A/N: Thanks so much for everyone's comments this week! I think we are all collectively heart-broken and/or frustrated with Mary's decision, but I appreciate everyone sticking around to see what's next for her! It means so much to me to have so many people reading and enjoying this story, and being so invested in my version of Mary :D

So, with that said, we continue right along to Part II...

Chapter 22: A Return to Habit and Household

"Indeed, Mary, I fear I am inclined to think that your stay at Pemberley has done you very little good, very little good at all!" Mrs. Bennet declared decisively to her daughter one morning, a month or so upon Mary's return to Longbourn.

Indeed, Mrs. Bennet could not be entirely held at fault for such a conclusion, for there was not a great deal of evidence to contradict her words. Mary had been returned to Longbourn in spirits so poor and dismal that it was rather difficult to settle upon any plausible conclusion, other than that her stay had wrought upon her deleterious effects, and had been much to her disservice. If Mrs. Bennet had been liable previously to bemoan her daughter's severeness, or her solitary, pedantic temperament, than she was now inclined to recollect such traits with regretful fondness; for where Mary had once been sharp, and particular, she was these days become listless and withdrawn; and where she had once been wont to enact the weighty levy of her musings upon those around her, she was now, instead, taciturn to a fault; and exceedingly little could be pried from her, as to what subjects occupied her thoughts, and what emotions they were wont to inspire in her. For one as garrulous and desirous of attention as her mother, this was a cruel trick of fate, indeed; very little satisfaction could be derived from such a reticent daughter.

Mary was that morning in a particularly pensive mood, and showed no sign of hearing her mother's declaration; but this silence Mrs. Bennet only took as further encouragement. She continued, with great vigor, "I fear, of course, that it is all of my own misguided doing; I should have easily foreseen such ill consequences. Changes of circumstance do not agree with you, dear. You have clearly taken after me, you see; even the slightest disruption of routine taxes my nerves most terribly."

"And I am certain, Mary, that Mrs. Bennet would not wish any of her daughters to suffer such a cruel fate, as to take after her," Mr. Bennet remarked gravely.

At last Mary's attention was laid claim upon in some measure. She allowed the ghost of a smile to pass across her face at her father's words, but was otherwise unmoved by the subject. "I am perfectly fine, Mama. Only a little tired."

"But how can you insist it to be so? You have every mark of ill health upon you!" Mrs. Bennet declared. "I had every hope, when you first arrived, that the adverse effects I observed in you should pass quickly, upon being reacquainted with the familiarity and nurturement of Longbourn; but alas! you are not at all improved; your wanness, and poor appetite, and general inclination to listlessness; these are all grim portents of health indeed!" Mrs. Bennet had now succeeded in thoroughly alarming herself, and turning to Mr. Bennet, said, "Perhaps we must summon the apothecary, to examine her! She has caught something terrible, I am now all but certain of it!"

"In that case, it is likely too late; and we have no resort left to us but to allow it to take its course."

"Really, Mr. Bennet, how you may be so insensitive to your own child, is truly inconceivable to me!"

Mr. Bennet, not for the first time, was inclined to disagree with his wife's assessment; and to attribute Mary's malaise, which he privately thought to be of a purely spiritual nature, not to her stay at Pemberley, but rather her departure from it. He was not so oblivious as to think that Longbourn, and their peaceful Meryton, could offer nearly the same amusements and diversion which a grand estate as Pemberley, and new and lively company, could offer; and perhaps her current situation, and the unfavourable contrast it presented to the past few months, was enough to sponsor within her such indolence and ennui.

"You are quite right to reproach me, my dear, and in future, I shall endeavour to administer my wit in wiser measure," Mr. Bennet said mildly. "But in truth, Mrs. Bennet, so long as Mary persists until tomorrow, I would be inclined to think that perhaps she is in want only of some fresh air, and some spirited exercise."

This suggestion, while not nearly so exciting as some grave and inscrutable illness, was at least serviceable; for it allowed Mrs. Bennet, in the vein of concerned maternity, to insist that Mary accompany her this morning on her walk to Meryton; for to walk with company, however dismal it may be, was infinitely preferable to walking on her own; and she had been long unsuccessful in convincing Mary to join her in visiting her sister Mrs. Philips in town. Now, however, with Mr. Bennet's support, she might at last be prevailed upon.

The only chance that Mary might be endowed with any temporary energy that morning came with the arrival of the post; for the only times she betrayed anything approaching animation was whenever a letter was received, from either her sister, or her new friend Miss Darcy; and she would be occupied the whole morning with reading the correspondence, and penning a reply; but that morning, the post came with no letters from Pemberley, and Mary was left only to bundle up, and reluctantly accompany her mother on to Meryton, and make pretense of observing her mother's long speeches, whilst in fact she was wholly abstracted in her own contemplation.

Once at Meryton, they were compelled first to stop at the milliner's, and to survey the pretty fabrics and sashes which were on display; this was, for Mrs. Bennet, largely motivated by habit, with most of her daughters now married, and the one still remaining prone to being grievously unappreciative of these material pleasures. In such moments Mrs. Bennet was moved to lament the loss of her favorite, Lydia, quite greatly, for she had always taken just as much enjoyment from such blithe perusal as her mother did. Mary, on the other hand, lingered perennially near the door, and indicated by her vague expression that she should much prefer to return to the street. This was not to say, of course, that Mrs. Bennet spent any less time in her examination of the shop's textile goods; only that her enjoyment of it was dampened somewhat more than it should have been otherwise.

At last, with Mrs. Bennet duly satisfied, they exited the shop, and made a call upon Mrs. Philips, whom at least her sister could trust to provide loquacious company, if not always as generous in sympathy as would be desired.

Here, she was happy to start once more on her newly discovered concern – namely, Mary's poor health, and what lamentable consequences had occurred from her daughter's brief time away. Mrs. Philips was happy to indulge Mrs. Bennet in this conversation, poor health being a topic dear to her heart; in this, at least, the sisters were alike.

Mary accepted their scrutiny and diagnoses in detached silence, which was perhaps as best a temperament as one could expect under such conditions. This subject thoroughly exhausted, they went in search of others; Mrs. Bennet was happy to report that all was well with her dear Lydia; she had just written, and enclosed a new address at which her and Mr. Wickham might be found. "But then, it is, of course, no surprise to me; Lydia has always had such a lively spirit about her; it is no surprise to learn of her penchant for travels; I should much have liked to travel myself, when I was her age; but of course, circumstances precluded it; and my nerves, dear sister, as you know, have always been a terrible blight upon my life."

If Mr. Bennet had been there, he might have remarked that Mrs. Bennet's nerves had been a terrible blight upon many people's lives, not only her own; but Mrs. Philips was not in the least of a sardonic or critical disposition; and if her sister's disorders were wont to at times serve as an annoyance for her, she was nevertheless inclined to humour her, so that she herself may be humored in turn. With some disappointment, Mrs. Philips admitted she had little to report on the past week's happenings in Meryton; there had been some trivial misunderstanding between Mrs. Wittmoor and Mrs. Grant, on one of the former's orders, but it had been quickly resolved; and all in all, she was obliged to note, it was a great deal duller now, than when the soldiers had been there, and her nieces as well; she could not help herself but to wish that Netherfield might once again be inhabited, and that there might be some new company to keep.

"Perhaps, after all, another dinner party is in order," Mrs. Philips at last concluded. "I may be very quick in putting it together; and we may round out the party with some of Mr. Philips' clerks and their wives. What say you, sister?"

Mrs. Bennet, having hosted her sister only several days ago at Longbourn, was not in any great measure enthused, particularly at the idea it should be so hastily arranged, as to likely preclude any fineness to the dishes. "Ah, we should not wish to impose upon you, too, greatly; nor, of course, on Mr. Philips' clerks. They are all of three of them married, as I recollect?"

"No, there is one of them unmarried; a Mr. Radcliff; Mr. Philips has only recently taken him on, as a replacement of Mr. Price."

"Indeed?" asked Mrs. Bennet, her interest duly piqued, and Mrs. Philips happily obliged.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Philips has no complaints as of yet. A rather easy disposition, I suppose, and seems to take to the work well enough. Very little family, aside from a sister. Unmarried, as I said, though I should imagine one as amiable as him would make quick work of finding himself a wife, once he has set his mind to it, despite his rather meager holdings."

These remarks were all enough to engage Mrs. Bennet's eager, though admittedly weak, imagination; and of course, she would not be desirous of such a match; such a match should be a paltry conclusion to her other daughters' fine acquisitions; but then, there would be no harm from making an introduction; there was some advantage, after all, to be had in his vicinity; and there were few people, she told herself, who would not put a great deal of value upon an easy disposition. Yes, upon reflection, a dinner party was not an undesirable prospect at all; and she thanked her sister most profusely for her consideration. "Indeed, I am sure you are doing a great service to your niece; a simply wonderful idea; and a fine evening in Meryton is certain to make great travails in recovering her spirits; shall you not agree, Mary?"

If Mary had been following their conversation, she might have been to some degree sensible to the danger which was just now developing before her; but she had been captured deeply in her own thoughts, and was only made aware that there should be held a supper at her aunt's, and that she would be hard-pressed to give an excuse for not attending it. Thus, rather demurely, she assented to her mother, and with such a show of approval, Mrs. Bennet was under the impression that the battle had been already half-won, the introduction of the gentleman himself excepted.

The next day brought Mary at least some pleasantness; for the post brought a letter from Derbyshire, and eagerly she opened it to read its contents, written in the flowery, elegant hand of her friend. Georgiana hoped that all was still well with Mary at Longbourn; everyone was faring quite well at Pemberley. Edmund Benson, having retired to London at much the same time as Mary had left, gave no sign of reappearing in the country, which to Georgiana was indeed a great relief. As for the Miss Bensons, they had at first made some overtures of reclaiming her friendship, but, making no travails, soon grew tired of it, and were now rare visitors to Pemberley.

'Also, Mr. Crawford is soon departing us; he has begged early leave of his commission, so that he may join an expedition, which will have him absent some half a twelvemonth. He asked that I might enclose to you his well-wishes, and his hopes that you are at this moment reading something clever and solemn.

And how are you, dear friend? Apprise me of all I have missed; your writing has fault only in its brevity. You are far too succinct in summing your thoughts, perhaps because you think they shall be of little interest to me; but I assure you, that it is not at all so, and you may feel safe that to bore me should require so many pages, as you are not capable of procuring.

I shall expect your letter soon,

Affectionately yours,

Georgie

Many times did Mary reread the lines concerning Mr. Crawford, feeling her cheeks color more with each read-through; the words could not help but conjure images, and conjectures, of how he might have imparted them to Georgiana; with what tone, by what circumstance, had they been delivered; and how much was Georgiana made to understand, of what had transpired between them – how much had been betrayed to her, by his inflections?

And perhaps, most important of all, what had been their intention? A painful reminder to her of his offer? – no, it did not seem in his character. A contrition, and a regret for his hasty actions? – but then, if so, would he have wished to make mention of her at all?

No matter how many times she reread it, it provided her maddeningly little information; and losing hope with it at last, she folded the letter abruptly, and quit the breakfast table, with bright red cheeks marking her distress as she exited it.

"Do you see, Mr. Bennet?" his wife demanded. "Even the slightest recollection of Pemberley upsets her; I fear we have done a great deal of harm in sending her there; better if she is to remain from hereon at Longbourn. There is much to be found for her here yet."

"Or perhaps, she has merely been distressed by something she has read in the letter," observed Mr. Bennet mildly, as he stood himself, preparing to make his escape to the library.

"And that, Mr. Bennet, is precisely where might be seen your failings as a father," said Mrs. Bennet with great satisfaction. "It is all well and good for a father to make pretense at discerning his daughter's conduct; but in the end, it is only the natural intuition of a mother which by necessity may reveal the motivations of her children's actions; and I am sorry indeed, that you shall never know the gift of such maternal astuteness."

A/N: Quick plug unrelated to this story, but I've just started a new Sherlock fanfic ( called 'Death Becomes Them'). It's a romance (Sherlolly, for those who know) interspersed with mini-cases adapted from the original Conan Doyle stories. Not sure how much overlap there is between Austen and Sherlock fandoms, but if any of you are interested, please check it out!

With that, thanks as always for reading, and see you next week! :D