once more, but it was not so much from embarrassment that she sought avoidance, nor so much from affront; but rather from the combination of the two, which was the disquiet of being unsure of whether or not she had wronged, and whether she need express contrition or indignance.
Admittedly, she was curious to learn more about him, but pride and discomfiture prevented her from making any direct inquiries regarding the subject; so all information that she gleaned was that which was provided of its own accord, by Georgiana, or by Lizzy, and not much of it; for he had already been at Pemberley some time, and was no longer the matter of interest he had been upon his first arrival.
She learned, by way of such stray remarks, that he had had his schooling from Cambridge; that his uncle, too, had been esteemed in the profession, and had worked with the most famed Charles Linnaeus himself, as his apprentice, and was taught by him the proper way of classification and of sketching and cataloging plants. She learned also that Mr. Crawford was the second son of a baronet, and his brother Sir William Crawford had already inherited the baronetcy by right, their father having passed away some years ago.
But that was all she had learned, and though she could not articulate what more she might wish to know, it nevertheless felt to her somehow insufficient.
Perhaps it was in this vein that she had been spurred to seek out and find books on the subject of botany in the Pemberley library, and indeed her past two weeks of reading had been filled largely with this subject – realizing it was a topic of which she knew quite little, and not wishing to seem ignorant if she was caught in conversation on it, particularly with Mr. Crawford; but she took care to read these only in the library, or to secrete them away to her bedroom to read later; for she feared that if Georgiana were to see her reading them, it would call once more the awkward incident to mind; and on the whole, it was somehow embarrassing to her, to explain her sudden fixation on this subject, and to separate it quite distinctly from Mr. Crawford's presence.
So it was the assorted books on botany and horticulture contained in Pemberley's collection which she read, and found some of them to be immeasurably dry – but some she found to inspire interest and curiosity, particularly of the rare and varied flora which inhabited the distant corners of the world; and in Linnaeus's seminal works of classification she found the native comfort of logic and rationality, and scientific exactness; and the efforts to organize and categorize that which was, by virtue of nature, chaotic and unruly, a trait which she thought to be in common with the writings and study of philosophy.
Curiously, she surveyed the drawings which were now before her. The topmost one was of a flower which was quite imposing and jagged in appearance, sharp crests which sprung upwards from the stalk. It was evident that it was only a quick sketch, an imprecise contour of a yet unfinished piece; but even then, there was a surety in the line, a proficiency and skill in the marking, which was indicative of the competence of their executor – and beyond even that, there was a culmination of all these elements which was not simply one of exactness – but of something more – here, thought Mary, though she was neither expert nor enthusiast of the arts, there might be something of that undefinable virtue which is termed artistry.
"Good morning, Miss Bennet. I see my drawings have been discovered before I have had chance to retrieve them."
Mary started, and turned sharply to see the object of her thoughts, Mr. Crawford himself, at the door of the library, and watching her with a look of amused curiosity. She blushed, at the thought she may have been oblivious to him some time, and engaged so clearly in the blatant examination of his papers.
However, before she could make a hasty, unconvincing excuse, he said, nodding at the drawings, "Strelitzia reginae."
Without thinking, but quite by habit borne of years of eagerness to prove herself clever, Mary responded, "Yes, 'Bird of Paradise.' Indigenous to West Africa."
For a moment, Mr. Crawford seemed caught by surprise. "Native to South Africa, actually," he corrected, "but quite impressive, nevertheless, Miss Bennet." He took several steps into the room, hands clasped behind his back, before adding, wryly, "For an amateur naturalist, of course."
This was all the sign he gave of being aggrieved by their previous encounter – and in fact, all the sign he had given then, as well – the same tone of discourse, equal parts sardonic and amiable, which instinctively rendered her defensive, and wary that she was perhaps being mocked.
"I came across a book on botany in the library and had chance to peruse it," Mary said stiffly, though she wished it to sound offhand.
"Well," Mr. Crawford said, thankfully, it seemed, not intending to come any closer, "if you have already begun memorizing the Latin names from mere perusal, I certainly fear what expertise you might reach upon actually reading the book."
The praise – for praise it was, at least, so much in words – made her redden considerably, for she was little used to compliments, and even less so to those which were not given of pity; but at the same time, the words were delivered in a tone which held amusement and unmistakable dryness, and she could not but suspect she was being made the object of jest.
"Botany is not an area of study I wish to pursue, sir," she responded austerely.
"Well then, Miss Bennet, which subjects do you prefer to study?"
Mary tilted her head upwards; she was not much shorter than Mr. Crawford, and him being quite a tall gentleman. "I prefer the intellectual sciences. Philosophy; politics and ethics."
"Ah," Mr. Crawford nodded in understanding, a hint of smile beginning to play at the corners of his mouth. "And do you ever break from such light fare to read anything of graver substance?"
If only he teased her as Edmund Benson teased Georgiana – cruelly and unsubtly – then Mary might retort accordingly, and put him in his proper place – then she might be certain that he was mocking her, and that she was not to be making of herself a fool. But as it was, his demeanor was all unconcern and affability and amusement, which could be as easily construed as light jest as it could mockery – it was his intention which was unclear to her – whether sincere and harmless teasing, or a way to castigate her for her previous impertinence.
"Perhaps you would have preferred for me to reply that I have been reading The Mysteries of Udolpho, or the Waverley novels."
"Not at all," said Mr. Crawford. "In fact, I think our conversation would have been much the duller for it. For I must confess myself ignorant as to the contents of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, but in subjects such as philosophy or politics, I think there is great opportunity for discussion. I might inquire, for instance, which philosopher holds your attention currently."
This was, perhaps, in their conversation thus far most disconcerting of all – to be complimented was one thing – but to be encouraged in the sharing of her studies rather than stymied in it – it was a most unfamiliar situation. Caught unprepared, Mary urgently sought out which philosopher of her current favorites would be most apt to share – Bentham, Berkeley, Wollstonecraft all flashed indecisively in her mind – and which might lead her to some remarks which were novel – or if not novel, at least, clever, to suitably impress Mr. Crawford – but alas, her thoughts were failing her, she was unsettled and caught off-guard at his attention, and feared most to say something foolish, at this long-awaited chance to exhibit her knowledge.
She was, helplessly, about to settle on something inane and trite, such as that she was rather fond of Kant, when most fortuitously she was saved; and certainly more grateful to see Georgiana she had never been.
"Oh, Mr. Crawford!" Georgiana exclaimed with some surprise, for clearly she had been seeking Mary, and not expecting to find her in company.
"I do hope I am not disturbing." Her cheeks were quite pink, and her eyes would not meet theirs – Mary supposed, on reflection, the situation was not wholly proper. But Mr. Crawford was barely stepped into the library, and Mary removed far into it where she stood, beside the desk, and he was, after all, a trusted guest of the Darcys'. As far as impropriety went, Mary did not think it particularly severe, but Georgiana was the paragon of modesty. Mary shuddered at the thought she might feel compelled to relay this to Elizabeth – oh, the embarrassment of it! – and hurried to say, "Mr. Crawford had only left behind his drawings." And here she gathered them unceremoniously, and thrust them towards him, hoping it should seem to Georgiana that Mr. Crawford's entrance had only preceded hers by mere moments.
Mr. Crawford stepped at last towards her, and received the papers from her. Their eyes met – his betrayed a twinkle, as if the two of them now shared an amusing secret, and he smiled at her amiably. "My sincerest thanks, Miss Bennet."
He bowed to her, and then to Georgiana – "Miss Darcy." – and made his leave: "he did not wish to be away from his work for too long, and did not wish to disturb Miss Bennet in her studies any longer."
He left, and Mary felt quite relieved, and Georgiana certainly did as well. "I had only thought – Lizzy had said she had not asked if you wished to go with us to Lambton, and I thought it should be so unlucky if you had wanted to go, and if we had left without you."
Mary wished in that moment only for solitude, the peace and quiet of the library to calm her anxiety, and to untangle her muddled thoughts; but she was still slightly discomposed, and then, Georgiana's simple gesture was so sweet in its earnestness, and touching in the fact that Mary's presence was actually wanted, and sought after, that she did not have the heart to refuse it.
"Oh, wonderful! Then I am so glad that I thought to ask!" Georgiana exclaimed, and linked arms with Mary; and Mary found she no longer regretted the loss of her morning in the library nearly as much as would have been expected.
A/N: So, the next two chapters are rather short, so instead of posting them a week apart, I'll be posting them both next week. Look out for Chapter 7 midway, around Tuesday, and Chapter 8 on Friday as usual. Thanks again for reading!