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“Goodness, but I’ve missed Hertfordshire.”

Mary looked up from her notebook and over at Mr. Lowell. Lying recumbent in the shade of a chestnut tree, his own field notebook lying open on his stomach, he certainly did resemble a man content with the world and his place in it.

In spite of his avowal that he would come back and visit, it rather caught them all by surprise yesterday when they saw Mr. Lowell walking up the lane. He walked slowly, and still with a bit of a limp, but he was walking nonetheless. He and Gibson were staying in the village at the White Bear, and would be there for a week. He wanted to see the countryside in spring, he said.

Mr. Lowell and Mary had fallen back into their old habit of country rambles immediately and without any real thought. Short and slow rambles, at Mary's insistence, not venturing too far from the house for the sake of Mr. Lowell's still healing leg. Pleasantly, they found that they were still good company for one another. While Mary had a growing circle of friends and acquaintances in Milliways, she realized that she had missed having one in Hertfordshire. Especially now with Jane and Lizzie both gone, it was nice to have someone to talk to.

“I would think that London would provide enough diversions to keep one from missing anything. My sister, Jane, says that it’s quite diverting.”

“Oh, there’s no denying that it’s diverting. But I think I prefer the quieter diversions I’ve found here. There's precious little wildlife in London other than the rats. Gibson enjoys Hertfordshire, too. Besides which, he claims that you have a positive effect on my disposition.”

“Does he?” Mary tried hard not to look surprised. “I was not aware that I had made any great impression,” she added, lying blatantly. “Is that what he said?”

The last time she’d seen Gibson, he’d accused her, in the most favorable way possible, of being a witch. It was enough to make a young lady curious about exactly what the man might have said to his employer.

“Oh, yes. Gibson approves of you, heartily.” Mr. Lowell pushed himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the tree trunk. “I think he would happily pack you up and smuggle you back to Boston as a family asset.”

“Oh, my. That could cause a scandal.” Mary made a prim show of turning back to her notebook. “He’s older than my father, I believe.”

“Well, then, perhaps I could smuggle you.” Mr. Lowell smiled widely. “I’m twenty-six next month. In my prime, as they say. My relatives are amiable. My family are merchants, but we’re quite prosperous ones. I’ve a standing invitation from my old mentor at Harvard, Dr. Winslow, to come serve as a fellow there. You yourself, as I recall, noted me handsome once.”

“Mr. Lowell, you really should never cast a lady’s words up to her.”

“My health is excellent when I’m not falling from horses. My teeth are sound. All my elder male relatives still have their hair.”

Mary was trying not to smile and failing dismally. “You are quite ridiculous.”

“Good table manners. Adept charades player. Cheerful disposition. Tolerable singing voice.”

“Mr. Lowell, you do not have to convince me of your good qualities. I’m quite well aware of them.”

“Are you? You’d be amenable to me smuggling you away then?”

Something in his smile then made Mary blush, lower her eyes and begin flipping quickly through her notebook for the sake of having something to do with her hands while trying to think of a clever rejoinder.

Unfortunately, Mary’s repertoire of clever rejoinders was rather limited, and the silence might have dragged on for some time had Mr. Lowell not mercifully chosen to end it.

“Forgive me,” he said, sounding rather less teasing. “Was that verging on romantic nonsense?”

Mary glanced up again with half a wry smile.

“Perhaps just a bit,” she said.

“Ah, well. I am a man who honors my word. No nonsense.” Mr. Lowell folded his arms and adjusted his back against the tree trunk. “And so, do you think me horribly vain, now?”

“Not at all,” Mary said, feeling that she was on firmer ground again. “It’s only prudent to know what one’s good qualities are, so long as they don’t go to one’s head. Or one doesn’t become so complacent that one never tries to improve.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Lowell crossed his ankles and looked attentive. “How would you describe yours?”

Put on the spot, Mary mentally flailed a bit. “Well, I’ve never thought of them in terms of a list.”

Mr. Lowell grinned. “May I try my hand? I promise I won’t be nonsensical.”

“If you wish,” Mary said, cautiously.

Really, there was no gracious way to refuse.

“Very well.” Mr. Lowell adopted a scholarly countenance. “Well, for starters, you are eminently sensible and practical. Which is probably what makes you such a good nurse. You're good-hearted and try to take care of the people around you. You are diligent when you set your mind to something and work very hard to improve yourself in everything—I can tell that just from watching you practice the pianoforte. You are firm in your convictions, even when perhaps your convictions don’t lead you down the easiest of paths. You’re bright, and unlike many good learned souls, you are capable of thinking about things in unconventional ways.”

“I’m not sure those last two can necessarily be called good qualities,” Mary objected.

“I’m an American. I think we’re predisposed to like people who are a bit rebellious.”

“Very well. I’ll bow to our cultural differences.” Mary shook her head. “Also, I should tell you, you do not have to tell me that I’m pretty. People always think that they must compliment a woman’s looks. I know that mine are unremarkable. Jane got the beauty in the family.”

“Now that's a point where your good sense deserts you,” Mr. Lowell said, wagging a finger. “I met your sister when I called on your uncle in London. She’s lovely, I won’t deny it. And Miss Elizabeth, Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia are all handsome young ladies. But you think that because your sisters are pretty, you can’t be. It’s not at all true, you know. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet don’t have such a thing as a plain daughter.”

Mary was blushing again, though not as badly as she was before.

“Is that the conclusion of your list?”

“Not quite,” Mr. Lowell replied. He folded his arms and gave her a measured look. “You also have an air of mystery.”

“An air of mystery?” Mary raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. “Me?”

“Yes. And I have no idea how your family misses it.” And in truth, he did sound a bit perplexed. “There’s a great deal more to you than you ever let anyone see. Almost like there’s a whole other world that only you are privy to. An overly poetic way of putting it perhaps, but that’s the only way I can think to describe it.”

Little did he know that he described it very well for a man ignorant of Milliways.

For a wild half-second, Mary wondered what would happen if she told him.

Little good, that’s what. And, with a glance toward the house, Mary sighed with relief to see Bessie on the porch in the distance, waving. Mary gathered up her things and stood.

“Bessie’s signaling. Tea is ready. You told Father you’d join us, did you not?”

“Ah, the lady is keeping her secrets?” Mr. Lowell smiled a bit as he pushed himself to his feet. “Very well, Miss Mary. But I hope you’ll not think me too forward if I tell you that I hope you might one day consider sharing your secret with me.”

Mary fell into step beside him as they walked up the path back to her house.

“Perhaps, Mr. Lowell, there will come a day when I will.”

By the second week of January, the doctor pronounced Mr. Lowell’s leg healed enough for him to travel, provided that said travel was conducted at a sedate pace and in a comfortable carriage. And so the Bennets’ guest began to make arrangements to return to London.

“We shall be very sorry to see you go, Mr. Lowell,” Mr. Bennet said over dinner that night.

“As I shall be sorry to leave,” Mr. Lowell replied. “I don’t mind saying that my house in London will feel quite lonely after my time here. But I’ve imposed on your hospitality for far too long. And I still have business to attend to for my father before returning to Boston.”

“When do you have to go back?” Mary asks.

“Not until autumn,” Mr. Lowell replied. “Strange to think that by this time next year I’ll be back in Massachusetts. Still, I have plenty of time left in England. I intend to make the most of it.”

“Well, now that you know the road to Meryton, I hope you know that you will be welcome here should your responsibilities permit you.”

“Oh, never fear, Mr. Bennet. I have made good friends here, and still have lots of the countryside still to see. I have no doubt but that I shall visit again.”

The day of departure came very soon. The hired carriage was drawn up close to the house so that Mr. Lowell could get to it as easily as possible. Good-byes were being said in the drawing room.

Mary was doing one last look over of the spare room to make sure that nothing had been forgotten. The room felt oddly large and empty without its two occupants. The couch that Gibson had insisted on sleeping on the whole time had been moved back out and the bed was stripped of all of its linen. Mary did not spot any stray items, so she brushed off her apron and moved to go to the drawing room to bid their guest farewell.

She turned and found the doorway blocked by Gibson. The old man held his hat in his scarred hands and he looked very grave indeed.

“Gibson? Is something wrong?”

“Forgive me, Miss Mary,” Gibson inclined his head, respectfully. “I wondered if I might have a brief word before we depart?”

Mary felt her stomach sink a bit. She had been rather afraid of this. She’d allowed Gibson to see far too much these past weeks. It made little sense in a way, that her family and the household servants—people who saw her every day—never noticed anything amiss, but a virtual stranger did. Still, what was done was done, and there was little help for it.

“Of course, Gibson.” Mary hoped she looked reasonably dignified and composed.

Gibson stepped into the room. He looked like a man who had spent many hours rehearsing a speech, and now could not quite remember the ordering of his paragraphs.

“There’s something not quite right about you,” he said at last.

Mary felt her eyebrows go up in spite of herself, and she made a conscious effort to stop fiddling with her apron.

Throwing his first volley seemed to loosen Gibson’s tongue a bit more.

“I’ve worked for the Lowell family practically my whole life, save when I went to war,” he said. “Thomas and Anne and Alexander—and Margaret, while she was alive—are as dear to me as my own children and grandchildren. Of course, they’re grown now, and into good and sensible people, though if there’s an adventure that might result in a broken neck, Master Alexander will attempt it. But I don’t think I’ll ever get out of the habit of looking out after them.”

“I’m sure that they are very appreciative of your loyalty and devotion,” Mary said when Gibson paused.

Gibson smiled faintly and went on.

“We owe your family a debt for what you’ve done for Master Thomas. And you’ve helped more than anyone, I think, though you act as if you don’t want anyone at all to know. It puzzled me for a time until I figured out why.”

Mary was holding her breath by this point.

“I’ve never held with witchcraft.” At this, Mary had a hard time not choking in surprise. “I’ve always thought that half of it was nonsense and the other half the Devil’s work. But there’s little nonsense about you and even less of the Devil. So, I thank you for what you’ve done to help the boy get better.”

Mary had no idea what to say to this, and she was spared by the voice of one of the Bennet’s servants in the corridor. “Mr. Gibson? Can you come tell us how you’d like these boxes packed?”

Gibson bowed, said, “Good bye, Miss Mary,” and was gone.

Mary walked slowly to the drawing room where everyone else had gathered.

“Thank you for the letter of introduction,” Mr. Lowell was saying to Mr. Bennet. “I look forward to making your brother-in-law’s acquaintance. Even if our business interests don’t end up being compatible, knowing people of good character is always a benefit.”

“I think you’ll find the Gardiners to be very amiable,” Mr. Bennet replied.

“An extended family trait, I dare say.” Mr. Lowell craned his head toward the doorway a bit as if checking for something and smiled as he caught sight of Mary. “Ah, here she is.” Mr. Lowell hitched himself over on his crutches. “I certainly couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to you.” He bowed as well as he was able. “Farewell, Miss Mary. Thank you for being such good company these past weeks.”

Mary curtsied. “Good bye, Mr. Lowell. I hope you have a safe trip to London.”

They stood on the porch, watching the carriage make its slow way up the road through the gloomy winter day. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were driven indoors by the chill first, quickly followed by Kitty and Lydia. Then Lizzie, leaving Mary outside on her own for a while.

By the time Mary came back inside the Bennets had all taken up their usual poses. Mr. Bennet’s study door was closed. No doubt he was already buried in a book. Kitty and Lydia were talking and giggling about something or other on the staircase. Lizzie was in the drawing room writing a letter to Jane while Mrs. Bennet sat nearby with her sewing dictating a running list of local gossip that Lizzie should be sure to include.

Mary stood in the entryway in the center of it all. She could go to the dining room and practice at the pianoforte or see to her mending and needlework or go upstairs and retrieve a book of her own. But somehow nothing held any real appeal.

Feeling a bit at loose ends and, oddly, a little bit lonely, Mary walked to the closest out of the way door, turned her thoughts to Milliways, and stepped through to the End of the Universe.

Most of the arrangement of the Christmas greenery had fallen to Mary and Kitty this year, and they had spread their work out over the drawing room where they tied together sprays to adorn the window sills, doorways and mantelpieces. Mr. Bennet took a chair by the hearth to supervise, though his newspaper tended to prove more interesting than the holly and the ivy.

Mr. Lowell, settled in what was becoming his habitual chair, attempted to help tie together decorations until he was distracted by a substantial parcel that arrived for him from the village. It was his mail, sent up from Town. Good wishes from his cousins. A note from his housekeeper on the state of his rented house in London. And, that which was most welcome, a goodly amount of correspondence from family and friends in Boston.

“I do hope, Mr. Lowell, that all is well at home,” Mr. Bennet said, laying aside his newspaper for the moment.

“Quite well.” And indeed, Mr. Lowell looked very pleased indeed. “My sister, Anne, delivered a healthy baby girl in October. Martha. I’m an uncle three times over.” He smiled as he refolded his letter. “Father will no doubt be passing a pleasant holiday. There’s nothing he likes better than a house full of children at Christmas time. He always did enjoy the celebration, even if it’s not fashionable. I’ve no doubt he’s tried the tree out in five different spots by now.”

“Tree?” Kitty asked, trying to bend a vine of ivy into submission. “In the house?”

“A German custom, I believe,” Mr. Bennet interjected.

Kitty looked no less confused as she looked back to Mr. Lowell. “But you’re not German.”

Mr. Lowell laughed. “No, I dare say I’m not. But many Americans used to be Germans. We all borrow from each other, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Kitty frowned as she gave up and clipped the vine in half. “That must get very confusing, doesn’t it? People from all over the place with their own ways of doing things being all mixed up and yet supposed to be countrymen? You’d think people would wind up constantly butting their heads together.”

“I don’t think so,” Mary said before Mr. Lowell could respond. “In Mi--”

Mary quickly caught herself and leaned down to grope about the floor beside the ottoman she was sitting on, pretending she’d dropped something. She’d nearly said In Milliways.

“That is to say,” she said, straightening back up, “differences in manners and custom are just that. Manners and customs. I imagine that you can take people from some of the most diverse circumstances,” Not to mention times and worlds, “and you’ll find that they are far more similar than they different.”

“Astutely put,” Mr. Lowell said.

“If a bit idealistic,” Mr. Bennet added, doubtfully.

“I still can’t imagine a tree in the house,” Kitty said. “And I’m out of string.”

“So am I. I think there’s more in the kitchen.” Mary got up from the ottoman. “I’ll get it.”

And perhaps a cup of tea for myself with a lump or two of common sense. Mary shook her head as she made her way to the kitchen.

She'd very nearly slipped. Mary had never really had many secrets to keep before. Not enough to be as canny as another person might. And, she'd begun to discover, Milliways had started to become such a (dare she say) ordinary part of her world that it was sometimes hard to refrain from speaking of it.

Gibson, she knew, already watched her with guarded suspicion. That had proven to be unavoidable, since she had chosen to doctor his charge under his very nose. And yesterday, when she'd slipped back from Milliways, she'd managed to run right into the man.

She hadn't quite been able to divest herself of all of Raven's silver glitter. Gibson had just looked her up and down and relieved her of her holly and pine branches without a word.

But thus far her family didn't suspect anything.

She would just have to watch her step a bit more carefully. That was all.

It's the day before Christmas Eve and the Bennet household is in a flurry of preparation for the twelve days of celebration that will soon be upon them. The kitchen is full of the makings for pudding, mincemeat pies, and gingerbread. The men are out in the woods procuring a Yule log. And the girls are in charge of gathering and arranging the greenery for the house.

The Milliways door obligingly swings open ahead of a cloaked figure whose upper half is hidden behind an armful of holly and evergreen. A peevish voice issues from behind the branches.

"Kitty!" Mary is walking with the assurance of someone who is certain she is in her own entryway. "Come back here and take some of these. I can't see where I'm going."

Other patrons may want to shout, dodge, or prepare for a Christmasy collision.

Winter had settled in, wet and chilly with near daily rain, as it was wont to do in Hertfordshire. Truly frigid temperatures and snow would likely not come until after the new year. But the pervasive wintry damp had made it easy for Mary to beg off today’s round of calls, claiming that she felt the beginnings of a cold coming on, and should stay at home close to the fire.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, along with Kitty and Lydia, had gone to pay a call on the Lucas’s. Charlotte Lucas’ wedding to Mr. Collins was coming up in short order. Mrs. Bennet seemed determined to show that it didn’t trouble her one whit, though the entire family knew that the missed opportunity still rankled with her. Lizzie was still getting the occasional barbed comment.

Lizzie had forgone the call as well today and was off in the drawing room with a novel. Mary was in the dining room practicing on the pianoforte. She hadn’t dared to bring any sheet music back from Milliways, but she was able to play through most of Silent Night from memory. Of all the songs she’d stumbled across, it was one of her favorites.

It was a shame it hadn’t been written yet.

The house was so empty and quiet that when someone spoke behind her, Mary all but jumped.

“That’s pretty. What’s it called?”

Mr. Lowell was standing in the doorway, propped up on a pair of crutches. He had started to get about reasonably well, though still with about as much grace as a drunken giraffe. He couldn’t travel far or for very long, but he seemed happy just to be dressed and out of bed.

“Oh, that? To be quite honest, I really don’t know. I heard it somewhere. It stuck in my mind, I suppose. I’m not even certain I’m playing it correctly. How are you, Mr. Lowell?”

This was one of those instances which in which Mary wondered if she should worry about how readily she had started to lie and deflect conversation since she’d found Milliways.

“Appreciating anew the ability to walk. Such as it presently is.” Mr. Lowell hitched himself to the closest chair and awkwardly lowered himself into it. “I’m looking forward to testing your plans for my recovery.”

Mary had gotten up to fetch over another chair and a cushion. “My what?” she asked, dropping the cushion onto the chair seat. “Prop your foot up.”

Mr. Lowell obediently did as ordered, attempting to find the most comfortable position possible. It seemed to be a losing battle.

“The list of instructions you gave to Gibson? Exercises to strengthen the leg? I’ve never known a young lady to have such an interest in medicine before.”

“Oh, that.” The list of exercises that Mr. Anders had provided. Mary had dutifully passed them on to Gibson, after first copying them over in her own hand, making vague noises about having read of them in a book.

Gibson had looked mildly suspicious. Servant he might be, but the old man had sharp eyes and a sharp mind. Mary knew it was only the difference in their classes that was saving her from being sat down and asked some difficult questions.

She was gratified to hear that Mr. Lowell knew of them. That meant it was likely that Gibson would see that they were carried out when the leg had healed enough.

“I don’t, really,” she said, resuming her seat on the piano stool. “Have a keen interest in medicine. Of course. I just recalled reading about them and thought they might be beneficial.”

“Looking after me, as always.”

Mr. Lowell gave her a smile that caused Mary to blush to the roots of her hair. And, as timing would have it, Lizzie happened to pass by the doorway on her way to the stairs at the precise moment. Seen by Mary, but not by Mr. Lowell, she gave a knowing smile before continuing on her way.

Mary certainly hadn’t forgotten Lizzie’s opinion regarding her disposition toward Mr. Lowell, much as she had tried to dismiss it from her mind. That had only troubled her in that Mary heartily disliked having another person (particularly Lizzie) thinking that they knew her mind better than she herself did. She also thought of Mr. Evans from Milliways, and his assertion that she should tell Mr. Lowell of the help she’d provided so he’d have the opportunity to thank her, and of her mother sending Jane riding off to Netherfield in the teeth of a downpour.

It was a disjointed thought process, but the conclusion it led Mary to was one that made her rather uncomfortable. She didn’t care especially what Lizzie thought of her motivations. But she found that she did care what Mr. Lowell thought of them.

“Mr. Lowell.” Mary found that she was twisting her fingers in her lap. An old habit when nerves were agitated, one that she had often tried unsuccessfully to break. “I feel that there’s a matter I must discuss with you, and about which I must be very frank.”

“Oh, dear. That does sound serious.” And truthfully, he did look a bit worried. “Very well, Miss Mary. I am at your disposal.”

“I….” If she twisted her fingers any further, her own bones were going to start snapping. “I do not look after your welfare because I am fond of you.”

Mr. Lowell’s eyebrows rose so high and so fast that Mary wondered if they might not fly off his face entirely. And caused her to believe that she might not be expressing herself very well.

Not that that was anything new.

“Not that I am not fond of you.” Getting worse, Mary. “That’s to say, I find you to be a very pleasant and agreeable young man.” Still not improving. “But I don’t want you to think that I expect some sort of reparation. I’m….explaining this quite poorly.”

To his credit, Mr. Lowell waited patiently while Mary gathered her thoughts and what was currently left of her dignity and went on.

“I don’t want you to feel as if I am attempting to manipulate your affections by making you feel obligated out of gratitude.” The words come out in a rush. “Most young ladies I know, they delight in romantic games. Pretending to accidentally drop their handkerchiefs and the like. And I’m sure there are some who would find caring for a young man under their roof to be a providential opportunity. Particularly if he were eligible and handsome.”

Mr. Lowell was smirking a bit. But Mary was too far out to sea to attempt to swim back now.

“But I want to assure you that I hold no such expectations. I have no ulterior motive in looking after you. I find such games to be dishonest. And irrational. And nonsensical.”

Mary took a deep breath. She really had spoken entirely too freely. When had she become so utterly incapable of holding her tongue?

Fortunately, Mr. Lowell seemed inclined neither to laugh at her, nor to flee in terror.

“I do appreciate your candor, Miss Mary. And I assure you, any affection that I express will not spring from a sense of obligation.” Mr. Lowell inclined his head. “You have my word as a gentleman. No romantic nonsense.”

Mary sighed with relief.

“Well. I am very glad of that.” She smoothed out her apron, which she had taken to twisting in lieu of her fingers at some point. “The world needs more sensible people, in my opinion.”

“Quite so, Miss Mary.”

“And now that I have made my feelings plain, Mr. Lowell, is there anything that you require?”

Mr. Lowell smiled a bit.

“The song? Will you play it through for me? As much as you remember at any rate.”

“I would be more than happy to oblige you.”

Feeling much lighter, Mary turned back to the pianoforte and laid her fingers upon the keys.

The Bennet household adjusted with relative ease to having Mr. Lowell as a house guest. Even infirm and confined to bed, everyone seemed to find him more agreeable than Mr. Collins. It was perhaps helpful that Mr. Lowell brought with him none of the tensions or worries that the dreaded cousin had.

Mr. Bennet enjoyed having another gentleman in the house, and spent any number of hours in the guest room conversing with Mr. Lowell about books and sea trade and the wonders on either side of the Atlantic. Mrs. Bennet looked in daily, but after fifteen minutes or so, Mr. Lowell would begin to look tired, and Mary would distract her mother with something in the drawing room or kitchen.

Kitty and Lydia didn’t pay him much mind after the first. The Regiment was still in Meryton, and most days, even with winter settling in properly, they found an excuse to walk into the village. Ostensibly they went to visit with the Forsters or the Phillips or the Lucas family, but they seemed to find plenty of time to practice their charms on the red coated officers. A recuperating and somewhat bookish young man did little to hold their interest.

Lizzie sometimes went with them, half to chaperone, half to converse with Mr. Wickham, Mary suspected. But Lizzie also found time to help keep Mr. Lowell company during the long hours, and they clearly got on well. He seemed to enjoy her quick and easy wit. Of course, the more humorous and clever Lizzie was, the quieter Mary found herself getting, until she was by and large silent during these conversations.

She also attempted to help Mary with some of the mundane tasks involved in seeing to their guest’s comfort. And that was the point at which the worm turned.

“It’s just tea,” Mary snapped, swiping the spoon from Lizzie’s hand. “I am quite capable of seeing to tea without your superior graces.”

Lizzie looked perplexed. Annoyed. And a little bit hurt.

“Mary, I’m only trying to help." Lizzie walked off for a moment and came back with a loaf of bread. “You’ve taken on a great deal of work with Mr. Lowell. I thought you’d want a respite. That’s all.”

Mary picked up the bread knife before Lizzie could, and moved the loaf to her side of the table. “Well, I don’t. And I’m sure you can find far more effective means of showing off your cleverness.”

Lizzie frowned and marched off into the pantry. She was a little longer in coming back this time, and when she did she bore a dish of butter and looked considerably more thoughtful.

“Mary?” she ventured. “Are you……fond of Mr. Lowell?”

It was probably just as well that Mary had finished slicing the bread, otherwise she might have divested herself of one of her own fingers.

“Don’t,” she said shortly, taking the butter from her sister, “be ridiculous. Not everything needs to be reduced to romantic nonsense.” Mr. Lowell was her friend—well, at least now that they’d made up their argument. Nothing more. “Just because every other female in this house can’t think of anything but flirtation doesn’t mean that I can’t.”

Lizzie gave her a knowing look (which was irritating) but left her alone. Mary noticed from that time on, though, that Lizzie started to spend far less time conversing with Mr. Lowell. She made apologies about having a great deal to tend to--letters to write to Jane, Kitty and Lydia to see to, calls to pay--and shooed Mary in his direction every chance she got.

It was a bit infuriating, but after a bit, Mary just shrugged over it. Lizzie could think she knew everything all she wanted. That didn’t make it so. And Mary liked speaking with Mr. Lowell, so there was little reason to complain.

Besides, it was hard to blame Lizzie from thinking along those lines just given the general atmosphere in the house. Jane was off in London to attempt to (one way or the other) heal a broken heart. Lydia and Kitty were constantly giggling over the officers. And if Mrs. Bennet ever thought of anything else these days there was never so much as a hint of it.

Mary had a hard time not choking one day when she overheard her mother and father talking in the drawing room.

“One does not want to wish injury on anyone, of course,” Mrs. Bennet was saying. “But it would have been so convenient if Mr. Bingley could have met with such misfortune right on our doorstep.”

“My dear,” Mr. Bennet said, as if he couldn’t even work up the energy to be scandalized.

“Well, it worked well enough when Jane took ill at Netherfield. And a broken bone lasts a good deal longer.”

“I do wonder, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said, dryly, “that you don’t try to send Mr. Lowell home with a wife, as he is so conveniently placed at present.”

“Mr. Lowell is a pleasing young man,” Mrs. Bennet replied, “but we know nothing at all of his family. And he's an American. Really, Mr. Bennet, would you see one of our girls disappear all the way off to Boston?”

“Put in those terms, Mrs. Bennet, how can I possibly argue?”

Mary shook her head and tiptoed past the drawing room with her mending basket. Her thoughts on the matter must have showed on her face though, because Mr. Lowell asked, “What’s the joke?” as she settled into her usual chair.

“Suffice to say, Mr. Lowell, that while one’s relatives might be familiar, they are still a constant source of mystery.” Mary took out her needle and thread. “Now, what shall we talk about today?”

Everyone considered it highly unusual, but an undeniable blessing that Mr. Lowell did little more than snore his way through his first two days of convalescence.

Gibson was concerned enough to send a note off to the doctor. The one he got in return read: The human body’s reception of pain is a highly individual matter. So long as he is coherent in between times, allow him to sleep as much as he wishes.

Gibson hadn’t looked entirely convinced. Mary wished she could ease the man’s mind, but there was simply no way to do so without inviting a hoard of unwelcome questions. Instead she remained quiet and non-committal, and continued to dole out the remaining three pills per Bar’s instructions—one more in tea, one in beef broth, and one in thin porridge. Mr. Lowell grimaced each and every time, but he said nothing more about an odd taste. He merely drank or ate as he was bid, and slid back into sleep.

After those pills were exhausted, Bar gave Mary a supply of something called Tylenol, which while not quite as strong, did not put the patient in an utter stupor. Mr. Lowell might not be entirely comfortable, but he was certainly more alert.

“It’s kind of you to look after me like this,” he said to Mary a couple of days after he rejoined the waking world.

Mary half-glanced back over her shoulder at Mr. Lowell. She had her back to him, ostensibly to arrange his breakfast tray, but really to hastily stir crushed Tylenol into his porridge. There had been too many people in the kitchen to risk doing it there.

“Not at all, Mr. Lowell,” she replied. “Our family has always prided itself on neighborly compassion and helpfulness.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Mary could hear Mr. Lowell attempting to hitch himself up a bit higher on his pillows. “Your family has been the very soul of graciousness, of course. But what I meant was…..it’s kind of you to look after me. Gibson says that you’ve been quite attentive, right from the beginning.”

Mary didn’t really know what to say to that. Instead she just stirred a bit more vigorously.

“It was my intent to apologize to you,” he added.

She really couldn’t stall forever. Mary picked up the tray, turned, and settled it over his lap. “For what?”

“For making sport of men’s deaths.” Mr. Lowell looked a little chagrined. “You were right. It wasn’t seemly.”

Mary was not used to being told she was in the right. It took her a moment to formulate an answer. “And you were correct in that I do not know how things were in the Colonies.” She straightened her shoulders. “It seems that at the core we were both speaking from our convictions. I suppose we can forgive each other for that.”

Mr. Lowell smiled a bit. “Yes, I suppose we can.”

“It’s only sensible.”

“I agree.”

Mary found that she couldn’t quite help smiling back a bit.

“Eat your breakfast, Mr. Lowell. You’re going to need your strength.”

When Mary steps back through the door to Longbourn, no time at all has passed, and she has time to assemble almost everything she needs before the water in the kettle over the fire reaches a boil. Mary pours the hot water into a tea pot, and while the tea steeps, she fishes the bottle of pills out of her pocket.

She shakes one of them out into her hand, and after taking one more moment to examine it, drops it into the wooden mortar. It crushes up easily enough, and Mary makes sure that the powder is as fine as she can possibly make it before she scrapes the medicine into a tea cup.

She pours the tea over top of the white powder, stirring carefully to make sure it all dissolves, then adds a good quantity of milk and sugar to cover the taste as much as possible. She pours a second, undoctored, cup for Gibson, then carefully arranges them on a tray – Gibson’s on the left, Mr. Lowell’s on the right.

It wouldn’t do to get them mixed up.

The guest room is lit by candles and a low fire in the fireplace. Mr. Lowell is half propped up by pillows, which Gibson is adjusting in an attempt to make him more comfortable. An attempt that seems to be failing if Mr. Lowell’s clenched fists on the counterpane are any indication.

Mary sets down the tray and picks up the left cup, walking it over to Mr. Gibson.

“Do sit down, Gibson,” she says, pressing the cup upon him. “You’ve not slept tonight if I’m any judge.”

Gibson looks reluctant, but he takes the cup and sinks down onto the sofa that’s been moved into the guest room for him to sleep on. Mary takes up the right cup, swirling it once to dislodge anything that may have settled to the bottom, and approaches Mr. Lowell.

He looks fairly terrible—eyes shadowed and every muscle in his face drawn tight. His voice is little better.

“Miss Mary," he says. "I hope we’ve not disturbed you.”

“Not at all, Mr. Lowell.” Mary manages to sound quite businesslike, as if she’s always up in the wee small hours dispensing tea. “I’ve made a cup for you as well. Can you manage on your own?”

Mr. Lowell shakes his head slightly. “Thank you, Miss Mary, but I don’t especially feel like tea.”

“Don't worry, Mr. Lowell. This Englishwoman won't tax you for it,” Mary replies, dryly.

It’s hard to tell by candlelight, but she thinks his cheeks go a bit red. But the remark does have its intended effect, which is to subtly shame him into compliance. Mr. Lowell drops his head back against the pillow in something like defeat.

“Far be it from me to argue with a lady.”

Mary just snorts.

Pain, exhaustion, and the knock to the head have left his hands none too steady, and Mary doesn’t want any of Bar’s medicine to be wasted. Just as well that a sick room is one place where propriety is, out of necessity, relaxed. Mary cups one hand around the back of his neck (the skin is hot and dry--a sign of fever, surely enough) and holds the cup while he takes a drink.

Mr. Lowell makes a face. “It tastes strange.”

“That’s just because you don’t feel well. I’m sure all your senses are a bit muddled.” Mary quickly raises the cup again so that he has little choice but to drink the rest or inhale it through his nose.

Mary had had no inkling of how quickly Milliways’ medicine would work, if it would work at all. But to her satisfaction it is only a matter of minutes before Mr. Lowell’s body starts to go loose, as if knots that had been holding his muscles tight had come undone.

“How are you feeling, then, Mr. Lowell?”

Head lolling, eyes beginning to droop, his voice is muzzy when he speaks. “Better. Must be through the worst of it. Sleepy.”

“I think sleep is highly advisable.” Mary takes Gibson’s empty cup and sets it back on the tray. “You too, Gibson," she orders. "You’ll be no good to anyone if you sicken yourself.”

Gibson gives Mary a rather odd look, but just reaches over to adjust the blankets one last time.

“Aye, Miss Mary’s a good nurse, sure enough. Sleep, sir. It’s the best thing for you.”

Mary gathers up her tray and heads for the door. “I’ll be in the drawing room, and Bessie will be up soon to start work in the kitchen,” she adds in a whisper to Gibson. “If anything is needed.”

She uses the cooling water in the kettle to thoroughly rinse out the mortar and the tea cup and then goes and curls up on the drawing room sofa. The banked fire and the slowly brightening windows provide just enough light to see by. Mary fishes the bottle out of her pocket again, shaking it to hear the rattle of the remaining pills. She fists her hand around it for a moment, then tucks it safely back in her pocket.

Minutes later, she’s asleep.

The moon had arced over the sky and set before Mary conceded that she was not going to sleep.

It was quite annoying, really. It had been a long and rather upsetting day. She really had thought that Mr. Lowell was dead for a few moments. Mary had felt thoroughly wrung out by the time the doctor had taken his leave and Gibson had been set up in the guest room, and it hadn’t even been dinner time then. By rights, she should have fallen into bed and into a long and dreamless sleep.

She was tired, Heaven knew. But sleep remained elusive.

Disgusted, Mary threw off her covers and lit her bedside candle. Kitty and Lydia both snuffled and shifted slightly in their sleep, but wouldn’t wake for hours, Mary knew. She got dressed by the thin, wavering light, leaving her hair in its sleep braid, and wrapped up in a shawl. Taking up the candle, she quietly let herself out of the room and tiptoed down the stairs.

She thought she might light the fire in the drawing room. Or perhaps if it were not too cold, go sit on the porch and watch the sun rise. But the sound of someone moving about in the kitchen drew her toward the back of the house.

Gibson was sitting in a chair by the kitchen hearth in his shirtsleeves and a stocking cap, yawning and rubbing his eyes vigorously. The kettle hanging over the fire was just beginning to steam. His head jerked up as Mary stepped into the kitchen.

“Miss Mary.” Gibson started to push himself out of the chair. “Good evening. Or is it morning?”

Mary waved him back into his seat.

“Closer to morning, I believe. Please don’t get up, Gibson.”

Mary pulled one of the low kitchen stools over to the hearth and settled herself on it.

“How does Mr. Lowell fare?”

The old man sighed tiredly.

“He’s having a difficult night of it, I fear. The first day or two is always the worst. After that, even if the pain doesn’t ease a bit, one gets more accustomed to it. At least enough to start to sleep through some of it.”

Mary nodded, wrapping the shawl more tightly about her shoulders. She found her eyes drawn to Gibson’s hand, and the stumps where two of his fingers should have been.

“He’s fortunate to have you to see to his care,” she said.

“Well, I’ve seen my share of war wounds. I know he told you that.” Gibson rubbed his eyes again and leaned forward to poke up the fire a bit. “That boy’s father trusted me to look after him.”

“Mr. Gibson,” Mary said, briskly. “Falls from horses cannot be foreseen. I fail to see how you have betrayed any such trust. Don't be foolish.”

Gibson smiled wearily.

“Quite sensible,” he agreed. “And forgive me. I should not be troubling one of the ladies of the house with my woes.”

Mary had opened her mouth to respond when a bitten-off distressed sound drifted up the hall from the guest room. Gibson started up from his chair, then hesitated, looking back at Mary.

Mary waved him on.

“Go see to him. You’re making tea? I’ll bring it once the kettle boils.”

Gibson nodded and hastened down the darkened hallway. Mary waited until she could hear hushed voices from that vicinity before she got up from the stool and quietly closed the kitchen door.

She wasn't sure why she didn’t think of this before.

Mary rested her hand against the kitchen door for a moment, and, when she opened it again, the End of the Universe waited.

There was nothing at all wrong with a solitary walk.

Solitary walks were quiet. Peaceful. They provided valuable time to think and reflect with no idle chatter or distraction. It was time well and productively spent. That’s what Mary told herself and she wandered along the road to Meryton.

It was a cold day, but sunny, and the wind set the barren branches of the trees clattering like bones. The entire world had turned brown and stark, with neither greenery nor snow to soften it. The perfect sort of day for ascetic meditation.

Really, it was quite providential that she and Mr. Lowell had quarreled. It was much better for her to have time to herself.

She hadn’t seen Mr. Lowell since they had argued. Mary had remained close to the house specifically to avoid such a meeting. She wasn’t sure if her father had spoken with him. She wasn’t even sure if Mr. Lowell was still in Hertfordshire. Nor, Mary firmly told herself, did she care. In truth, she was still quite angry whenever she thought on their last conversation.

The wind was gusting so strongly (and Mary was so busy grumbling to herself) that she only heard hoof beats a matter of seconds before a horse came racing around the turn ahead. She had just enough time to dodge out of the way, landing inelegantly on her backside, as the animal barreled past.

She was halfway back to her feet before the thought caught up with her that the horse had not had a rider.

Mary forgot about brushing off her skirt and set off briskly up the road from wence the horse had come. Where there was a run-away horse with an empty saddle, there was sure to be a rider not far behind who might want to know which direction his mount had gone in.

She didn’t immediately see anyone, and was just starting to wonder how far the horse might have run when she nearly stepped on a sprawled form in the tall grass along the road.

It seemed that Mary and Mr. Lowell were destined to meet again after all.

He wasn’t moving, and a thick ribbon of blood ran down over his forehead.

Mary Bennet was a firm believer in composure and practicality. In remaining calm in the face of crisis. In evaluating a situation and approaching it sensibly.

Good intentions which completely flew out the window when she found herself standing over what might, in fact, be a dead man. Somewhere in the second between her heart jumping up into her throat and then returning to its proper place, Mary found herself crouched down in the grass and shaking Mr. Lowell by the front of his coat, trying to elicit a sign of life by sheer physical force.

She was finally rewarded by a rather pained groan, and Mr. Lowell attempting to push her hands away.

That was enough. Mary scrambled to her feet, gathered up her skirts, and began running back to Longbourn to get help.

She didn’t have to go far at all, as it turned out. Some of the men working in the fields near the house had spotted the spooked horse and come to the same conclusion Mary had, and they met her on the road. In short order, Mr. Lowell had been carried to Longbourn and, at Mr. Bennet’s instruction, straight back to the guest room on the ground floor.

The next few hours were a study in half controlled chaos.

Mrs. Bennet flittered about attempting to help until the excitement became too much for her nerves. She retired to her room with Lizzie to keep an eye on her. Lydia and Kitty hovered in the hallway until it became rather clear that, while a break from monotony, an injured man afforded little amusement. (That and their father sharply ordering them out of the way of the people attempting to get by in the hall.)

Mary found herself trapped in a corner of the guest room with no real idea what to do beyond holding things as they were handed to her, moving things as they got in the way, and relaying requests from Mr. Bennet to the servants. More capable people kept bustling in and out to bring water, to report that the horse had been caught and safely stabled, to announce arrivals. Gibson was ushered in at some point – someone clearly had gone to the Lodge to fetch him. This seemed to calm Mr. Lowell, who was by now half awake, but it was clear that he was rather confused and that his injuries were paining him a great deal.

The doctor arrived and quickly went to work while the others looked on. The wound to Mr. Lowell’s head, while bleeding profusely, was pronounced to be not at all serious. Greater attention was paid to the lower left leg, which, during the intervening hours, had begun to swell and mottle over with bruises. Yet even at this, the doctor eventually nodded in satisfaction and pronounced it, “A good clean break. Once it’s set it should heal without too many difficulties.”

The noise of the bone being set was, frankly, horrible. But the sound that the procedure pulled out of Mr. Lowell made Mary want to run out of the room. She settled for biting the inside of her cheek and leaning back against the wall until the sick feeling passed.

After Mr. Lowell had been given a heavy dose of brandy and the leg had been made as immobile as possible, the doctor asked to speak to Mr. Bennet and Gibson out in the hallway. Mary glanced at Mr. Lowell (eyes closed, but body still tense with pain) and quickly made her escape.

“….a few weeks, at least,” the doctor was saying to Mr. Bennet and Gibson. “He most certainly shouldn’t be moved before then. A month or more would be preferable. The longer he can be kept still, the better the bone will heal.”

Mr. Bennet nodded. “He must stay here, of course. Both of you,” he added to Gibson.

Gibson, Mary thought, looked even greyer than Mary remembered.

“I’m grateful to you, sir. It’s a great deal to ask of you.”

“Not at all. It’s not only our duty, but our pleasure,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I’ll have one of the men drive you over to the Lodge and help you pack up whatever you’ll need, and we’ll get a sofa moved into the guest room for you. You’re both welcome here for as long as you need.”

“I’ll come by at the end of the week, but send for me if he seems to worsen,” the doctor said. “Some fever is to be expected, but if he seems to be developing poisoning of the blood…”

Gibson nodded.

“I know what to watch for, sir. I've seen any number of broken bones in my day.”

Mary slipped by the men with the intent to go outside to get some air. And to be alone for a bit.

It had been quite an eventful day. And she would much rather have had Mr. Lowell safely away in London so that she could be annoyed with him in peace.

When he wasn’t attempting to make her examine slithery things with scales, Mary found that it was oddly easy to be in Mr. Lowell’s company.

It was promising to be a mild winter, with the weather producing little more than the occasional bout of chilly rain, so Mr. Lowell could be seen out and about most days with his field book. And Mary somehow found that she agreed to accompany him on many of his excursions, helping him locate some of the interesting, out of the way places. Helping spot animals or interesting plants or identifying trees. Sometimes she brought her own drawing pad along (though she had carefully hidden her half-finished sketch of the trilobite).

That was, in Mary’s opinion, what attributed to the ease. Mr. Lowell’s studies were the focus of the excursions, not the company. Mary never had the uncomfortable feeling that she herself was an insect pinned to a board, which was how she so often felt in social situations.

Which was not to say that Mr. Lowell ignored her. Far from it. In truth, they talked a great deal. About England and America. About the plants and creatures of each land. About any proper topic under the sun, really.

Mr. Lowell especially seemed to enjoy drawing out what he called her ‘ever more interesting notions.’

“So, you’re saying,” he said one day, as he was turning over old logs looking for insects gone to ground, “that one day America could stretch across the entire continent, all the way to the Pacific Ocean?”

Mary was sitting nearby, attempting to capture an artfully broken tree limb with pencil and paper. She made a show of concentrating on a sweeping line, though (as always when the conversation skirted on things she had heard in MIlliways) she was really taking time to carefully choose her words.

Word that were not Texas, New Mexico, and California.

“I think,” she said, “given what one might term an innate aggressiveness in American character, not to mention a belief in the virtue of independence, there will come a time when your government will settle for no less.”

Mr. Lowell grinned and shook his head as he dropped the log back into place. “President Adams should have your optimism.”

Mary sometimes couldn’t quite tell if he poking fun at her or not.

Mr. Bennet would wander out periodically to converse with Mr. Lowell, but he was really the only other member of the Bennet household that paid any interest. Mrs. Bennet was generally busy composing long letters to Jane in London. Lizzie was oddly broody these days. And Lydia and Kitty pronounced the entire thing too dull for consideration.

“Are you off to dig toads out of the mud again?” Lydia was wont to ask whenever she saw Mary putting on her cloak.

On a couple of occasions, Mr. Lowell’s servant, a man named Andrew Gibson, came along. Gibson was an older, grey man. Grey hair, grey eyes, gruff grey voice. He was missing two fingers from his left hand, and Mary gathered that on most days he snoozed by the fire back at the lodge while his employer explored the countryside.

“Gibson’s bones are getting a bit old to be out walking all over, I fear,” Mr. Lowell said one day when the man in question was absent. “He grumbles, though. I think he is still of the opinion that I require supervision at all times.”

“It sounds as though he’s worked for you for a long time.” Mary was settled at the base of a tree with her drawing pad, while Mr. Lowell was a few feet off the ground in a nearby tree, examining an empty bird’s nest.

“He’s been with my family longer than I’ve been alive. He was always there, save the years he was fighting in the Revolution.”

“Is that where he injured his hand?”

“It was.” Mr. Lowell jumped lightly down from the tree. “Well, not so much injury—he lost fingers to frostbite during one of the winters. He was luckier than most, Gibson was.” Mr. Lowell laughed fondly. “Oh, and I grew up on his stories. Do you know, he was at the North Bridge at Concord, right at the beginning of it all. You should hear him tell of it. He said there were dead Redcoats carpeting the ground like they’d fallen from the trees. He said it was a more glorious sight than a New England autumn.”

He seemed not to notice that the look Mary was giving him was distinctly appalled, and he looked rather confused when she found her voice again.

“I hardly think that’s an amusing story, Mr. Lowell,” she said, severely.

He blinked at her in surprise. And a little bit of annoyance.

“Forgive me, Miss Mary, but I don’t think you understand the history. Those soldiers sought to destroy supplies and cow the all the colonists around Boston, in the arrogant certainty that none would dare stand against them. And they were proven wrong.”

“Those soldiers were good Englishmen who were there not to play the villain, but to do their duty by their King and their country.”

“To mindlessly bow to the will of a tyrant, you mean.” Mr. Lowell’s expression had grown uncharacteristically dark. “I’m surprised at you, Miss Mary. I did not think you the sort to be so blinded by loyalty to King and country that you'd find it impossible to concede that England was not perhaps the hero of the piece?”

Mary slapped shut her drawing pad and struggled up out of the grass.

“I think, Mr. Lowell, that you are merely in a temper because I will not blindly acquiesce to your opinion.”

“I do apologize, Miss Mary, if my opinions offend you.” Though to be certain, Mr. Lowell did not sound apologetic at all. “But make no mistake. I am a Patriot and not ashamed of that fact.”

“Well, so long as you can glory in the deaths of good men with no shame, Mr. Lowell, I’ll not go to the trouble to try to change your mind.” Mary reached down and snatched up her reticule. “However, I’ll have to beg you to excuse me. It has come to my mind that there are more pleasant and productive things I should be doing.”

With that, Mary turned on her heel and began to march back to the house. From the sounds of angry footsteps and crunching grass behind her, she could tell that Mr. Lowell must be likewise returning to his own quarters.

Well. He would have been departing soon enough to pass the heart of winter in London, and who knows if he would have ever been coming back? But Mary couldn’t help but feel a little bit of regret under her anger.

It had been nice to have had a friend of sorts while it had lasted.

Mary had learned a great deal about Mr. Thomas Lowell on the afternoon he stayed to tea. She did not set out to. As she had predicted, the majority of the conversation had been between Mr. Bennet and their guest. Mary had simply drunk her tea and added a comment when asked.

She was in no rush to make herself look foolish again.

But one gleans much just by listening. Mary learned that he had been born and lived most of his life in Boston, and his family was apparently upstanding and highly respected. His mother had died some two years past. He had an elder sister named Anne, a younger brother named Alexander, and had had a younger sister by the name of Margaret who had died in childhood.

He was a scholarly sort of man, having graduated from Harvard College in Boston’s neighboring town of Cambridge. He was, as he had mentioned to Mary on the walk to Longbourn, highly interested in studies of the natural world, and hoped to write books of his own on the subject one day.

She learned that he was staying alone at Mr. Seacombe's lodge (Mr. Pickering having removed himself back to London) save for the company of his valet who had traveled with him from Boston. The lodge was pleasant, if a bit dusty from neglect, but they had hired a local farm woman to air out the place and tend to meals, and were generally enjoying the quiet.

Mr. Lowell would periodically direct a question toward Mary, which she would dutifully answer. If he was at all discomfited that her responses tended toward the short and inelegant, he did not show it. After the acquaintances she’d formed in Milliways, Mary had begun to wonder if this sort of self-assurance was simply an American trait.

When Mr. Lowell had to take his leave, Mr. Bennet sent him on his way with the promised books and an invitation to freely explore the meadows and woods of Longbourn.

So, it’s no real surprise to Mary this time when, not long after, she stumbles upon him again.

She’s taken herself for a walk to the west of the house. Goodness, but you go walking a great deal these days, Mrs. Bennet remarked, as Mary put on her cloak. Sensible, though. Winter will be upon us before we know it.

It’s true that, after a long, warm autumn, the air has a bit more of a chill in it today. Mary is quite glad for her warm cloak, and walks at a brisk pace.

She comes upon Mr. Lowell as he is crouched over awkwardly, busily sketching something into a blank book that is balanced upon his knees. Mary squints a bit, looking for the object of his interest, but can see nothing but browning grass, a small fallen limb, a large, flat rock—

Then Mary sees it, and cannot help a fairly undignified squeal of alarm.

Mr. Lowell nearly goes over sideways, catching himself on one hand before he can land in the dirt.

“Miss Mary! You gave me a turn.”

“I gave you a turn?” Mary looks at him indignantly. “What about that?”

A snake of largish size has coiled in on itself slightly at the far edge of the rock. It looks displeased (if a reptile can convey such an expression) but seems in no hurry to take its leave.

“That? That’s harmless. Watch.” Mary muffles another squeal as Mr. Lowell reaches out and deftly picks the snake up. He stands, turning toward Mary. “The cold makes it sluggish, you see. It’ll be taking its leave of the world for the winter very soon." He holds the animal out as one would offer an interesting curio for inspection. "And observe the shape of the pupil and the head. It’s not poisonous. Just a common grass snake, albeit a large one.”

“I can observe quite well from here, Mr. Lowell.” Mary remains firmly planted several paces away. “Why on earth would you wish to draw a snake?”

“Ah, that's the disposition of the natural world, Miss Mary. There's beauty and interest in all things. Even the ones that people might find frightening or ugly or uninteresting. See, now he’s started to warm up.” The snake was coiling itself around Mr. Lowell’s hand. “Off you go there, then.”

Mr. Lowell lays the snake back down by the rock and the animal slithers hastily off into the grass. He picks up his notebook, closing it on the sketch of the snake's head.

He is smiling a bit.

“I would not have thought the young lady who took my cousin to task before the assemblage at Netherfield would be afraid of anything.”

Mary blushes.

“I fear I must disappoint you, Mr. Lowell, as there are any number of things in this world that frighten me. As to the matter of your cousin….I really should extend my apologies.”

But Mr. Lowell just shakes his head.

“There is no need at all. Mr. Pickering is an admirable person in many ways, but he can be a bit too convinced of his own brilliance at times. I dare say you gave him things to think on. You certainly gave me things to occupy my mind.” Mr. Lowell gives her a curious look. “Do you truly believe what you said? That there are other worlds that we might simply walk into?”

Mary hesitates for a long moment, then nods.

“Yes,” she says. “I know that rational thought really does not support such a claim, but I do have conviction in my opinion.”

Not to mention an ever-growing mountain of evidence and experience, but she can’t really say that.

“I would be interested in hearing more of your thoughts on the subject,” Mr. Lowell says. “If you would be amenable.”

Mary experiences a brief, but furious moment of panic. Then she grabs her composure by the ear and pulls it back.

She doesn’t have to make any admissions. Just speak as if in theory.

“Of course, Mr. Lowell. I would be amenable.”

Mr. Lowell smiles.

“Perhaps we can speak on the path to the pond? Your father tells me it’s an excellent place to spot waterfowl.”

“It is.” Mary nods in agreement. “I know the way.”

When Mr. Collins requested a private audience with Lizzie, Mary knew what was in the offing. She also could have told Mr. Collins (had he bothered to ask) that he was wasting his time. Lizzie was never going to agree to marry him.

Mrs. Bennet shooed everyone out of the dining room, though she herself remained posted as close to the closed door as possible, trying to hear what was being said. Mary, for her part, settled a safe distance away on the stairs. Irrational as it was, she would not have put it past the emotional contents of the dining room to explode like a barrel of gunpowder.

Sure enough, in a matter of mere minutes, Lizzie threw open the door of the dining room and practically stormed outside. All of them who had been hovering in the hall, fair jumped. Jane followed Lizzie. Mrs. Bennet, all but hysterical, went racing to Mr. Bennet’s study, demanding that he step in and take control of his household. Lydia and Kitty (giggling with such force that they had to hold each other up) ran to find the best vantage point to watch the rest of the fun.

Mr. Collins remained in the dining room, looking rather like a man who was in shock. And beginning to feel the sting of embarrassment. Mary hovered in the doorway for a moment before taking a step inside, preparing to say…..something. A word of sympathy, perhaps. Or understanding.

She knew what it was like, being the one that no one wanted.

Mr. Collins looked up, directly at Mary. She took a breath to speak, but before she could, Mr. Collins brushed by her without a word or another glance, leaving the house through the kitchen.

Mary was left alone in the dining room, hurt and humiliation settling over her heart as if she’d just been refused herself. For, in a way, she had been.

With no one around to see her lapse in dignity but the servants (who were wisely keeping to the far corners of the house) Mary fled upstairs to her room.

Mrs. Thatcher, the Meryton dressmaker, had gotten rather behind thanks to the extra work created by the Netherfield ball. So it’s only now that the finishing touches are being put on the new dress that Mrs. Bennet had ordered for Mary.

Mary tries it on in the back room while Mrs. Thatcher checks the fitting. It’s a departure from what Mary is used to wearing, that’s for certain – lavender trimmed in dark purple ribbon, sleeves to the elbows. She’s not all that certain she finds it comfortable. Especially when Kitty darts back into the room (for no good reason that Mary can see) looks her sister up and down, and proclaims, “That actually looks pretty,” in a puzzled tone before darting out again to join Mrs. Bennet and the other girls in the main part of the shop.

She feels much more secure when she re-dons her plain grey dress while Mrs. Thatcher wraps up the new one. Mrs. Bennet has some additional purchases to make – ribbon and material and thread. Mary fidgets while her mother spends an inordinate amount of time making her choices. Kitty and Lydia occupy themselves by spying on the regimental officers from the window. Lizzie and Jane take their leave to go call on the Lucases.

At last they are ready to depart. “And now we shall stop in for tea with Mrs. Phillips,” Mrs. Bennet says, gleefully. “She wasn’t well enough to attend the Bingley’s ball, and I simply must tell her all about it. Such an exciting evening.”

Mrs. Bennet is still being rather cool toward Lizzie due to her refusal of Mr. Collins. But she seems to be coping by throwing all the more energy into her hopes for Jane and Mr. Bingley. Almost as if she can make the match occur by sheer force of will alone.

Mary winces, knowing that this can mean nothing but a solid hour of listening to Mrs. Bennet talk of Jane’s inevitable conquest of Mr. Bingley. Her mother frowns at her when Mary pleads a headache, but when Mary offers to take the parcels home so that Mrs. Bennet won’t be burdened with them during her visit, Mrs. Bennet shrugs and allows her to be on her way.

The road back to Longburn is blessedly quiet.

Mary comes around a bend in the road and slows as she sees a strange man standing in the path ahead, where the road forks. His posture conveys frustration and, hat doffed, he is scratching his head in apparent confusion. Mary slows. She would prefer to skirt around him unseen, but the road is wide and open, and such avoidance is unlikely to be possible. She’ll have to make the basic courtesies.

At the sound of her footsteps he turns, and an oddly familiar (and overly wide) smile crosses his countenance.

“Miss Mary.”

Mary stops stock still and looks at her roadblock in dismay.

“Mr…..Lowell?”

Mary had taken a small degree of comfort in the fact, while there was no escaping the local gentry before whom she’d exposed herself at the Netherfield ball, she’d not have to see Mr. Pickering or his American cousin ever again. And now, here was Mr. Lowell standing in the middle of the road as if he had popped from the earth like a mushroom.

“Miss Mary, I am exceptionally pleased to see you. I fear I find myself in need of rescue.”

“Rescue?” Mary has hugged her parcels to her chest, and is regarding Mr. Lowell with something akin to suspicion.

“Yes. I was on my way to your house and, well, I fear the directions I was given failed to take into account any number of irregularities in the route. I wasn’t sure whether to go left or right.”

There’s a clearly implied question, but Mary ignores it in favor of her own curiosity.

“My house? Why would you be going to my house?”

If he considers her query to be rude, he does not show it.

“Yes. You see, the night of the ball at Netherfield, I had the opportunity to converse with your father, and we discovered a mutual appreciation for the study of natural history. He offered me the loan of some of his books. I was on my way to see him.”

“Oh.”

Mr. Bennet had said nothing about speaking with Mr. Lowell. (Of course, Mr. Bennet is not wont to discuss at length the people whose acquaintance he had made, at least not with his daughters.) Mary wonders, uncomfortably, if he had approached Mr. Lowell to apologize for her behavior.

Mary collects herself.

“It’s the left fork that you want,” she says, nodding. “Longbourn is but a short ways ahead.”

“It’s quite fortunate for me that you came along. I was just about to give up and try the right. Heaven knows where I might have wound up. Oh, please, allow me,” he adds, holding out his hands for her parcels.

Mary reluctantly hands them over and falls into step beside Mr. Lowell as they set out down the left fork in the road. Mary misses having something to carry, for occupation, even of such a simple sort, helps to alleviate the discomfort having to walk with someone of such limited acquaintance. It’s not that there’s anything improper in walking with Mr. Lowell – they are outdoors, which is considered to be in public and therefore allowable.

But this means she has to talk to him.

Mary clears her throat, fiddling idly with the edges of her cloak.

“Are you returning to London soon, Mr. Lowell?”

Mr. Lowell gives her a sidelong look and a half smile.

“Soon enough, I fear. But I’ve been working extensively in Town for the last several months, and have reached a point where I feel I may take moments of respite and see a bit more of the country. And pursue other interests simply for the enjoyment of them.”

“Work?” Mary asked. “I thought you were visiting your cousins.”

“A happy benefit to my trip. My primary purpose in coming to London was to establish business contacts for my family. We own a sizable merchant house in Boston, you see. But my mother was born in London. She and Mr. Pickering’s mother were cousins, as close as sisters. Mother’s family moved to the Massachusetts Colony when she was a young girl, and she and her cousin never met again, but she always spoke of her fondly.”

“Oh.” They walk along in silence for a short span before Mary musters her conversational forces again. “Are you staying in Meryton? At the White Bear?”

“No, I’m staying a bit outside of the village, actually. Are you acquainted with a Mr. Robert Seacombe?”

Mary nods. “Yes, he owns a small property adjacent to ours. With a lodge of sorts upon it, I believe. But I don’t believe he’s been there in many years.”

“Yes. He’s quite an aged gentleman, and cannot comfortably travel much, I’m afraid,” Mr. Lowell replies. “I met him in London, and he offered me the use of his place if at any point I wished to escape the City.”

“That was kind of him.”

“Yes.”

“Quite.”

To Mary’s immense relief, they had by now reached the house and the flurry of greetings, handing off the parcels to the servants, and Father’s call for tea (over Mr. Lowell’s half-hearted protests) meant that Mary could step back from being the Bennet family’s social representative.

“And, pray, where is the rest of the household?” Mr. Bennet asks Mary, looking around and seeming to notice the lack of general chaos.

“They stayed in Meryton to pay calls.”

“Ah. Well, then, Mr. Lowell, you’ve chosen a day for a peaceful visit. Mary, you’ll come down and join us?”

“Yes, Father.”

Mary knows that’s not really a request. It's an expectation. But it’s little matter. Father and Mr. Lowell will talk happily about botany and birds and bullfrogs, and Mary will be able to drink her tea with minimal conversational contributions.

She goes upstairs to leave her cloak and bonnet. Bessie has laid the parcel with her new dress out on her bed, and for one mad moment, Mary contemplates putting it on to wear to tea.

What an odd thought. Where had that come from?

Mary shakes her head, smoothes her hair, and dutifully goes downstairs.

It’s impossible to be inconspicuous while practicing a piano.

Ordinarily, Mary is loath to do anything overt that attracts attention to herself. Being the focus of attention tends to make her dreadfully uncomfortable. But the piano is a rare exception. Her mind is on the keys and little else.

She’s gone through her scales, and is now practicing a sonata that has come out of London and become quite popular. It’s a piece of light, quick notes, and (in all honestly) a little bit beyond her abilities. Mary finds herself continually tripping over notes and falling behind the tempo.

After missing the last note of a measure for the third time in a row, Mary stops, purses her lips, and stabs one finger down on the offending key. Just to relieve her feelings.

Longbourn is the same as it ever was. The old house and the busy farmyard. The Hertfordshire countryside, enjoying an unseasonably warm autumn. Her pianoforte in the dining room. Bessie, the maid, singing on the stairs. A proper Church of England Sunday service. Father comfortably ensconced in his study and Mother flitting about.

Only two chattering sisters rather than the usual four at the moment. Jane became indisposed after her rainy ride over to Netherfield Park for dinner, and Lizzie had been quick to go over to nurse her through her cold. But Lydia and Kitty more than make up the deficit.

No rats bearing tea trays. No inhuman beings. No spurts of magic or red skies or vanishing doors. No people who are so very alien in their speech and outlook and actions that she had always felt unsure of her footing.

Mary positively revels in it all. For a few days.

When the odd little itch of discontent first presents itself, she shoves it firmly aside. It’s thoroughly nonsensical. She’d spent weeks longing for this. Home. Normality. Safety.

But even so, Mary recognizes that discontent for what it is, loath as she is to admit to it.

She’s bored.

So very, very bored.

Mary hates to own to such a thing, even if it’s only to herself. Boredom, after all, is largely a personal failing. A well-ordered person would not allow such a state to persist within themselves, but would seek to fill one’s time with any of a number of pursuits that might improve one’s morals or intellect.

And Mary tries. She reads. She writes. She does her mending and needlework. She practices at the pianoforte. When the restlessness becomes overwhelming, she goes walking about Longbourn.

On the day that the Regiment arrives in Meryton, Mary even walks into the village with Mother, Kitty, and Lydia with only a minimum of sighing and dragging her feet. She has no interest in fawning over the officers as Kitty and Lydia do, but it’s a change of scene. Besides, she wasn’t being given a choice. Mother was making her pick fabric for a new dress.

Given that one of Mary’s has mysteriously ‘gone missing’.

“Really, it’s such a peculiar thing,” Mrs. Bennet had said. “A dress simply doesn’t disappear. Oh, I do hope Bessie didn’t damage it in the washing and neglect to tell me. I’ve never known her to be dishonest before, but--”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not it.” It’s not as if Mary could simply say that she had forgotten her dress in her room back at the End of the Universe in her haste to escape, but she would feel terrible if the servants were blamed. “Perhaps it was stolen when it was hanging out on the line. A vagrant passing through could have taken it. Or gypsies. They say there was a caravan passing near Meryton recently.”

“Good heavens.” Mrs. Bennet had clutched at her heart. “Well, we shall simply have to have the men keep a sharp watch out, in that case. They’ll steal the house right out from under us.”

At any rate, Mary finds herself being ushered into the dry goods store in Meryton.

“I don’t supposed I can talk you into something colorful, can I?” Mrs. Bennet sighs, looking her middle daughter up and down. Drab brown dress. Brown cloak. Brown bonnet.

Her sisters would laugh to hear it, but Mary actually puts a great deal of thought into how she dresses. Clothing is a reflection of one’s character, and Mary has worked to present the appearance of a young woman who is serious-minded and sensible, immune to matters as insignificant as fashion. She has always reminded herself, when tempted by frills and finery, that there are much higher things in life.

Besides, drab she might be, but at least drab is different.

Mary can only plead lingering recklessness from a stint at the End of the Universe when this times she answers with, “What were you thinking?”

Mrs. Bennet stares at her for a moment, and then quickly calls for bolts of fabric as if certain that Mary will change her mind at any second.

The negotiations are still lengthy. Mary has to be quite firm in rejecting cream and pale pink and yellow. They settle instead on a muted lavender, and Mary compromises on ribbon trimming when her mother presses for lace. By the time they turn the lot over to the dressmaker to be made up, they can hear the approach of drums and marching feet and the cheers of Meryton’s citizens as people line the streets to cheer the regiment.

Kitty pops her head into the shop. “Oh, Mama, they’re coming! Hurry!”

Mrs. Bennet joins her youngest daughters on the walkway, waving handkerchiefs at the red-coated officers. Mary, for her part, slips away from the cheering throng and strolls the quiet mile back to Longbourn.

When she reaches the front door, she pauses, resting her hand against it, thoughtfully.

It’s not that I want to be trapped again, she thinks. But perhaps if I could come and go? As the others were able to do? I would not be adverse to seeing Milliways again.

Mary holds her breath, and turns the latch.

The ball at Netherfield was the grandest event that Meryton had seen in some time. Certainly the grandest event that Mary Bennet had ever attended. This was a far cry from the public balls at the Assembly Hall.

Walking up the wide steps of Netherfield, Mary felt an unexpected ache of longing for the old Assembly. The public balls might be close and crowded and so loud as to make one’s ears ring, but they had one distinct point in their favor. All that commotion made it very easy to hide. Save for the moments when Father would pry her away from the wall and direct her to be sociable, Mary had always had a fairly easy time fading into the background.

This was much different. The Netherfield ball was elegant society. And the more elegant the society—at least as far as Mary was concerned—the greater the scope for embarrassing herself. People were here to see and be seen. And then to gossip about it for days on end afterward.

Mary followed her family into the entry hall with a positive feeling of dread.

The Bingleys were there, greeting their guests, and the Bennets fell into the loose queue of people who were waiting to present themselves. There were two young men ahead of them, one barrel-chested and fair, the other tall and almost comically lanky with brown hair.

“Mr. Pickering!” Mr. Bingley was saying, shaking the hand of the stout one. “I’m so glad you could come. What brings you so far from London?”

“The same thing as you, Mr. Bingley. Up for the shooting.” Mr. Pickering stepped back and waved his companion forward. “Allow me to present my cousin, Mr. Thomas Lowell of Boston, Massachusetts.”

“Boston? Goodness, you have come a long way,” Mr. Bingley said. “How are you liking England, Mr. Lowell?”

“Very well, Mr. Bingley. My mother’s family has been quite welcoming,” Mr. Lowell replied. “I rather feel the need for a second set of eyes and ears, there’s so much to take in.”

“Well, we’re very happy to have you.”

Mr. Bingley did seem to be a very kind person, Mary conceded. Perhaps he got his sister’s share of kindness in addition to his own.

After the family had presented themselves to the Bingleys (and really, Mary did not envy Jane their mother’s less than subtle attempts to pitch the eldest Bennet daughter directly at Mr. Bingley) the family broke off in various directions. Mr. Bingley drifted off into the crowd with Jane, so perhaps Mrs. Bennet knew what she was about after all. Father and Mother wandered off with Mr. Collins. Lizzie quickly found Charlotte Lucas. Kitty and Lydia scampered off, giggling, no doubt to get their dance cards filled.

That left Mary to her own devices. The pianoforte, which she might have used as a shield of sorts, was occupied. After a few stiff and awkward attempts at making small talk, Mary found a chair blessedly half-hidden by a large potted plant. She sank into it gratefully, twisting her fan in her fingers and trying to loosen her shoulders from their tensed state.

The thing Mary most hated about balls was that, in her opinion, they were dreadful environments for fostering proper conversation. Though the group of people just around the corner seemed to be having no difficulty. In fact, they seemed to be fast warming to a topic.

“You must acknowledge that there can be no room in the rational, intelligent mind for fanciful notions of myths and monsters and other realms.”

It was a pompous voice. A vaguely familiar voice. Mr. Pickering, Mary recalled. Mr. Bingley’s friend up from London.

“You believe in nothing but the evidence of your own eyes, then, Mr. Pickering?” Mary heard Sir William Lucas ask.

“I believe, Sir William, that in the modern world, there can be no room for such base superstition such as one finds in old tales. The idea of worlds and beings beyond the solid, material plane is not only patently ridiculous, it is dangerous. It does nothing but encourage weak minds to revel in their very ignorance.”

Mary got up out of her chair and drifted around the corner to where Mr. Pickering was holding court, some half-dozen people gathered around him.

“Why, for one to claim the existence of other worlds, one might as well take to worshiping oak trees and offering fairies milk in exchange for good luck. No one with a modicum of rational thought could possibly entertain such a notion.”

“Oh, what utter nonsense.”

It wasn’t until everyone turned to look at her that Mary realized that she’d spoken aloud.

Mr. Pickering schooled his face into a look of amusement, but his fair features took on a distinctly red tinge.

“You have a different opinion on the subject, Miss….?”

Sir William bravely leapt into the breech.

“Miss Mary, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Pickering. And his cousin, Mr. Lowell. Mr. Pickering, Miss Mary Bennet.”

Mr. Lowell was standing a bit to the side of his cousin. Seen face on, he seemed to be all overly-wide mouth and sharp blue eyes. Though he and Mr. Pickering looked to be roughly the same age—somewhere in the area of five and twenty—he somehow conveyed the impression of being a good deal younger.

Or perhaps it was that Mr. Pickering was puffed up with the self-importance of one twice his age. And was clearly waiting for a response.

As was everyone else in this particular corner, by the look of it. Mary felt the familiar grip of social paralysis beginning to creep over her, as she always did when made the unwelcome center of attention.

But she had to say something.

“I think, Mr. Pickering, that a rational mind must concede that there are many things about our universe that we have yet to learn.”

“Indeed, Miss Mary?” Mr. Pickering smiled, but it was not at all the expression of interest or amiability. “Surely some additional thought may lead you to the conclusion that we have learned nothing on certain subjects because there is nothing, in fact, to learn.”

“Not at all.” Mary was vaguely aware that a few more people had drifted over to listen to the debate, but oddly the stiff feeling that would ordinarily have tied her tongue seemed to be easing rather than tightening. “It is just as likely that nothing has been learned on such subjects because academic small-mindedness prevents people from learning lessons that are right under their noses.”

“And are you, by chance, privy to lessons on the nature of the universe that the greatest minds of the modern age have yet to contemplate?”

She wanted to quail. What could she say, after all? A young woman with no real education to speak of.

Except that was not exactly true anymore. Not in this case, at any rate.

What do I know of other worlds? I’ve met people from places and times not yet thought of. I’ve tended a bar that can conjure its wares from the very ether. I’ve matched wits with a fairy king and ridden in a metal contraption that can travel faster than the fastest horse there is. I’ve eaten breakfast while looking out over the view of the End of the Universe. And you, Mr. Pickering, do not scare me.

“I think, Mr. Pickering, that you are rather quick to assume that your ideas and those of the greatest minds of our age are one and the same.” Mr. Pickering’s face went excessively red at this. “I put it to you, Mr. Pickering, that one day you may walk through a door. An ordinary door, one that you may have walked through hundreds of times before. Only you’ll find something much different on the other side. All those worlds and beings that you assert cannot possibly exist, you’ll find them there, as real as I am. And what will your rational mind do then? You may find that the true measure of intelligence, Mr. Pickering, is in accepting the possibility of things that may be rather than dismissing them because of the limitations of your own understanding.”

They’d drawn quite the crowd, by then, Mary noticed. Sir William looked a bit helpless. Passing by in the background she saw that Mr. Darcy, the Bingleys’ friend. There was…..oh, goodness, there was Father, looking at her as if he wasn’t quite sure who she was. The gathering had easily quadrupled in size.

But it wasn’t until her eyes passed over Mr. Lowell, of all people, that her composure came undone a bit.

Standing just out of his cousin’s line of sight, he was smiling. At her. Not Mr. Pickering’s oily, unpleasant smile. More like someone who was watching an unexpectedly entertaining pantomime and was eager to see what would happen next.

Mary felt blood creep up into her cheeks.

“But,” she added, quickly, “I fear I’ve monopolized enough of the conversation. I should see to my sisters. Excuse me.”

Mary beat a retreat through the crowd, attempting to walk in a dignified manner, but still managing to jostle into a few people in her haste.

Her father found her out on the balcony some minutes later. Nary a sister in sight.

“Mary?” He was still eying her as if not quite certain of her identity. “Child, what in the world possessed you back there?”

He didn’t seem angry. But it was so hard to tell what Father was thinking most of the time.

Mary shifted awkwardly, pulling idly at one finger of her gloves. “I’m sorry, Father. I just….he said….that is….”

“Pardon me. Miss Mary?”

Mr. Bennet looked around with a frown at the tall figure that had appeared just behind him.

Mr. Lowell smiled, apologetically this time.

“I’m interrupting. Forgive me. I just wanted to return this.” He held out a folded fan, the one Mary hadn’t even noticed she was missing. “You dropped it as you were leaving.”

“Oh.” Mary blinked at it dumbly for a moment before accepting it. “Thank you, Mr. Lowell.”

His smile widened somewhat, and good heavens it really did seem to take up half his face. It was a little disconcerting.

“You wouldn’t want to be caught without that. My sister assures me that a young lady might as well be mute at a ball if she didn’t have her fan. Though I think you’d be less handicapped than most, if you don’t mind me saying.”

The anxious, discomfited feeling (the one that usually causes her to speak without thinking) had by now come back in full force.

“A fan is really only useful, Mr. Lowell, for a lady who is interested in flirtations. I find such games both ineffectual and a waste of time, but I do thank you for your trouble.”

“That’s indeed a pity, Miss Mary.” Still smiling a bit, Mr. Lowell bowed. “Good evening.” And then he disappeared back into the crowd.

Mary stared after him. “What in the world did he mean by that?”

Mr. Bennet groaned.

“Mary. What are we ever going to do with you?”

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Miss Mary Bennet

July 2012

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Wallflower In An English Garden

Recent Entries

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Swim Suit

A Visit In March

An Unusual Fare-the-Well

Christmas Eve - 1797

EP: December 23, 1797

No Romantic Nonsense

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A Break In Routine

Diplomatic Relations (Or Lack Thereof)

Observations

In Which Lizzie Will Not Have Mr. Colllins

A Chance Meeting

Slightly Future EP (Piano)

Of Officers And Dresses And An Unexpected Wish

The Netherfield Ball

Happy Halloween

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July 2012

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