A/N: Happy Friday, everyone! Thanks as always to everyone who reads and/or reviews :D Now, let's see how Mary's doing, shall we?

Chapter 14: It Blooms, It Blossoms

The next morning, Mary awoke to find herself in strange, unbalanced spirits.

Breakfast was intolerably long; she wished only to read. But as soon as breakfast concluded, suddenly, to sit and concentrate upon her readings was too restrictive, too dull; she wished instead to take a walk along the grounds, to feel the sun upon her cheeks, to see the blooming, brimming green of summer. Once outside, everything around her seemed suddenly to be endowed with a new light, a glimmering sheen, which cast the world into brilliant, vivid colors. All was brighter, and prettier, and more vibrant than it had ever been before – and she was awash with the beauty of it all, with the hopefulness of each new bud which sprang from the earth.

It had not been her intention to visit the greenhouses; but suddenly, she found, with some surprise, that she had been walking near them quite some time, unaware, as if her very feet had led her there unconsciously. Upon this realization, however, she determined to remove herself directly to another part of the grounds; for how abashing would it be, for someone to discover her there, and for them to surmise some reason for her aimless meandering.

She had no sooner set upon leaving, however, than she heard her name being called, by a voice which was each day becoming more familiar to her.

"Miss Bennet! A fine morning, is it not?"

Mary turned to see Mr. Crawford at the greenhouse doors, as if he had just stepped out for but a moment to survey the grounds before him. It occurred to her, in a moment of mortification, that perhaps he had noticed her wandering about, and had felt the need to come out and greet her. But if it was so, the gesture did not seem to be borne of pity; on the contrary – he seemed pleased by it. She had never seen him in anything but good humour, it was true; but now, he seemed somehow enlivened, endowed with greater animation than usual; and as he made his way over to her, his stride was spirited, his smile almost ebullient.

Mary was for a moment quite flustered, and said, faintly, "Yes, very fine. I… I was just taking a walk along the gardens."

He had reached her now, and stood before her, his arms clasped behind his back, his gaze quite warm. "And what solemn musings accompany you on your walk today?"

Mary brought her hand to gently brush over the China roses which grew beside them. "I was thinking just now of the extraordinary resilience of plants. They are uprooted from their world and brought to the opposite hemisphere, into strange, unfamiliar environs; and yet despite this, they still manage to thrive and adapt and flourish; it is, indeed, more than some of us people are capable of doing; and over far shorter distances, moreover."

Mr. Crawford came to stand closer to the roses, though he did not inspect them so much as he examined her as he spoke. "I think it is much to do with the fact that plants are, on the whole, rather unfeeling things; we humans form much greater attachments to the places we live; it is not just air, and earth, and sun for us – it is, rather, sentimentality, and surety, which ties us to our small peripheral worlds, and which so complicates our separation from them."

"Indeed; I cannot disagree. But does that not then rather imply that our emotions are in some way fetters upon us, and hindrances on our adaptability and resistance?"

Mr. Crawford laughed. "Ah, but then I have been tricked, for you have lured me into a debate on our passions versus our reason; very clever, Miss Bennet, to begin thus with an analogy of botany, and so allow me to falsely believe myself to be on sure footing." But the words were not said unkindly; only with his usual sardonic, fond turn of phrase.

For so long had Mary's speeches and pronouncements been made unwelcome by those around her, that she would always feel, unconsciously, the disapproval of her listener whenever she spoke; but somehow, this morning, she felt wholly certain in herself, and her words all came naturally, easily to her tongue.

"It was certainly not my intention to lure you into any argument; only to share, as you so eloquently describe them, my 'solemn musings.' Though I might only add, knowing how well-read you are, sir, and how familiar with the philosophers of our day, I cannot accept your insistence that you would be no longer on sure footing."

Again, Mr. Crawford laughed. "You have an odd way of delivering compliments, Miss Bennet; one is always made to feel they are in some way being reproached."

"And you have an odd way of deflecting them," Mary replied with a smile, and Mr. Crawford returned it readily, with a short bow of his head as way of acknowledgment.

It might have easily been the close of their conversation, but she found she did not wish it to be so; and that she was not alone in this wish, for Mr. Crawford was swift to say: "I should be loath to detain you from continuing your stroll – and your solemn musings, for that matter – but would it be too much an imposition to accompany you, Miss Bennet?" – and Mary assented that indeed, it would not.

Thus, they began to walk together, along the garden path. He proffered her his arm, and gingerly, she accepted it. It was several moments before her composure was sufficiently recovered from the unfamiliar gesture to speak again, but Mr. Crawford seemed for some time content with the silence; and they walked in this way for several minutes, enjoying the gardens and beauty about them, before he spoke again.

"You shall be joining us for the Miss Bensons' afternoon of painting, I hope?"

Mary had quite forgotten of the idea among all the other events of the previous evening, and was surprised that Mr. Crawford should suppose that she had been invited. "I do not imagine so, no."

"Ah, but I must insist on it. You are one of the few people I have met who is not dreadfully bored by the discussion of plant taxonomies."

"That may well be, Mr. Crawford, but I am afraid painting, on the other hand, has never been one of my especial interests; nor have I any particular proclivity towards it. Moreover, I fear I can call myself dear friend to neither Miss Benson nor her sister; and I do not believe my presence would be particularly agreeable to either of them."

"On the contrary, I must disagree; if your skills are as paltry as you purport, I am sure they shall be quite delighted to have you there, for how superior their talents should be made to appear in comparison."

Mary was able to swiftly conceal her smile at his words, though if her eyes had not been at that moment averted, it should have been betrayed. "I would hardly imagine them to be conscious of such a thing, seeing how humbly they have always judged their own artistic abilities," she said, in mock seriousness.

Unlike her, Mr. Crawford did not make efforts to hide his own smile, and when she raised her eyes to meet his gaze, his eyes twinkled with wry amusement at her words. "Yes, I suppose you are correct," he said drolly, "they should much prefer to the objects of others' admiration, than of their own." He paused, and then remarked, more seriously, "You, on the other hand, seem to have a rather refreshing modesty for your own skills. You seemed quite surprised last evening when you were petitioned for an encore."

Mary blushed, in knowing that her thoughts had been so evident. "Indeed, it was not always so. There was a time I should have myself imposed an encore upon the audience, whether one was requested of me or not; I once thought my talents to be far greater than they in truth are, and had no one to correct me in my presumption, for my father employed for us no governess, and I had little exposure beyond our quaint Meryton."

But Mr. Crawford seemed only impressed in her self-tutelage, and said; "Indeed, a lady's accomplishments are admirable as they stand; but especially so when they are not forced upon her, but sought out, with great personal efforts."

"Thank you, sir. But in result, one is made to feel particularly self-conscious when she is the summation of her own efforts; especially when she feels her skills are wanting; I should have enjoyed practicing far more, I think, if I was not meant to eventually perform what I practiced.

"But in truth, if there is any one realm in which I should truly wish to achieve some great distinction, it should not be in music, but in philosophy, and the writings which accompany it; but unfortunately, these disadvantages in means and in tutelage, which I have just now mentioned, cannot be easily recompensed, I have found; and possessing the little means I do have, I do not see it to be in my power to soon procure them."

"And these are the only things which stand in your way?"

"The only things? I think them to be rather great obstacles, sir."

"In your education, I do not truly see any disadvantage – a mind only expands as much as one allows it to; there are a great many ladies who have been given every advantage in education and have learnt not a whit; and, as you are testament to yourself, there were those who were not bequeathed that advantage, but who have learnt a very great deal regardless. But if, on the other hand, it is connexions you are after, you need only ask; I have made the acquaintance of plenty of the scholarly set at university, and can easily introduce them to you; I am certain you would get along splendidly with them."

He said it off-handedly, as if he were merely remarking upon the weather – as if he were only offering that which any person might offer to their acquaintance; but Mary was most disconcerted by it.

"I thank you, indeed, for that kind offer; but if I were to meet them, I should have little to contribute to conversation. I read philosophy, and I keep extracts, certainly, of those lines which I have found particularly striking or insightful; but that is quite a different thing from being a philosopher oneself. You would not say it is inherently the lot of an art connoisseur to set brush to canvas; and similarly, it is not inherently the lot of the mere reader to set pen to paper."

"Ah, so then it is not only want of means which stands in your way."

Mary understood the implication of his words, and felt impelled to defend herself. "This is not false modesty, sir."

"Ah, but you forget that I have many times spoken with you, and I have not found a conversation with you to be dull yet; always there is something new and interesting which you have to say, always you execute your thoughts with great elocution; and many a time have I seen your discerning eye set upon those around you, evaluating and perceiving; you call yourself a mere reader, but alas, your argument does not hold, not even at the slightest inspection; surely you must know that every great philosopher begins by opening a book, for before you beget your own notions, you must seek out others'."

"And if I did truly aspire towards joining the ranks of philosophers, I am certain I should take your advice to heart; but I was only speaking of the idea in principle, in the most theoretical sense; indeed, I am quite content with my studies as they are; and I have no aspirations higher than my current pursuits." But even in her ears, the argument rang quite feebly, and her cheeks had grown warm as she spoke.

Indeed, the prospect of it had always been so easy to dismiss with the excuses of her poor means – and she had always kept herself sufficiently occupied with her studies, her reading, her music; but somehow Mr. Crawford, with a startling insight into her character, seemed to know the truth of it, and had entrapped her. But alas! she could not admit to it; could not confess the fact that each time she attempted to put pen to paper, the words rang hollow and she felt ashamed and mortified of her efforts; that the ideas which swam constantly in her head felt always incomplete and half-finished, and unworthy of setting down on paper; that the words were never sufficient, never eloquent enough – never apt. To play at being a philosopher, to mingle with his scholarly set and make erudite comments, to be for once understood – a grand idea indeed! No, far safer to remain as she was, far from those who might judge her poorly, and unworthy of esteem, and who should be qualified in passing such condemning judgment; far better, instead, to stay with her reading, with her books, with her quiet Meryton.

For some minutes, with Mary deep in her contemplations, they were the both of them silent; Mary could not say where Mr. Crawford's thoughts had tended in that time; but at last he spoke: "To return to our exchange from earlier; I have decided I must disagree with you."

Mary started from her thoughts, so disparate to his unexpected return to discourse. "Indeed?"

"Yes, I am afraid so, Miss Bennet. I think it is not at all that people are unadaptable – and it is not our passions that hinder us from pursuing those things which are unfamiliar. No, rather it is our fears which obstruct us, and which are often borne from the very same conduit which comprises our rational and logical thought."

Mary felt again that he had gazed somehow into her soul, and her thoughts – that he knew where they had tended only moments before, that he was not speaking abstractly, but very particularly.

"One does not preclude the other," she said evenly. "It might be both our passions and our fears which keep us rooted to our places."

"Quite on the contrary - I think it is our passions which spur us to action; if we did not have our emotions and passions to guide us, to inspire us, we should never seek to leave our small worlds in the first place; our passions, therefore, are not bulwarks against change; but rather its instigators. After all, it was Hume that said that 'reason is, and ought only to be, slave to the passions.' "

Mary was, of course, familiar with the quotation; and was suddenly reminded, too, quite vividly, of her own conversation some days ago, and what she herself had said to her sister: that the greatest curse one could bestow on a person was to be granted at once all of their hopes and dreams… an uneasiness of the mind for want of some absent good. The uneasiness called desire.

Well, here indeed was the uneasiness, always nestled snugly in her heart; here was the perpetual want of some absent good; here were the fears; and so, what was she to do with them? This was what she wished to ask; but instead she said: "And these fears which you say obstruct us – you would discount them so easily?"

"Not at all," Mr. Crawford said, quietly, holding her gaze; they had paused beneath the cool shade of a linden tree. "Our fears are often rational – but there are times where we yearn for something, and it seems to us that to triumph over our fears should bring us far greater rewards than if we were to abide by them – we set sail across the seas, even if the ship may capsize, because our destination holds far greater weight within our hopes."

"We climb the tree even if the boughs may break," Mary said softly, almost under her breath.

"Yes," said Mr. Crawford, "precisely so."

Her eyes met Mr. Crawford's – his were sincere and warm and searching, and she knew all of a sudden that they were no longer discussing common decisions – no, they were discussing something of great significance – something almost unnamable – something soul-stirring, uprooting, blossoming – something which spread through her being – something which grew and stretched far above her, unfurling and expanding, up and up and up – something grand and something beautiful and something sublime in its vastness.

"Yes," she echoed dazedly. "Precisely so."

He smiled at her, and proffered his arm again; this time she accepted it readily, and they began their return from the gardens.

Their way back to Pemberley was quieter; Mary's thoughts were overwhelming, dizzying – to steady herself, she spoke with him now of only trivial things; of the weather, of music, of books; and she held on to these tightly, fiercely, for if not for them she feared she might lose her footing, so ethereal and weightless did she feel at the moment.

But her heart – her heart did not concern itself with trivial things – her heart was far above her, among the boughs of the sprawling, airy lindens, among the vivid green of their leaves. As they went past the gardens, Mary unthinkingly plucked a rosebud, and twirled it wonderingly between her fingers as they walked; and she found, as she examined it, that to look at it was not just to see a flower – no; to look at it now was to see the slow unfurling of petals, to see the first blushes of colour, to see the soft promise of a new beginning.

A/N: Quite a fluffy chapter, but then, some fluff is good for the soul ;) Hope you all enjoyed!