A/N: Happy Friday, everyone! Here's the next chapter, and as always, thanks so much to everyone for reading, following, and reviewing :D

Chapter 10: A Day of Quiet Reflection

The next day found Mary in the library.

She was just then seeking refuge in one of her old favorites, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, and was set to copying out an extract, for it was an action that always soothed her, and endowed her thoughts with a renewed concentration – and so, she wrote, in her clear, matter-of-fact hand:

"That desire is a state of uneasiness, every one who reflects on himself will quickly find. Who is there that has not felt in desire what the wise man says of hope, (which is not much different from it,) that it being 'deferred makes the heart sick' – "

But here she paused, unconsciously, and her hand hesitated to continue its work, for there was something in the line of it, a line she had read already many a time, which gave an unfamiliar sensation within her chest – it was perhaps because there was at that moment already in her an uneasiness, which had been present now all day, and which would not, indeed, be still or depart; even now, as she set herself to a task which was most often familiar and calming.

It was not only extracts that failed her – no book had steadied her, no track of contemplation sufficiently distracted her; her thoughts were at times muddled and indistinct; at others, painful in their clarity; they darted from subject to subject with an aimlessness, they ebbed and flowed with a frantic rapidity. She was indeed anxious, but could not be called upon to name the cause of such nerves; all she knew was that her being was aquiver, and had been so since the afternoon at Mr. Crawford's yesterday – the mere remembrance of it could instantly set her heart beating, her cheeks reddening. The remembrance of it was altogether not satisfactory – she felt there was much she had missed and overlooked – and yet some details were engrained too sharply, too distinctly, in her mind. She could not remove the sense that she had not said that which should have been said; and that the things which she had said, had been wanting; that in some way she had made herself appear foolish, that Mr. Crawford's warmth had been mistaken, had in actuality been pity, or disdain, or mockery – all this round and round in her head, till she was fairly dizzy with it.

The book he had given her, she had not yet touched – though she had most carefully examined its cover and spine, it gave no clue as to what was contained inside, nor any chance to determine if its contents might disappoint her – namely, because she could not determine what she wished its contents to be in the first place.

These were all things which Mary might have discussed with Georgiana, if she could at all articulate the nature of that which hung so heavily and restlessly upon her soul – but indeed, she could not; her penchant for rationality was here disappointed, for she could not place it into words, nor into clear explication, even to herself. Perhaps, if Georgiana would have herself brought it into their discourse, it would have all come tumbling out in an uncontained fount of thoughts, senses, and sensibilities; and sometimes Mary almost wished she would; but at other times, she was most relieved that Georgiana was too timid for the broaching of such subjects, and that, moreover, she was likely oblivious to Mary's turmoil.

" 'Because the removal of uneasiness is the first step to happiness,' " she now read out to herself softly.

"I should not think one needs to be a great philosopher in order to have discerned that."

Mary glanced up quickly to see Lizzy standing before her, entering unnoticed while she had been lost in contemplation.

"I am making extracts," Mary said hastily, picking up her pen once more.

Lizzy sat down in an armchair across from her. "I will allow that it is not so somber as some of your others are wont to be."

"Locke," Mary said absently, as she finished setting it down. When she looked up once more, it was to find her sister studying her intently. "He says that desire is the uneasiness caused by want of some absent good."

"And you agree with him?"

Mary took a moment to consider. "I suppose, yes. A desire, especially when one easily foresees it being soon satisfied, is not always a force for unhappiness; but there is often a discomposure, or agitation that comes inherently with it, borne, perhaps, from the fact that there is always the chance the desire shall not be satisfied, or that it will yield something which will have ill repercussions.

"However, I do not believe one can never be happy if one's desires are not all met – rather, I think it healthful to possess some desires, and to be led by them in day-to-day life. I think perhaps the greatest curse one can bestow on a person is to be rid of them entirely, for then what does one have to which to aspire?"

"Careful, Mary," Elizabeth said wryly, "or you might be in danger of turning into a philosopher yourself."

"I should hardly think so," Mary muttered embarrassedly; but she was gratified.

"As a matter of fact, I had thought I should find you reading your newest addition – a hard-won prize indeed – or are you to tell me that you have you finished it so quickly?"

Mary's hand instinctively went to the book from Mr. Crawford which lay on the table beside her, a nervous gesture, and perhaps one of protectiveness. "I – I have not had chance to peruse it yet, as it happens," she said, with a half-hearted attempt at carelessness, but she had never been particularly adept at the concealment of emotions.

"Well, I do wonder at your lack of curiosity – I confess myself to be quite curious."

To this Mary could give no adequate response; thus, it was in this way, under her sister's intent observation, that she was made to inspect the contents of her prize; and now quite regretted not having the forethought to have done it earlier, in the privacy of her solitude, where any reaction she might have had should not have been noted or misconstrued.

Carefully, she opened the cover – inside, it read Collected Notes on the Botanical Species of the Baltics, by a Mr. Wilhelm Andersen – it seemed a rather arcane book – she had never heard of it – it was dated to be 1756. Besides that, nothing particular in the first page caught her eye. Hesitantly, she flipped to the next page, thinking perhaps there would be something written there – but there was not. Several more pages yielded nothing further; the book was as its title suggested, and the first few lines ran – "While the Baltics provide a hospitable climate for the germination and pollination of various species…." It appeared simply a book on botany - a rather technical and abstruse one – but nothing else, and Mary was made to feel quite foolish, for she knew instantly, in that harsh, unflinching way in which sharp disappointment is always wont to reveal to ourselves our true desires, that she had wished there to be something…more meaningful – but indeed! what cause had she to expect it to be anything but what he had implied, that it was only a book which he thought she might find of interest?

Carefully, she kept her eyes fixed to the page before her, as if she were reading it, but really she was steadying herself, so that it might appear offhand and quite inconsequential to her when, at last, she said, "It is a book on botany in the Baltics. Rather dense, from what I can tell. I suppose I shall try and skim it one of these days, if I am to have the time." And as if it all meant very little to her, very little at all, she shut it and handed it to Lizzy for her inspection.

Lizzy accepted it and, after a moment of surveying its title, began flipping through its pages idly, with only a half-hearted interest. "I suppose it is the eternal curse of the scientist to presume his work is of equal interest to all others as it is to himself – if even you find it rather dull, I can only conclude it is fatally so….Ah well, we shall not offend Mr. Crawford by it – if he is to inquire about it, simply say you found it quite enjoyable, but that he should by no means inconvenience himself by attempting to lend you another one."

But here Elizabeth paused, and Mary, who had set her eyes back to her Locke, mirrored her unconsciously, her pen pausing mid-sentence.

"Ah, it seems Mr. Crawford has left one of his little sketches in here, perhaps to mark his page, and has forgotten it."

Mary took the proffered sketch, and recognized it at once – it was the Bird of Paradise they had discussed in the library, left on the desk, where she sat at that precise moment, actually. The first time, it had indeed been left behind through mere accident, but this second time – Mary could not be so certain. But there was at least enough possibility in it that she felt a small leap of pleasure in her chest – and her heart was set to racing once more.

"I shall be certain to reunite him with it at the dinner party," Mary said, though with not as much breath as she wished, and not at all convinced by her own words. The uneasiness from earlier had momentarily abated with the distraction of conversation – but alas, it had been a cruel trick, it was returned now once more, and far worse, moreover. Her cheeks felt slightly feverish, and her heart, beating rather erratically, was indeed 'made sick.'

In fact, Mary did not reveal so much as she feared beneath Elizabeth's watchful eye – to Lizzy, she appeared disconcerted, and slightly faint – but, much as an apothecary might note one's symptoms without identifying their cause, Elizabeth possessed no means of determining the direct consequence of the discomposure.

Elizabeth had hoped to gain some more insight into the matter by coming to see the book which Mr. Crawford had given to Mary – but the book's contents had given her scant more information, and she felt herself to have gained no more wisdom than she had possessed before. It was certainly true that Mr. Crawford had paid her sister attentions yesterday afternoon; but what the intentions behind them were, it was thus far impossible to know – whether sincere interest, or self-amusement, or mere whim – all were possible, certainly, and only the naivete of youth, which Elizabeth had never possessed to any great degree, would lead one to discount such alternate conjectures which existed outside of that of a genuine attachment. The book, dispassionate as it was, certainly confused the matter further – it was no tome of poetry, nor romantic novel – it was quite cold, as gestures went, and rather disinterested. Unless, of course…

Elizabeth took to examining her sister again, who seemed once more preoccupied with her extracts – had there been a reaction when Mary had seen the sketch? Perhaps, Elizabeth recollected, there had. It was, then, most interesting; the whole affair was proving to be quite curious. It was an interest of Elizabeth's what Mr. Crawford's thoughts on her sister might be – but only insofar as it might affect Mary, and her feelings, and what negative effect might be wrought on her through it – these were Elizabeth's chief concerns, for she felt it to be a duty towards her sister, that she might prevent any unnecessary or easily avoidable pain – that she might speak to her, and advise her as sister, and as one who was older and more experienced than herself.

But until Elizabeth knew more of the matter, it would be hopeless to attempt any manner of discourse on the subject – Mary would be certain to retreat, and become reticent, unless Elizabeth was quite confident in her presumptions, and spoke swiftly and to the point – and even then, there was no promise of openness. She would speak of it with Fitzwilliam tonight – he had habit of making astute observations on any impasses which she found herself pondering, and which often provided her the clarity or resolve she had been wanting.

Unexpectedly, Mary set down her pen, and closed her book sharply. "I might go for a walk," she remarked, standing abruptly.

"Perhaps you might catch Georgiana, she had left some moments before I came here."

Mary had no intention of doing so, wishing at the moment for some solitary reflection, but nodded abstractedly. With a hasty farewell, she collected her things and made her way out of the library, leaving Lizzy alone with her thoughts.

In her haste, Mary had left behind Mr. Crawford's book – but the sketch, slipped carefully between the pages of her book, she had taken with her.

A/N: Next chapter, we finally meet a certain brother...

See you all next week!