A/N: Hello, my lovelies! Classes have ended and I finally have some more time on my hands, which means I finally had the joy of coming back to this story. I was planning to be a bit further ahead when I posted, but it's been so long, I just wanted to put out a chapter :D

Thank you again so much to all of you for your patience. I'm very excited to be back!

Now, hope you all enjoy this new chapter!

Chapter 16: A Lesson on Perspective

"I am afraid it will be the same set as usual – rather dull, but there is very little to be done for it."

This, Emma Benson was remarking upon the subject of the upcoming dance at Pemberley, to her sister and Georgiana, as they set up their easels and paints in anticipation of Mr. Crawford's soon arrival. The weather, which had been so sullen and stormy the past several days, had seemed to take pity upon the young eligible ladies of Derbyshire, and had decided, in a rare moment of benevolence, to clear itself into a lovely summer day, as if specially for their appointed afternoon of painting.

The three of them were joined, too, by Edmund, who lazed on one of their lawn chairs behind them, and by Mary, who listened to them absently as she glanced every so often upon the hill, from where new – and expected – company might be seen any moment to emerge.

"Edmund shall be bringing some of his friends from university, I expect," Emma Benson continued. "One of them is a Lord Henry Alstock; he's a tepid gentleman himself, but he comes from a very respectable family indeed."

"And certainly, the sin of tepidness is pardoned by the virtue of noble stature," Edmund remarked sardonically.

"My aunt and cousin will also be joining us, I believe," said Georgiana, angling her canvas just so, so that the light did not fall directly on her eyes.

"You do not mean the Lady Catherine de Bourgh!" Emma Benson exclaimed. Georgiana's pronouncement seemed to delight her in its unexpectedness, and in the new avenue of conversation it procured her. "But it was my understanding, after certain injuries rendered, that there still remains some severance between the two parties! Has it then been mended, after all?"

"You need not give her any reply, Miss Darcy," Edmund broke in. "My dear sister derives pleasure only from things of a most sensational and salacious nature; you speak of everyone far too compassionately for there to be any entertainment in it for her."

"Oh, Edmund, you are a scoundrel! How you do tease your poor sisters!" Emma exclaimed, but her smile was taut as she said it.

That Edmund was in some squabble with his sisters had been clear to Mary as soon as her and Georgiana had arrived that afternoon; hardly a remark could be made by Emma or Charlotte that was not rebutted accordingly and snidely by their brother, in his usual sardonic tone. Mary should have assumed this to be a quarrel of the sisters' own orchestration, if not for the fact that Emma's displeasure with Edmund was as much evident as his displeasure with her.

At this particular instance, however, whether intentionally or not, Georgiana had actually been done a service by his words; she was saved from divulging any greater detail on her estimable aunt Lady Catherine, or on their family's previous rift.

"Lo, here comes Mr. Crawford at last!" exclaimed Charlotte; and it was true; there he arrived over the crest of the hill. Mary's heart seemed to still in her chest a moment as she laid eyes on him; and the memory of their conversation in the gardens, though its sharpness had seemed washed out by the days of intervening rain which had followed it, was once again perfectly vivid in her mind.

Once he reached them, he greeted them all decorously; but it took only a moment for Mary to survey him, and discern that all was not right; that there was in his shoulders a stiffness, and an unfamiliar tightness to his words as he exchanged pleasantries with all of them. With much earnestness did Mary wait for his gaze to meet hers, so that she might from his expression gain some further understanding, but his bow to her was brief and perfunctory; and this only served to assure her even more that some alteration had occurred in him, in the time between their walk in the gardens, and this present moment.

"Mr. Crawford, how glad we are you have joined us!" Emma declared, pleased to have at last a proper audience, and she sat down prettily before her easel. "We are, indeed, quite prepared for our lesson; you find before you most willing and eager pupils, and we hope only that our artistic skills, meager as they might be, might do your tutelage the justice it deserves."

As she spoke, Mr. Crawford at last met Mary's gaze; but what should have provided her reassurance gave her instead only concern, and the sense of something amiss. It was true, that there was no coldness towards her in his eyes, as she had suddenly been struck by the fear of seeing; and the small comfort she might take in that, she did; but there was nevertheless in his gaze, in plain evidence to her, a resolve, or an unhappy sort of determination – and, too, a contrition – as if he wished to preface his forthcoming words by requesting forgiveness for them.

But all these thoughts came and went in a mere moment, and Mr. Crawford's attention soon was returned to give reply to Miss Benson. "Unfortunately, I am here only to offer my sincerest regrets that I am not able to join you all this afternoon. I am departing for London within the hour."

Both Charlotte and Emma gave unhappy exclamations at the news. All had been enacted in their favor, even the weather had submitted to their wishes with a benign mercy, and here, a cruel, immovable stone thrown in the cog of their plans. "And what steals you so cruelly away from us, pray tell?" Emma exclaimed, marked with an air of petulance she could not wholly conceal.

Again Mr. Crawford glanced, perhaps inadvertently, towards Mary, before replying, "I am afraid a matter of an urgent nature has arisen; I have only just received word of it, and must see to it immediately."

"I can only offer my sincerest hope the matter is resolved directly, sir, and that its circumstances are not so grave as they appear at this moment to be," Mary said, with a steadiness in her tone which surprised even herself, given the news of his departure, abrupt and terse as it was.

Mr. Crawford at last turned to her fully, and gave her a brief smile, though there was an undeniable ruefulness to it. "Thank you, Miss Bennet; it is certainly my hope as well that there shall be a swift resolution to it all." He paused here abruptly, as if it had been his intention to say more, but had reconsidered. Mary did not think she flattered herself too strongly in feeling that, had they been the two of them alone, he might have had cause to speak more candidly to her; and indeed, never had she resented the presence of the Bensons more than she did in that moment; for if not for them, she might have learned more of the whole matter; but alas, Mary had to content herself only with a swift nod of acknowledgment, and to watch as Mr. Crawford turned his attentions back to the general party, for the final exchange of goodbyes and well wishes.

The Benson sisters gave their final performative exclamations over his leave ("How cruel fate has been to all of us today!"); Georgiana, with a far more earnest concern than that which had been expressed by the Benson sisters, told him she hoped all should be settled well for him; and even Edmund Benson deigned to add, among the round of farewells, a "Godspeed, Crawford" – though, unlike his sisters, he made no particular pretension of despair at his departure.

Mr. Crawford thanked all of them, and said he was, regrettably, able to postpone his deployment no longer; his coach was surely this moment waiting for him. One last time, his gaze fell to Mary, one last time he nodded his farewell to all of them, and then he was striding back over the hill, out of view, down to the coach which was employed to take him to London.

"How utterly disappointing!" repeated Charlotte unnecessarily. "I suppose we must carry on, though it is hardly so gay anymore."

"I do take pity with Mr. Crawford's circumstances," Georgiana said, "but even so, I think he should want us to find some enjoyment in the afternoon yet, do you not? For see how beautifully the lights falls upon the valley from our perspective, and how delicate the greens of the fields appear; a prettier tableau we should be indeed hard-pressed to find!"

This state of youthful rapture, so innocent and earnest in its pronouncement, did nothing in particular towards lifting Emma's spirits; perhaps, on the contrary, only in aggravating them further.

"La, the afternoon shall not be nearly so enjoyable," said Emma carelessly, as if Georgiana had not spoken at all, "but indeed, it is out of our hands now. Edmund, dear, will you adjust my easel for me? Its angle is not quite to my liking."

"But then, knowing how fickle you sometimes are in your preferences, sister, dear, perhaps, if we simply wait a minute more, it shall be to your liking once again."

"Edmund, dear," Emma said, with a pursed smile, "it is positively monstrous to vex your poor sister so. Come do as I say."

Georgiana, meanwhile, had gone to her own easel, which was beside Mary's, and had begun mixing her colours. Quietly, she remarked to her, "I do wonder what unfortunate news has caused Mr. Crawford to depart so urgently."

"I could not possibly speculate on it, having as I do no information to inform my conjectures," Mary replied, "but I suppose it is of a rather personal nature, if it is not something he is willing to relate to us."

"Yes, I suppose. I hope it is nothing too grave, though; perhaps he has imparted somewhat more of the matter to Elizabeth or Fitzwilliam."

"I suppose we may learn more of it upon his return," Mary said. She had spoken the words unthinkingly, but as she spoke them, the realization struck her suddenly that she did not know when his return should be. He had given no indication on whether his stay in London should be a matter of a mere day, or several days, or a week – or if he should even be expected to return, for that matter, before her departure from Pemberley… At this thought, Mary felt a sudden shock of comprehension, on account of the next thought which followed it closely and inextricably: Say that he did not return within the fortnight which she had left of her stay – what, then, was the likelihood that their paths should cross again? Having departed Pemberley, what possible connection should ever unite them once more, with him residing in London, and taking expeditions about the world, and herself, situated so snugly and distantly in Longbourn?

Mary realized with a start that the Miss Bensons and Georgiana had already begun their painting, and she set about mixing her colors, trying to focus for some time on where to apply the first strokes; but she could not bring her herself to put her hand to the canvas. Her sudden realization, following closely on the heels of his abrupt announcement, had set her thoughts skittering about aimlessly; they were too scattered now, like the restless careening of a ship, keeling and lurching; but this confused tumult was far preferable to the current of sensibility which ran underneath it - which was, in its barest form, a wound to her very being; and the sting of hurt and disappointment, which was settling as sharp pins into her heart.

He had departed Pemberley. This plain fact she repeated firmly to herself, as if the mere restatement of it should in some way soften the injury to her. He had left for London, with no word on his return, and no especial farewell, knowing her own stay at Pemberley to be soon coming to a close. But what should a proper farewell have entailed, for that matter? A brief glance of contrition, a hasty bow – had their acquaintance been so cursory, so unremarkable, that it had not warranted anything greater?

But then, perhaps, he had known his return should be imminent, that the matter should be resolved quickly; perhaps he had known there was no need to impart solemn, momentous goodbyes. Or, perhaps, the thought of her departure had not occurred to him at all; so preoccupied had he been with his own circumstances, perhaps he had not even considered whether she should still be at Pemberley upon his return, or whether he should have chance to see her once more.

This last possibility was, perhaps, most wounding to Mary of all the rest – that she had simply been forgotten, rendered fleeting and peripheral. For a brief moment, most unexpectedly, the threat of tears came upon her; and it was this impulse, so far-removed from her usual character, which finally shook her out of her distressed sensibilities.

Come now, she thought to herself sternly, and forced herself at last to begin her painting, and to start filling in on the canvas the light, idyllic blue of the sky before them. She spent much time fussing over the clouds, over the light that fell upon the hill's crest, and endowing it with the right tint and angle. Just as it had been shown in Mary's own experience many times before, steadfast occupation was an apt remedy to despair and melancholia; and not a half hour of concentrated efforts had passed, that she did not feel herself calmer, and less troubled, and much more rational. Two weeks was a great deal of time, and many a matter could be resolved within that span; it was more than likely that his farewells were as transient as his stay in London should be; and not a week or so would pass that she should not seem him striding once more towards Pemberley, announcing his return, and offering apologies for his hasty withdrawal.

And even if he did not return – well, upon reflection, it did not concern her so much as she had at first thought. He was a fine acquaintance to have, certainly; and the first to whom she could speak openly, and passionately, of her own thoughts, of her studies and aspirations, and to feel all the while that her speeches fell upon a kindred and accepting mind – but then, she had been conscious always that her stay should be soon drawing to its close, and that her acquaintance with him should be checked by it. It was unlikely they should correspond; even unlikelier he should have ever passed through Longbourn to visit; in all likelihood, the only difference in their parting now, rather than two weeks' time, was in its abruptness. Yes, she supposed she should miss him, and the conversations they had, and the fond, amused way he had of glancing at her, just as he was set to make a wry remark – but then, she should miss her sister, and Georgiana, far greater than she should miss him, for they were far dearer to her than he had ever been. This she told herself, firmly and unequivocally, so that to even begin to doubt the veracity of this sentiment was rendered unconscionable.

Having thus come to this conclusion, she resolved to put the matter out of her mind entirely, and to return her focus to her painting for the remainder of the afternoon; and even if she did not quite achieve this firm resolution in its entirety, it could at least be said that she attempted it admirably.