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There is a certain pity reserved for girls who do not realize their own plainness. For girls who do not realize that they are not bright or intelligent. In the kindest of people, this ignorance elicits a sad affection along with the habit of humoring the young woman so as to not offend her delicate feelings. She is held in anticipatory dread, trepidation for in what way she may paint herself a fool at the season's next ball. It makes a conscience feel quite heavy, really. To turn one’s cheek at behavior so subtly distasteful. At least she is not a flirt, at least she does shriek with laughter piercing enough to assault the entire hall, at least she attempts to imitate class. Her only true fault is an eagerness to please and a perpetual inability to be pleasant.

A lady’s pervading plainness can be tolerated. If she is modest or if she is kind or if she is merry with gaiety. Outstanding beauty or wit are not required in a wife by the lesser and majority of men. So as to why Mary Bennet has not yet found a husband must only be blamed on the excessive seriousness by which she regards herself. It may be worth some consideration that particular men, those who are feeble-minded and typically quite young, feel an intimidation mistaken for discomfort in the brief introductions solicited out of the last Bennet sister. For the few that are convinced by her demeanor of a superior mind, are men simple-minded enough to reverie her as too solemn to be their wife. The men who understand that she is only a little more than a pedantically self-educated young lady, nod dismissively at her grave countenance as she plays the pianoforte with adept technical skill and muted feeling.

This is the somber portrait painted of the remaining Bennet girl. These are the very reasons that even the determined and presumptuous Mrs. Bennet has been lulled into an absurd acceptance of the likely reality of her last daughter becoming a governess. Mrs. Bennet refused to hear a word of such a suggestion only a year prior. Her Elizabeth and Jane’s weddings had been such a lively time, such successful matches. With Kitty stealing away to Pemberley or Haynes House, Mrs. Bennet had been put quite at her leisure with her middlest daughter. Mary had often felt like she had become an accessory of a person. Marched down the length of balls, her mother’s elbow fastened with her own. For a time she struck quite an interest and a more than acceptable number of suitors had considered her appeal. Her mother determined to parade her around as though this was her first year out in society. And for the briefest of moments Mary found pleasure in the display. Perhaps a little foolishly she felt that with all of her sister’s gone she may find herself the recipient of more affection.

However such a lack of self awareness can only be maintained very successfully in the height of one’s youth and insecurity. At the age of one and twenty and inhabited by a humiliated kind of maturity, Mary had dispensed her conjured ideals with little procession or disappointment. While Mrs. Bennet had been absolute in her matchmaking concerning Mary, her daughter quickly realized that her mother knew not a component of who she was.

Say a gentlemen’s introductions had been respectably made, Mrs. Bennet seemed to lose all composure, a regressing excitement to introduce her last daughter by the virtue of her eldest sisters.

“Oh! You must of heard of the match of Mrs. Bingley! If not, of course you have heard of Mrs. Darcy’s?” She would start, “Yes, yes, both were once Bennet’s! Both have made exceptional wives. I have no doubt as their mother.”

Other than her name, the introduction of Mary was almost implicit. Her sister’s were clearly of enough worth to capture the affection of such wealthy and important men, she certainly possessed the same qualities. This was the only rationale of the matron of Longbourn as she knew little else of Mary to offer anything more.

Mr. Bennet paid as little mind to her as before, if possible even less, now that he had the option of visiting Pemberley. Due to Mr. Bennet's absence Mary had been granted more liberty in her readings. Taking residence in her Father’s study in a way she had always yearned. Mr. Bennet had never once been opposed to his middle child’s attempt to further her education, yet, there was always a certain amusement at her initiative to do so. An amusement that Mary took as mocking. Rather than provide texts willingly as he always had done for Lizzy, entertaining her presence in his study for hours upon end, Mary was met with doubt. As though any effort she may make was to be fruitless. At the age of two -and-ten, Mary believed it was because she had not yet proved how exemplary she could be. So she practiced tirelessly for the ideal of being seen as accomplished. At the age of six-and-ten it was because Mr. Bennet could not appreciate the level of Mary’s accomplishment due to some deficiency of his own. At the age of eight-and-ten, Mary had the quiet realization that the reason was actually quite simple, Mr Bennet likely did not love her half as much as he did Lizzy. She had always known she was scarcely her mothers favorite and had convinced herself early on that she did not want to be. Her mothers affection was too silly to be coveted anyhow. Her father was different, he was a gentleman, an academic. His inattention hurt more than she imagined his rejection would.

But Mary Bennet was not in the habit of feeling sorry for herself. Not when she was three years old following her two eldest sisters around, trailing just a moment behind. Or when she was five and Kitty abandoned her station beside Mary readily to watch a baby babble unmoving in her bassinet with more interest than she had ever granted a sermon. It was none of Mary’s concern the way in which her sister’s conducted themselves. She had decided by the age of ten-and-two that she was perfectly content in her solitude, perfectly sufficient in her own competence. She had no time for things so silly as sisterly affection, Mary had serious and important means by which she fulfilled her time, another person to concern herself with would only inhibit that.

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Kitty had remained in Longbourn for the summer after returning from Hayne’s House. It was a moderate summer, with a constant warmth and a sun who seemed wary of imposing. She had left Longbourn rather immediately after the weddings to take up residence in Pemberley upon the invitation of Elizabeth and later with Jane. Mary, of course, had been extended an invitation, which she mildly declined. A decision she had grown to regret, soon after the novelty of her mother’s attention wore off. Very quickly Mary had sequestered herself once again to the comfort of the music room. Companion only to her worn pianoforte. With a new proclivity for long winding walks in escape.

Mary and Kitty did not dare feign any particular closeness. Though, much of the exasperation and irritation that held them divided was lulled by the necessity of their cooperation. Kitty was another vessel in which Mrs Bennet could pour all of her attention, a more promising one at that. While the remaining sisters still lacked the familiarity of family they had reached a common understanding, thus producing their alliance. With the favourites of both of their parents absent, they worked in tandem to shoulder the burden. Kitty remained determined to enlighten her mother’s spirits with frivolity, while Mary offered sufficient albeit amusing intellectual stimulation for her father.

It was a peaceable summer that passed in a series of notable events and instances.

Kitty was not in the habit of being alone. She had never been privy to long bouts of contemplation provoked by the depth of a sermon or the substance of a passage. Had never acquired the habit of journeying walks to relish the scenery of especially tall trees or winding paths. She had never walked the town without Lydia at her hip, gasping and tittering at the fine line of soldiers as they shuffled past. That tittering was almost haunting now. The lightness of it all entirely unfamiliar. But still, solitude had not yet become commonplace.

Beyond the balls and pressing social callings, at Pemberley she held constantly the company of Miss Georgiana Darcy, a girl about her own age. Bright eyed and earnest, with a timidness that Kitty had felt was an injustice to the elegance of her subtle finery. At Haynes House, Kitty had taken happily the role of doting aunt, to her cherub-faced nephew, only an infant but just as demanding as any other gentleman. She sat daily for tea with Miss Bingley, an intimidating woman who was of a class that Kitty had never witnessed so directly.

At Longbourn she had only Mary. Not something of which she had any real sizable issue with, apart from that old discomforting sense of disconnect. So when Mary had approached her- face passive and fist clenched as if bracing for a strike on the cheek- and asked if she felt any inclination to accompany her on a brief stroll, Kitty had conceded quite readily out of habit for company.

They walked silently down the dirt paths that led to the centre of town. Kitty hummed the quiet tune she had spent half the day passively listening to Mary practice through the walls of Longbourn.

“What do you think?” Mary inquired, she felt it only right to be sociable, considering it was she who had extended the invitation for a stroll.

Kitty’s eyes widened slightly, wincing as she replied, “I cannot pretend to know what it is you may be referring to.” She averted her eyes a little shamefully. She had never followed with confidence the snide remarks of her father nor the quick wit of Lizzy. Worse even, were the concise interjecting comments of Mary. Which never failed to remind Kitty where she lacked in piety and philosophy,

Yet, it was Mary who wore the telling blush of embarrassment on her pale cheeks. How unpracticed she must have appeared. How inept in fundamental conversation. “Ah- Of course not. Please disregard my inconsideration. What do you think of the song- the one you were humming?”

“Well, it was quite sad. At least that is what I think.” Her eyes flit hesitantly to her older sister’s face. Taking in Mary’s reaction, Kitty hoped desperately that she was right. She smiled prettily, maybe then, even if she was wrong, Mary would have the decency to withhold her scoff.

But Mary simply smiled back, a good humour in her eyes that her countenance seemed unaccustomed to. “You think right, it is a somber sort of melody- to match our circumstance I suppose.” she paused, then continued abruptly, “And think me no ingrate, I jest to say-”

Kitty giggled in her hand, interrupting “I know, Mary. There is no ingratitude if you are only speaking truth.” In an unconscious movement she linked their arms together, swaying gently. “Here we stand, two young women, not just simply unattached, but uncourted.”

“Who, beyond futile marriage prospects work rather tirelessly to regulate the happiness of their parents,” Mary huffed a laugh as Kitty held a scandalized gasp in her fist.

“My dear sister, who taught you to speak so ill.” Kitty responded, with an ease induced by Mary’s newfound informality.

“Perhaps, I always have. Though who would have known it?” It was a dismal and self-effacing sort of reply. The kind of which is wrought from years of seclusion. From isolation that was self-induced to compensate for one’s inherent unpopularity.

While Kitty could feel Mary's dismissive posture as they leaned against each other, a frown still marred her pretty face. Kitty had never thought too much in regard to Mary's contentment. Mary had always appeared perfectly satisfied being a singular figure in their family of pairs. Too busy with her own ongoings of self betterment to be impeded upon by Kitty’s own silliness. To hear a statement so contrary to the perception she had maintained of Mary for the bulk of her life was disconcerting to the frailty of her senses.

“Mary, I should like to choose a few ribbons for you at the shop. You must allow me. I shall spend my own pin money if you do not. I know just the green to compliment your complexion.” She was rambling, yes, exasperating her fatuity. The attribute most victim to Mary’s previous judgment. But more than her desire to be refined and demure was an overwhelming urge to befriend her own sister.

Mary’s step faltered at Kitty’s sudden proclamation. A foreign warmth spread languidly within her chest and under her skin. A peculiar urgency pressed behind her eyes, and she thought fretfully that she may cry. “Very well, though you must allow me to extract your thoughts on a sermon I read this morning upon our return home…”

The summer proceeded in small instances such as these. An amalgamation of moments turned memories, that suggested to any passersby an intimacy and attachment common of sisters. By the end of the summer, it was scarcely remembered by any, including the pair involved, the stilted chagrin that defined the majority of their kinship. While what they were not, was the closest and dearest of friends, their budding camaraderie was more sisterhood than Mary had ever been granted access to. An access to which, softened the solemnity that existed in her to rationalize her exclusion, and pacified the sententiousness that served only to soothe the ache of her solitude.

Chapter Text

Contrary to Mary’s expectation, neither Elizabeth nor Jane extended any invitations as fall began to blow through Hertfordshire. Elizabeth had written her intention to visit instead, as Mr. Darcy had been required to make a brief trip to Meryton on some business his wife's letter delved little into. Jane had sent ceaseless apologies and promises to host both of Longbourn's remaining young occupants toward the end of January when Parliament returned to London and the Season began.

It was a weary October evening, an uninviting chill running through the air when Mrs. Bennet had burst through the doors of Mary’s bedchamber. She grabbed Kitty from her position at the foot of the bed causing her to drop her embroidery, her needle glinting as it fell callously aside.

“Mary! Put your hair up this instant, your sister has arrived- Oh!” She let out an exasperated huff, “Mr. Darcy is with her, naturally of course. You must make haste. Dinner will not be ready for half an hour more. Play a song, play cards, come now, be lively!”

Mrs. Bennet dragged Kitty out of the room in a flurry, the latter’s yelp barely heard over their rapid descent. Mary only stood from her seat, awfully disconcerted. She had just been in the midst of reading one of Fordyce’s sermons aloud.

It felt as though such a long time had passed since the Bennet house was thrown into such a commotion upon a guest's arrival. Considering the paucity of suitors for both Mary and Kitty, Mrs Bennet had very little to exclaim over.

Without hurry Mary began to draw her hair into a low bun. Kitty had informed her, not unkindly- not anymore, that that the hairstyle was too severe, entirely unflattering and unfashionable. If she were to speak plainly, she would have told Mary she was dressing the part of spinster as though she had already deigned to become one.

Kitty had endeavoured to teach Mary a few styles in which she may attempt to pin up her hair, simple enough but more befitting of a young lady. Unfortunately, Mary had no innate skill for hair pinning and no proper practice. As she deemed from a young age to disregard any temptation to vanity, pursuing dignity with so little guidance, she remained ensnared for a perdurable time by pompousness. Meaning, therefore, the present version of Mary at one-and-twenty had no option better than to wind her hair tightly at the nape of her neck and scuttle promptly down the stairs.

“Mary, It is good to see you!” Elizabeth spoke first upon Mary’s entrance into the parlour. She wore an ivory dress made of muslin, her freckles wrinkled at the tip of her nose as she smiled brightly. If hair direly done, and grey dresses grievously fashioned correlated as directly to the virtue of modesty, as a younger Mary had once so adamantly believed, Elizabeth should be the most improper woman in all of England.

Mary embraced her in welcome, a vaguely awkward movement, as she was still unused to how one should go about being forthcoming. Something of which she aimed to do, to compensate for the years she resolved to only nod in acknowledgment and stand haughtily aside. Elizabeth only raised an eyebrow slightly at this, reappraising Mary, not unkindly but with a wary curiosity as she withdrew from the embrace. From behind his wife, Mr. Darcy smiled placidly in greeting.

“Hello, Mr Darcy,” Mary curtsied, though not thoroughly, not quite certain the extent of familiarity by which she should address her brother-in-law. He was family yes, but an aristocrat still.

It was then, as she stood considering, that Mr Darcy directed her attention to a figure she had only faintly processed amidst her entering and reception. A young man rose hurriedly from his seat located in the further most corner of the parlour. Kitty, who was sat closest to him, jumped slightly at his abruptness. He raised a hand placatingly in a movement that should have imparted some sense of condescension. And yet, Mary couldn’t misinterpret the movement as so, for the timorous bend of his long limb suggested an inherently overwrought disposition, that could wield no true imperiousness.

“Mary, this is Mr. Seton.” The man in introduction faltered forward and offered a smile. Which to Mary, despite her pervading ineptitude regarding the nature of amiability, found his barring of teeth more akin to a grimace than anything. To whom it was directed she was not entirely certain. Though she sensed it had more to do with the circumstance rather than those involved. Mr. Seton was exceptionally tall. Taller- though not considerably- than Mr. Darcy, who, before this introduction, was the tallest gentleman in Mary’s acquaintance. However, he was noticeably thin for a man of such forbidding height, and had a meager quality to his posture where any intimidation he may have possessed was lost.

“I am glad to finally make your acquaintance Miss Bennet.” He smiled again, and this time his cheeks dimpled faintly. A picture almost miraculous considering the hollow substance of his complexion.

Mary raised a brow archly, for no reason beyond her propensity to assume impropriety in the intention of all. She blinked harder than would appear pleasant as if to dismiss the thought. It was one thing to, at last, ascertain the fault present in oneself. Yet, another thing entirely to remedy these failings. Not dissimilar to the biblical teaching that faith without action is dead, Mary thought, in lieu of responding. Introspection is nought unaccompanied by the initiative for growth and furtherance, she concluded silently.

Reprimanding her features, Mary smiled in what she hoped was at least not unkind, “the sentiment is shared Mr. Seton.” Though not entirely, Mary’s thoughts removed themselves once more. Considering she had not anticipated meeting him at all, she could not have possibly been in accord with his application of the word finally. Mary winced inwardly.

“Mr. Seton is employed as Pemberley's accountant, Mary. A new term of occupation I suppose. As to simply entitle him a steward would be unfit.” Elizabeth hummed.

“By what parameters-“ a distant clamour from the vague direction of the kitchen and the brusque entrance of a servant dissolved Mary’s query. She emitted a small sigh of, perhaps relief, though she could not quite place it, and addressed the servant’s summon. As the party was escorted from the parlour Mary turned impetuously to grasp at Kitty’s arm. But was all but confronted with the proffered arm of Mr. Seton. Kitty and Elizabeth already fixed to either side of Mr. Darcy.

“Thank you sir,” Mary replied with more grace than she could confidently surmise she possessed as she accepted his arm. “I should like to hear more concerning the particulars of your position at Pemberly.”

“Very well, you shall if you wish. Though your sister allows the impression that I undertake more principle work than in actuality.”

“May you consider me presumptuous sir, but you must not maintain the pretense of false modesty. There is little use for it in productive conversation.” Mary did not expound that she herself was the object of proof by which she reached this conjecture. And pressed her lips together in only slight remorse.

There was a pause of no-response, when Mary discerned what felt to be Mr. Seton trembling. She refrained from pausing her careful gait due to her own consternation. Was he so vexed by her that he should shake in high dudgeon? Mary knew now the discomfiting effect of her bluestocking tendencies, but that was not anything a gentleman would be susceptible to throw a fit over. Was he silently weeping perhaps? What a pathetic creature Mr. Seton would make himself out to be if so.

It was thought enough to make Mary incline her head and look up boldly, with less reserve of judgment than righteous, into Mr Seton’s countenance. The trembling only increased at that and Mary’s narrowed eyes finally met the mirthful gaze of the questionable man. He was chucking, no laughing outright- yet without sound?

“Miss Bennet-“ He attempted to respond, then tried once more, looking down with an inoffensive wince. “Miss Bennet, I should like very much to make friends with you. A companion of sorts- I am in need of candid familiar. I will speak frankly to you, as you will do to me. And we shall suit each other's purposes well.”

Mary had no ability to process nor question what purposes he may have been referring to. Still dismayed- possibly affronted by the expeditious change in formality. Yet, despite the peril of being uncouth she found herself stating, a tentative smirk on her lips, “You laugh entirely silently.”

“Among my many oddities, of which I hope you will come to learn.” Mr. Seton looked sheepish, that same expectancy from the beginning of their introduction arising again. And Mary thought once again of his use of the word finally.

She decided she would ask him plainly about it in due time. As of then, Mary only hummed indifferently and allowed Mr. Seton to lead her to the drawing room.

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Play a song, play cards, be lively. Of the three options Mrs. Bennet had provided, a tedious tune on the pianoforte provided by Mary seemed the most presumable. Yet, oddly enough, Mary had never felt more disinclined to exhibit her playing than the very moment they had entered the drawing room. 

All but Mr. Seton had situated themselves expectantly, accustomed to the unsolicited performances of the one and only Mary Bennet. It was not as though she was especially poor at playing, quite the contrary truly. Her technical ability was more than proficient. It was simply that each piece was drawn out excessively so, as though her only purpose for playing was to prove how exemplary she was at doing so. 

The display unfolding before Mary discomposed her somewhat. Her sisters sat waiting, Kitty had an unthinking look about her and Elizabeth had an obligatory politeness to her expression. Mr. Darcy appeared as stern as ever yet, his thumb ran thoughtlessly across the back of his wife’s hand which he clasped in both of his. Mr. Seton, however, watched her with something that appeared to be of earnest interest, that felt to Mary, for no discernable reason, comparable to ridicule. 

It was this feeling that led her to reach past her instrument and to the shelf behind it, grabbing stiffly a deck of cards. “Shall we play a quick game, perhaps.. ?” Mary tapped the deck against her palm in emphasis. She hardly ever played cards, and had once considered it a fool’s pastime. “We have about a quarter of an hour before we may expect dinner.”

Elizabeth let out an impertinent bark of laughter and extended her hand to retrieve the cards from Mary, then handed them promptly to Mr. Seton to be dealt. “I suppose a brief game can be managed.”

 Mr. Seton began to arrange the cards across the table. Mary watched unspeaking as small pleasant talk filtered between the rest of the room's occupants. Mr. Seton’s long fingers moved with practiced deftness, yet had an urgency that suggested an undercurrent of fretfulness. His hair was short, shorter than what could be considered fashionable, though who was Mary to say. It was a mild kind of brown, unobtrusive and loosely curled, forming weary crescents courtesy of the length. 

Kitty had just finished winsomely relating the great fun she had at Pemberly, despite only arriving nearing the Season’s end. And how dearly she wished to see Georgiana again- still she could not look Mr. Darcy directly in the eyes as she spoke, still overawed by his presence. She looked discreetly to Mary, who still watched intently the sharp profile of Mr. Seton. A perfectly insouciant cast upon her face, yet a point of interest to Kitty nonetheless. 

“Lizzy, my dear sister,” Kitty’s eyelashes fluttered, as she placed down a card, “If you find yourself returned to Pemberly by the beginning of the new Season, I ask- no beg of you, to take Mary and I along. I dare say Mary may love Miss Georgiana more than I and-“ her eyes flit nervously to Mr. Darcy before continuing, “there are nary any gentlem-“ 

“Kitty!” Mary interrupted aghast and she hardly thought she was being blue-nosed. She felt heat creep up her neck as she stole a quick glance at Mr. Seton who appeared particularly engrossed in his hand of playing cards. “If we may impose upon your generosity Lizzy, trust that I will not refuse an invitation to London a second time. However, I think it fit to inquire, before planning months ahead, the specifics of your business here in Longbourn. Be it that it may prevent any further plans that Kitty and I may manage to conjure.” Mary finished pointedly. To which Kitty sniffed delicately.

Elizabeth smiled taking her turn, that usual amusement of hers subsuming her features. “The specifics are this, Mr. Darcy has a number of meetings to attend with a many some merchants, vendors and lawyers in and about Meryton. As one who manages property is oftentimes in need to do. While such business does not require completion in Meryton we reside here on the basis of dual purpose.”  She gestured vaguely to Mr. Seton, “as I failed to explain earlier, Mr. Seton is our accountant.” Elizabeth looked to her husband encouragingly and nodded.

“A hired mathematician, more or less, responsible for all matters of record keeping, bookkeeping and fiscal responsibilities. Mr. Seton calculates the preponderance of expenses and profits by which I manage my estate.” Mr. Darcy confirmed nodding, one eye assessing the beginning of the game. 

“I initially intended to study law, as all scholarly men of recent times are wont to do,” Mr Seton mouth downturned gently, “but I have always had more interest in numeracy than parliamentary ethics. And I do not have the proper composition to be a lawyer by any means.” Despite his relative stillness, Mr. Seton still did not look to be completely at ease, he radiated a restlessness that prodded increasingly at Mary. “As for my dual purpose. Other than accompanying Darcy to oversee expenditures I am here to provide service to Mr. Bennet.” 

“A grand plan of mine of which I insisted for papa to allow happen,” Elizabeth continued. 

“Ah,” Mary responded with character insufficiency. It was like pressing on an old bruise, Mary thought as she watched the gleam of fondness alight Elizabeth’s eyes. 

Elizabeth continued animatedly with all the wit and good humour and charm that made her the most fortunate creature in all of London and Mary a wretched, wretched thing. Elizabeth had conspired to purchase dozens of tomes for their father, the kind of which she had known him to favour during his stays at Pemberley. As well as a handful of recommendations she was exceptionally confident in him taking to. It was a wholesome scheme, filled evidently with affection from a beloved daughter to her doting father. 

“What of Mr. Seton’s service?” Mary asked to deviate the discussion's from good paternal standing, to a topic that did not weigh dully in her chest. She was hardly conversational, even less regarding topics she was not well versed in. 

“According to the information I was given, I am to remove any books no longer suited to Mr. Bennet’s interests, to make room for Mrs. Darcy’s gift. As well as, reorganize and create a corresponding ledger.” Mr. Seton explained. 

Mary whipped her head in a tight movement to the man whom she did not address, and coloured slightly at her tactlessness. “You appear impossibly engaged the duration of your visit Mr. Seton. I cannot begin to foresee where you shall find time for friendship.”

In the periphery of her vision Mary saw Elizabeth tilt her head, to her right she watched Kitty purse her lips in question. Mary determined to keep her eyes trained on those of Mr. Seton. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in what she could only hope was a dignified manner. His eyes, as she had yet to think about them too hard, were brown. The kind of which that looked to be the aftermath of fire, a burnt frenzied shade that was vastly dark, yet very decidedly brown- not merely black. Contained by thin wired ocular frames that seemed woefully inadequate at doing so.

“See Miss Bennet, this is where I am granted the honour of correcting you. According to your sister you are of the scholarly sort, inordinately well-read, though I may have guessed it.” He tapped lightly to the frames of his own spectacles, indicating to hers, “I was assured you would be up for the task and I have no doubt in your competence. For which, I must request your assistance in attending to your father’s library.”

Mary was almost certain she was being mocked. Elizabeth, all cleverness and humour, had told Mr. Seton that she should qualify as proper help. Once, Mary would have had very little uncertainty regarding her own accomplishment; now however, she could not imagine her ability being recognized apart from her desperate conceit that far out paced it, the entirety of her adolescence. Growing up Elizabeth and Jane were solely invested in each other. The arrival of Mary Bennet was an imbalance that persisted all the same with Kitty and Lydia. Meaning therefore, Mary could not be too harsh against her instinct that Elizabeth was teasing her. 

Mary’s second issue, simply by extension, was Mr. Seton himself, a man whom Mary was beginning to think of as increasingly strange and anomalous. Whose vague expectations of her character had probably likened her more to a concept than person in his mind. So while the idea of organizing and cataloging an entire study was enthralling to Mary. Entirely new (yet somehow familiar) work that she may absorb herself wholly in. And despite knowing full well the absolute delight she would have in effectuating such a literary and productive effort, Mary hesitated. 

“I shall have to think on it.” Mary replied too quietly, fearful of sounding contemptuous.  

Elizabeth leaned forward, perhaps to argue, or perhaps to question Mary on the increasingly apparent alteration in her temperament and character. This would remain unknown for the time being, however, as Mr Seton spoke first, 

“I do not wish to pressure nor coerce you Miss Bennet.” He bent his head, yet his eyes did not leave hers, “though I will not pretend that I do not hope for you to join me.” 

It was the cadence, the intonation of his words that only perturbed Mary further. She had not taken his proposal of friendship very seriously, but the implication behind his present response seemed to authenticate his previous sentiment. 

“And you will enjoy it, Mary, I am quite certain of it. So was papa when I suggested your part in all of this. He trusts you, as I do, to make good of his collection.” Elizabeth added with a singular divot between her brows, studying Mary. “Of course if you do not wish it..”

The middlest Bennet allowed her older sister to trail off in question. As she occupied herself with quieting her quickening exhalations and blinking the emotion from her face. Horrified, Mary thought her lip may tremble, and bit it as if in contemplation. Clasping her hands in front of her, she spoke diffidently in a tone thinly veiled by hubris,  “I concede I shall assist,” clearing her throat, Mary turned from Elizabeth and faced Mr. Seton. More certain that his visage would provoke her less tumultuously than her sisters. “When do we begin?” 

Mr. Seton shifted his weight slightly on his seat, that constant thrum of disquiet he had entered with and maintained dissipating so suddenly that Mary was almost induced to comment upon it. “Tomorrow,” he stated succinctly, finding her gaze again, "and we will rejoin once a week following the morrow, if that should work for you Miss Bennet.” 

More particulars were discussed henceforth. The Darcy’s and Mr. Seton were to take residence in a townhouse in Meryton. For a little more than two months, or whatever the duration necessary to conclude business. Afterwards, if they still wished it, Mary and Kitty were to accompany the party to London for the upcoming Season. The plan was simple, yet it stirred an excitement in Mary that she was largely unfamiliar with. It was an arrangement in which she was wholly included and accounted for. A giddy feeling whispered through her veins at the prospect of the many things she may be welcome to in the upcoming weeks, and she could not even shame herself into feeling silly for it. 

The game of cards concluded, majorly unnoticed by Mary. Whatever strategy she may have played was subconscious, of which the results reflected. Mr. Darcy, the member least engaged in conversation, ultimately reigned winner. Within that correlation, there must be something symbolic, though Mary had not time enough to conceptualize what, before Mrs. Bennet tottered in, servant at her heel and announced dinner was ready at last. 

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Dinner, the evening previous passed more amicably than Mary had anticipated. Mrs. Bennet was addled into an amiable stupor by the proximity of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bennet had been more than affable due to the presence of his dearest daughter. There had been pleasant talk amongst the three present sisters. During which Mary acted in scenes of sisterly affection she had only ever been audience to. Even to herself, Mary was very apparently an amateur regarding how one is meant to operate amongst such bosom relations.

Mr. Seton had sat quietly, politely reserved. Smiled when appropriate and spoke when spoken to. To Mary, the most curious thing was the way he had laughed, loudly yet courteously, and eminently practiced. Much like for the majority of their brief acquaintance he appeared tense, considerably restless, seeming to move fretfully while sitting perfectly composed. Mary still was not quite sure how he managed it as she entered her father’s study the following afternoon.

She strode to the center of the room where Mr. Seton was kneeling and had begun to disencumber one of the crates delivered that morning. “A few dozen tomes,” Mary’s eyes outlined warily the two large crates, still unopened, “is that what Lizzy had professed?”

Mr. Seton flattened his palms against the opened crate as if to collect himself, “I cannot pretend any further that I had no ulterior motive in my adamance that you join me Miss Bennet.” He sighed as he straightened himself and gestured haplessly at the crates.

“You truly cannot sir, though it was unkind of you to compel a lady into manual labour by pretense of friendship.” Mary nodded upwards to find Mr. Seton already peering down at her, a half-smile dimpled his right cheek. She placed a firm hand to her hip, the coarse fabric of her drab dress rumpled beneath her grasp. An indignant look narrowed her eyes, challenging.

Mr Seton allowed his shoulders to drop in a dramatic display. His arm, slightly oscillating at the movement, brushed gently against Mary’s. Suddenly aware of their censurable proximity, Mary took a decorous step back, her heel clipping the floor tellingly as Mr Seton replied. “Do not think so lowly of me, I have not been so treacherous thus far.”

Mary bent down and picked up a stack of books with exaggerated effort. “Have you not?” She let out a puff of air, arduous enough to fog her glasses.

Ambling lightly towards her, Mr. Seton seized the stack from Mary with an ease that only affected to frustrate her further. “I will not rescind my offer of friendship, if that is redemptive to any degree. I still maintain that we should benefit greatly from companionship amongst us, or at the very least, good rapport.”

Mary tilted her head to the side in accusation, her glasses sliding precariously down her homely nose. “Are you speaking in reference to the aforementioned purposes of which—may I add, I am still made unaware? If you should wish to use someone Mr. Seton, I suggest you do so with the decency of candour.” Her hands were on her hips once more, her voice taking on that old that priggish tone. The tone she ought to reserve for moralizing and homiletic aphorisms.

Mr Seton only tilted his head in imitation. Placing the books unproductively upon Mr. Bennet’s desk, he put his hands to his hips also. “I appear to be falling lower in your esteem by the second Miss Bennet. Though, a good academic is thorough, perhaps you should allow my explanation.”

“Presumptuous of you to assume you possess my regard in the first place Mr Seton.” Mary was vaguely aware she was being petulant, but she had never dealt well with insult to her intellect, a defect which persisted despite her reformation.

His mouth opened then closed as one does when they discover they are out of their depth. “May I suggest a truce Miss Bennet? I have no talent for altercation, and I have the suspicion that calling you a hypocrite- in jest!” He waved his hands unevenly about him in clarification before continuing, “would not bode well for my prospects.”

The thespian nature of the small forlorn look that had overcome Mr. Seton’s expression was enough to mollify any true offence Mary may have taken. “I concur, I shall draft the armistice when I am done with the ledger.” She tried to match the mildly sardonic composition of his humour though she was about as practiced in jests as she was friendship.

Mr. Seton’s responding grin only affected to disorientate Mary further. The sudden eruption of silent laughter only denoted by the shake of his trim shoulders, displaced Mary entirely. She was wholly unused to employing humour rather than being subject to it.

“Well then Miss Bennet, I suppose peace will be dependent on our sense of goodwill for a long time yet, seeing as the ledger remains unmarked.” He sat soundly on the crate nearest to Mary and allowed his legs to swing gently as he descended.

Mary faced him, yet she stood from him a seemly ways away. She crossed her arms as though she was appraising him, and posed a more formidable figure now that she could glare levelly at him due to his seated position. “I was planning to attend to the ledger immediately after you deemed it right to reveal to myself your purposes. However, as it seems you prefer to prevaricate Mr Seton, I insist that you abandon your notion of friendship.” She walked towards him before stepping promptly aside to address the ledger laying solitary on the desk behind him.

“With all due respect Miss Bennet, have my purposes not been apparent from our introduction? I wish to be friends with you, I cannot simplify it further.”

“Yes, but why?” The ledger fluttered in Mary’s hand, her arms raised and thrown down in a circumscribed motion.

“Must every wish, every intention, be over complicated so? Do you not recall Miss Bennet, the utter simplicity of friendship when one was a child? One was only expected to ask out right, and it was a request that never went ungranted. Simple, but hardly less substantial, and certainly no less devout.”

“And yet, we are children no longer Mr Seton.” Mary was not inclined to divulge how little experience she had in the process of making friends, even, or perhaps more especially, in the simplicity of childhood. When she was crowded and exceeded by every one of her dazzling and infallible sisters. She continued undeterred, “for your wish to be worth any consideration in my mind you must tell me the reason for it. Otherwise I am perfectly liable to come up with a hundred different conjectures and schemes of malintent that serve as reason for your importuning.”

“Schemes of malintent?” He exclaimed. His composure seemed to fracture slightly, the words unfamiliar and uneasy on his tongue. Mr. Seton exhaled slowly, very possibly in disbelief before responding. “I would caution you against foolhardy cynicism, but I cannot fault a lady for being wary.” He did not appear to harbour any injury at Mary’s words beyond an arrant confoundment.

Mary paid little heed to his turmoil and continued henceforth, “worse even, is the fact that you cannot rationally wish to be a friend of mine! You do not know one fragment of who I am. Hence my fear that every hope by which you place the possibility of our companionship is founded on uncertain expectations you have of my person. Expectations, of which, I am infamously recognized for failing.” Her spiel, in every sense of the words, was a confession. A mortifying one at that, which Mary quickly and desperately wished to take back. Who was this man to know her innermost troubles? Who was he to be privy to the fears that burdened and patronized her?

A heavy quiet consumed the study and Mary searched humiliated for something to occupy herself with. She found herself facing the bookcase furthest from Mr. Seton, her back turned against him in the most stately manner she could manage. It was then, as she had begun to run her fingers across the spines of her fathers old tomes with an emphatic thoughtfulness, that Mr. Seton reckoned it was proper time to respond.

“I had supposed your reservations were more parochial. Supposed you had misgivings concerning companionship among the opposite sex.” His voice was an amalgamation of adjectives to Mary’s ears. Without view of his countenance she could hardly discern what he may possibly be feeling. Yet, she could not risk turning and revealing her own, as she was almost certain her mortification painted her cheeks in splotches.

“You continue to fail at recommending yourself sir.” Mary intoned distantly, back still turned, her finger stopped on a title her mind could not even withstand to comprehend.

“I am the youngest of eight sons. A perilous number, I am well aware.” He chuckled out-loud in that particularly rehearsed way that bristled at her tolerance.“Though I am half certain they ceased keeping count after the fifth.” He coughed, clearing the levity from his tone, “it is unfair of me, Miss Bennet, to relate myself to you, as you are correct in saying I know not one fragment of who you are. Yet, I hardly believe wishing to know is, by any means, reprehensible behaviour.” He paused as Mary turned ineptly to face him. “Though, perhaps my parents faltered slightly at imparting good social mores by their eighth boy.”

Mr. Seton’s voice adopted a sincerity that struck Mary as thoroughly incongruent with her general impression of him. “What I know of you is this: you are the third of five daughters, you are bookish and competent in a way that causes those who describe you to equivocate for reasons that remain undisclosed, of which, I can only assume. Fortunately for you, I am unlike you in the sense that I am no cynic. If what you fear is that I have received ill-repute regarding your person, I can assure you that no such talk has reached my ears.

“I have little expectation of you Miss Bennet that is concerned more with you than it is of me. To put it concisely, I wish to be friends with you because I am of the theory that similar history makes for good company and I am of the impression that we are both interlopers.” His fingers pressed methodically into his knee, his posture was a picture poised of practiced casualty. But that familiar restless unease, that of which Mary had began to associate with with Mr. Seton, reverberated through the study.

Mary allowed the quiet to permeate the space once more, truly, she revelled in it as she considered Mr. Seton’s supplication. She was awfully stupefied by the entire conversation. Her mind whirring with a multitude of problematic facets that were enmeshed throughout the entire circumstance. First being the inherent impropriety of it all. Mary was not deluded enough to consider Mr. Seton's actions thus far, as some twisted entrance into courtship, but she was well aware of the capabilities and assumptions of society. Especially a society as small and curious as Hertfordshire.

Secondly, she was not well versed in the bounds of friendship. Even further beyond her knowledge, were the parameters of male and female companionship. Though she could not reprimand herself for that, as she hardly believed such knowledge was necessary or encouraged. Mary had always prided herself in her intellectualism, and believed adamantly in the constructing of her opinions, beyond what she read and what she was told. While her studies may have started to impress and exhibit, learning had become something that was integral and insatiable.

Leading to her third issue, in that, she was despicably delighted by Mr. Seton’s wish. Mary did not consider herself a very radical thinker, in fact, she thought herself rather grounded and conventional in her reflections. And yet, she very much wanted to acquiesce to his request. Strangely, it felt like a friend, one beyond her books, her music, her parents and sisters, was so enormously disparate, it drew her in without incident. A prospect explicably within her own volition, that may exist beyond the confines and inhabitants of Longbourn. It was enthralling and stirred within her a long dormant excitement that was both childlike and guileless.

Seeing as she was still Mary, she positioned a small unimpressed frown upon her lips and sucked in her thin cheeks shrewdly. “That is hardly outstanding reasoning Mr. Seton.”

Yet, the mirth in her eyes was undeniable and Mary watched as a slow bashful smile spread across Mr. Seton’s countenance. Unlike his grimace and his apologetic grin. But an open and easy thing that foisted upon Mary an encouragement that was utterly disarming. Enough to render her thoughtless of the imminent regret that may cloud such an arrangement.

It was a noiseless agreement. Mr. Seton, with his typical urgency, stuttered off of the crate and stood above Mary. He extended a hand and with little hesitance she reached out with her own.

They shook hands.

It was an immensely formal exchange, at least that is what Mary told herself as she laid to sleep that night, rationalizing away her convictions of impropriety. Truly there was nothing infelicitous about either parties behavior, if anything, to shake her hand, Mr. Seton proved (albeit absurdly) that he saw her as a platonic equal, equivalent to a gentleman of familiar standing. The very thought gratified Mary and appeased her contrition. As she stifled her mind's quiet reprimands on hope and foolishness and idealism. She recalled only the peculiar softness of Mr. Seton’s palm as slumber stole her away.

Chapter Text

The Darcys had let Lansdowne House, a townhouse, which Mary had considered perfectly adequate for the duration and purpose of her visit. As she had yet to visit Pemberley, Mary had presumed that a man of ten thousand pounds per annum would aim for grander accommodations. Yet, it was a perfectly sufficient residence, with a modest library that Elizabeth had tempted Mary by, and a quaint untended garden by which she lured Kitty. Though acting without polite resistance, it would have taken far less to remove the two girls from the monotony of Longbourn. 

Mary had entered the breakfast parlour earlier than she commonly would have. Her own nerves had roused her from sleep before the sun rised. It was not dissimilar to only a few years previous, when Longbourn was still brimming with all five Bennet sisters. When Mary had awoken before even the roosters had, and sat quietly upon Elizabeth and Jane’s designated tête-à-tête, near the largest window in the drawing room. It was there that she sat, until she felt the warm prodding of the sun against her closed eyelids. A warmth that prompted her to scurry off to the worn cushion of her pianoforte, where she belonged, and listen to the dissonant rising of her household. 

It was a different kind of quiet, the kind that she favoured and held onto for the remainder of every tedious day. The decided quiet of her earliest mornings was different from the manufactured quiet of her solitude amongst her sisters. It was a welcome and chosen quiet that did not hollow at her chest. At Lansdowne, however, Mary had not yet received a full tour, and she did not wish to be uncouth by seeking out a tête-à-tête on which she could pretend she had company; nor search for the biggest window to bask by. So, instead, she made her way prudently to the breakfast parlour where she inoffensively remained.

Mary had not worn her glasses; she could not find them amidst her quiet clamouring in the dark, attempting not to rouse Kitty from her sleep. They typically did not sleep together. They had not begun any such arrangement despite their increasing familiarity at home. It was only the previous night that Kitty had quietly entered Mary’s room and professed her fear regarding the foreign space of her given bedchamber. Uncharacteristically, Mary did not question peevishly how Kitty had dealt with the nearly identical circumstances at Pemberley and Haynes House, occupied with subduing her enthusiastic assent into a dignified hum. 

Her dress was green, a dark green that neared brown when approached by the light at particular angles. She had fastened a black ribbon functionally around her waist in her haste to dress and put her hair back in her typically grievous way. Mary was taller than all in her family, save for her father, which did not bode well for her coveted unobtrusiveness. Mary may have been elegant, if not for the wooden turn of her shoulders and the graceless line of her posture. Alongside her sisters, their mother had always laughed that Mary allowed the gentleman to spot them, while Jane had induced them to stay.  

Mary had brought her Bible with her down to the breakfast table. Though more for her sense of comfort than with the intention to study. Considering also that she was still without her spectacles, Mary bowed her head instead in prayer.

“I wanted to become a clergyman in my youth.” A weight settled itself across from Mary, the table shaking slightly between them. Mary had come to recognize the voice without opening her eyes. 

She concluded her prayer with unaffected reverence, paying no mind to the imposition. When she was truly done, she lifted her chin from her chest to address the interruption. “And why did you not?” Mary’s fingers were intertwined in front of her, her elbows poised lackadaisically upon the table as she squinted at the vague semblance of her companion.

“All matters of familial and parish politics that are too unpleasant to mar an agreeable morning by.” Mr. Seton’s voice was a register lower, so early in the morning. Mary had guessed that he spoke with such a hush to imitate his regular volume. Mary found herself leaning forward further. Not just to see him, but now also to hear him. He cleared his throat, and Mary startled back. She made a small noise of derision as she crossed her arms against her chest. Contempt for both startling her and his uncompanionable habit of side-stepping her curiosities.

“My sincerest apologies, Miss Bennet,” and she heard more than saw, the thump of his palm against his chest in exaggerated commiseration. 

Mr. Seton did not often talk about his life pre-Pemberly; moreover, he had hardly related to Mary how he had secured his position at the grand estate. If his position was lasting or temporary, a means to an end, or a finality. The great majority, if not all, of what she had come to understand of Mr. Seton’s history and employment had come from the means of Elizabeth and passing tidbits that provided Mary a shame she likened to be felt similarly by gossips. He had attended Oxford, where he had completed his Bachelor of Arts. He had been admitted to the university notably young, though on this point, Mary still had a lack of information. Though she assumed he must have been at the very least ten-and-six years of age for there to be any such interest. 

“Why did you wish to be a preacher?” Mary inquired instead. She was pressing, perhaps more than she ought to. Though they had agreed to be candid with each other, honesty being of particular value to both sides. The subject of Mr. Seton’s family was one he had never failed to face with indifference. With pleasant yet firm dismissals and sardonic jibes. 

He never spoke on his family with effusive and elevating praises, nor did he bash them derogatorily. Mr. Seton had only ever described them in terms so indistinct and objective that a more obscure family portrait had never been painted. She did not doubt whether what he had related was true, yet she was certain it was not all that was. He had once told Mary his mother was affectionate as mothers ought to be, before distracting her with an erroneous opinion on the virtue of Aristotle. Of his brothers, he said even less, only that the brother nearest to him in age was fourteen years his senior. His father, he had mentioned briefly, was a businessman, a tradesman, who inherited a sizable business from his own father. His family possessed an estate, though she did not know for certain who had purchased it, his father or his eldest brother.

“You will think ill of me, I have no doubt.” His voice carried a teasing reproach. Mary was certain that if she could squint past the blur to his visage, she would find his eyebrow raised and his cheeks dimpled diffidently. “It was an occupation I settled quite readily upon, you understand, yes, the precarious balance between genteel occupation and the fate of second sons. Or in my instance, eighth. Lest I disgrace myself, by implication of a lack of faith– for that is what your cynicism will lead you to assume, I shall speak no further on that. Except to clarify that I did not withhold from joining the church to become a Dissenter.” Mary listened as his palms thumped softly against the oak table in conclusion.

“Perhaps you did not refrain from the clergy for reasons moralless and dispassionate, but did you not lower yourself, sir, in the end? Though I would not go as far as to say disgrace. Your employment presently hardly constitutes that of a gentleman.” Mary did not desire to enforce the notion that the disagreeable components of her character were immutable. Yet, she had begun to find that the company of Mr. Seton did not engage in within her the portion of etiquette that required dissembling to avoid insult. 

“Ah, how you wound me, Miss Bennet! Have you been speaking with my father, perhaps? Has he put you to this? He has always known how to best strike me! Distract me from my woes and speak to me instead of your buried dreams.” There was laughter in his movements, in the wavering way his hazy figure swayed before her. 

Mary only pressed her lips together, already fighting to suppress her amusement, lest she gratify his mischief so early in the morning. “I intend to become a governess.” Mr. Seton’s hand gesticulated out, urging further explanation. “I do not fancy my livelihood being dependent on the goodwill of distant male relatives.”

“Are you not the sister of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley? Distant as you may consider them, by standards of the law and upstanding character, they are nearly as responsible for your well-being as Mr. Bennet himself.”

“Then they may provide the means required of my education to succeed in my intended endeavor, and satiate their obligation to their virtue.” She shrugged, a noncommittal air about her. 

“What of matrimony, do you disregard it entirely? What greater freedom may you apprehend as a governess that is inaccessible to a woman mistress of her own household?” Mary could not grasp the expression of his words, being as they seemed so deliberately tepid.

“The matter of marriage is of little interest to me. If I am ever to be coerced into such an arrangement, it must be by some mutual sensibility and rational thinking. I know affection to be a fickle thing, and I must assume the same for romance. Partnership should be emphasized in matrimony above all else. It does one no good to idealize.” Impartially, Mary believed he would agree with her, as thus far, Mr. Seton had proven himself reasonable. Though for all she knew, he may begin to wax poetic on the authority and necessity of true love.

They sat quietly for a moment, the sun filtered through a small oval window someplace above. Mary took his quiet as indicative of his consideration. That was another thing she had come to appreciate in Mr. Seton’s company. Her words were always treated with consequence. “Miss Bennet, may I ask you a question?” 

“‘Why have you suddenly the proclivity to ask for permission?” She let a small smile grace her lips, though she rolled her eyes as a cautionary measure against appearing too fond. She appreciated the company of Mr. Seton the most when they were without others. He was awfully maladroit in conversation when he was not so consciously poised and silently agreeable, as she found him to be amongst the likes of Mr. Darcy. Mary found it charming, in an absurd sense, the affirmation that yes, they truly were cut of the same sort of reserve and wariness. 

“I..” There was a beat of hesitation, in which Mary had begun to squint. Trying to determine the cause. Given that his expression must contain some explanation, she leaned nearer, a quarter of her weight set upon the table. “Well-” Mr. Seton’s tone took on a flippancy, previously absent, he leaned back into the head of his chair, “Miss Bennet, wherever are your glasses?”

It was Mary’s turn to pause; she opened her mouth to dissent. To prevent him from altering the direction of the conversation before he had uttered his true inquiry. It was her doubt in her own intuition of character and intention that prevented her from doing so, however. She reddened at the thought of misunderstanding, of perceiving more to Mr. Seton's behavior than there was. He was odd, as was she; therefore, she could not deny the possibility that the whereabouts of her lenses sincerely intrigued him.  And that he considered his silent contemplation on her stance on matrimony answer enough.

Mary only tilted her head, clasping her hands before her, “Atop some dresser, or perhaps on the floor. I could not find them amongst Kitty’s things.”

He hummed in response, considering still, though Mary could not confidently surmise for what. “Forgive me, if this is very wrong of me to say, but—“ Mr. Seton exhaled harshly to strengthen, or perhaps, banish his resolve. “Your eyes are lovely, Miss Bennet,” it was uttered like an afterthought, as though he was in want for something to say. 

“Pardon?” The word left her flustered and incredulous. In an instant, she was ten-and-five once more. Being showered with half-hearted praises and jibes covered by snickers. Plain and homely, pathetically and desperately striving to be accomplished. As if that would be enough to compensate for her overwhelming inadequacy. Instinct told her that Mr. Seton was mocking her. While maybe not in malice, perhaps in diversion. For her mind could not think him capable of such cruelty. In the same breath, he was not aware of the depth of her insecurity. Still, such a jest, as she was certain now that is what it was, pressed upon an old wound that had long festered upon her soul. 

Mr. Seton seemed to sputter. His words, though he considered them true, had not been what he had intended to say. Damn him, a coward and a fool. He studied Mary’s countenance, her lips pressed thin and passively between her teeth. Her gaze averted, though he was quite certain she could not see him with much clarity. Her lovely eyes began to water, “Miss Bennet, I did not mean to overst–” He interrupted himself, “I am not being dishon-” Mr. Seton was not quite sure how to placate his transgression, for he hardly knew in what way she took offense. 

Mary laughed, a forceful thing that served to shush him and offer her opportunity to blink the moisture from her eyes. “Must I always moralize against you? It is not kind, Mr. Seton, to say things you do not mean. Flattery is deception in its own right.” Mary held her Bible between them, “Proverbs,” she nodded towards the closed book, indicating. 

Mr. Seton’s thumb covered Mary’s, as he clutched the worn leather cover, a gentle pressure, an implicit apology. “And what chapter of Proverbs? Of the…” he drew out his words as he let the thin pages of scripture fall over the previous, locating the right book, “...thirty one?”

“Chapter twenty-nine.” Though she did not specify the verse. “Shall you read for me, Mr. Seton?” and she did not hide her grin this time, earnest, full, and gracious. As well as terribly persuasive, for certain, singular gentlemen.

It was an incomparable relief, that he did not cause too great an upset with his offhand honesty. He would have commented upon her smile if he did not fear repeating his transgression.“Very well, as you are without glasses, I shall grant you this favour, Miss Bennet. Although I expect the lady to return the favour. We must operate in equal exchange, my dear friend.” A faux seriousness and solemnity lined his words, to which Mary only scoffed blithely.

“May you have no claim to altruism,” She laughed. Moreover, she snorted, rather indelicately, at his lack of rebuttal. Mary placed a hand in front of her mouth in a frail display of composure. Her other hand gestured at Mr. Seton to continue, “Even so, please begin.”

Obediently, Mr. Seton began, “He who is often rebuked, and hardens his neck, will suddenly be destroyed and that without remedy…”

—-

Just a small ways away, beyond the entrance to the breakfast parlour, stood Miss Kitty Bennet. One hand clasped tightly over her lips, lest she reveal herself in her excitement. The other hand clenched around Mary’s spectacles. Her eyes were both wide and frantic in delight. Oh, how dearly she missed the giddiness and gaiety of romance. Mary could not deny her this frivolity. Not when she sat unchaperoned, fending off compliments and delegating demands to a gentleman. Kitty no longer fancied herself as one to simper, titter, and shriek. And yet, she was a sister still, and what are sisters for if not discussions, at great length, on suitors and infatuation. 

You have lovely eyes, Miss Bennet.

Kitty had not the demure reserve enough to dampen her smirk as she entered the breakfast parlour. 

Chapter Text

If Kitty Bennet should ever endure the misfortune of going mad, she would blame it on the doings of her older sister, Mary Bennet. 

November had arrived, and October had passed with very little to entertain Kitty. Though, she had begun reading a small book of poetry that Mary had suggested to her. The anthology was not the reason for her impending madness; no, it was actually quite enjoyable. While Kitty could not claim to understand the bulk of it, it compelled her to feel, to reflect. It was quite marvellous, really, to have something as plain as vernacular strike her in the heart as poetry did. 

Kitty had never lacked in the faculty of feelings. Was never one much for reserve and composure. Her vehemence, however, lacked substance. It lacked forbearance and empathy, and sound judgment. Her ductile disposition was forever subject to the suggestions and attention of those around her. It boded well for her the time she spent with both Lizzy and Jane. It taught her composure, delicate manners, and how to keep good company. 

Mary and the poetry she brought forth with her produced in Kitty a cognizance regarding her own significance in retrospect to the whole of all things. Simply put, Mary and poetry produced in Kitty the grand understanding that she was not the only creature to suffer the injustices and tumultuous turns of girlhood. That every feeling felt, was felt by some person before her. It was a profound revelation to come by, and Kitty was moved to divert her excessive energy into loving compassionately and empathetically all her family, despite her withstanding qualms. Most especially Mary, whom Kitty resolved with an eager enthusiasm would become her dearest friend. 

Even so, against all of Kitty’s aforementioned reform in character, she had not a strand's width of patience nor benevolence to deal with Mary where Mr. Seton was involved. It was not by intentional provocation that Mary spurred Kitty against her. Rather a subconscious effort that quelled all of Kitty’s flights of fancy. Kitty’s mounting misgiving had not begun the moment she entered the breakfast parlour that morning. If anything, Mr. Seton’s muttered compliment relieved her growing frustration. 

The issue of Mr. Seton was one that had come on so slowly that Kitty had not realized its magnitude until it was too established to contend with. Mr. Seton was not of any particular interest to Kitty. He was tall, but that was all the merit Kitty could find to credit him. His features were too sharp and perpetually discomfited. He was far too thin and held himself in a way that Kitty found irksome. Otherwise, she did not take much notice of the man, if any at all, as he seemed especially apt at not drawing attention to himself. 

It was only due to Kitty’s growing attention to Mary had she found herself a constant witness to Mr. Seton’s conduct and manner in her periphery. When looking upon her sister, Kitty had only needed to divert her gaze slightly to see the towering man. What baffled Kitty further was Mary’s complete inattention to the incessant nature of Mr. Seton’s company. At the beginning of Mary’s occupation in their father’s study, she had articulated to Kitty her assignment and mentioned off-handedly that she and Mr. Seton had agreed to be friends. The morsel had entertained Kitty more than anything, for in her experience, one did not simply decide to be friends and become so. Friendship was not so linear. To Kitty, companionship demanded a great many more confidences kept, and quips giggled over to be of any true significance. 

Then, however, with no further forewarning than a moment of mention, did Mr. Seton become a resident fixture to Mary’s side should they ever be in a common space. At all gatherings, informal or anticipated, in all circles intimate and otherwise, by Mary, he determined to remain. Should their party ever be required to migrate from a parlour to a dining room, from a drawing room to the turn of a garden, for Mary, his arm would be designated. His other arm, more often than not, Kitty was forced to cling. Not by the explicit invitation of its proprietor, but the cool prompting of Mary.

At dinners, for they were ushered blindly into many, at the authority of Lizzy. Mr. Seton sat always between Kitty and Mary, much to the former's chagrin. Now, Kitty understood the order of things. She understood that at a dinner, even one hosted by friends as dear as the Lucas’ was considered a formal matter. And that, by the demands of society, the seating arrangement dictated that she and Mary may not sit beside each other, and that a gentleman must interpose to serve them. It was being stuck in these arrangements that made Kitty audience to the inexplicable attentiveness by which Mr. Seton regarded her sister. 

If Mary would so much as press the flat of her fork into a portion of her brisket for a moment too long. Mr. Seton’s long arm would be clamouring down the dinner table to apprehend and pour her gravy, before Mary’s fork had even lifted. He did not delegate the same notice for Kitty, though he assented unbegrudgingly to every pointed indication she made about the table. He was not outspoken, which agitated Kitty somewhat, for she was under the impression, for most of her young life, that it was a gentleman’s duty to charm the direction of conversation.

Kitty had believed Mr. Seton’s reticence was a constant thing and wondered how Mary and that man had formed such an attachment with so little conversation. While every quip and comment Mary made to the room, he would never fail to acknowledge with some affirming nod or another. Very scarcely, in a room filled with company, had Kitty ever seen them conversate openly. A multitude of times, she observed them sharing looks, of which Kitty could not interpret. And only once had she seen Mr. Seton lean down to mutter something into Mary’s ear. Kitty did not wish to know what it was they communed with their mild expressions, furrowed brows, and quirked lips. Nor did she harbour any curiosity as to what such a man might need to whisper.

It was only when Mary had invited Kitty to join her in their father’s study as she worked one afternoon that the latter had discovered otherwise. Mary and Mr. Seton talked over many things. Things of philosophy and religion, and class. One would think they were quarreling, given the overzealous manner of their speeches. Kitty had never known Mary to act in such a manner. To rave and rant, and groan into her hands in utter disbelief at whatever nonsensical conviction Mr. Seton argued in favour of. The sole reason Kitty was certain they were feuds in sport, for their own odd and intellectual entertainment, was the way they circulated each other. As Kitty understood very little of the content of their conversations, she attempted to study the strange way they danced about the study. 

“What issue can one manage to have with Voltaire?” Mary’s arms were both raised high in exasperation. In one hand, a tome wobbled as she examined the shelves half-heartedly.

“When one is able to differentiate between madness and optimism.” And there was a presumption in Mr. Seton’s tone that was apparent even to Kitty. In a single stride, she watched as Mr. Seton stole the volume from Mary’s grasp and placed it upon the shelf where her gaze had settled.

“Has he not written that he does not abide by certainty? More so, the statement was hyperbolic; I do not think it could have been written more plainly, sir. You act a fool to aggravate me and nothing more, of this I am certain.” Mary was across the study now. Filling an empty inkpot, Mr. Seton had used and abandoned in its desolate state. She allowed the pen to hover over the half-marked ledger as she read his incomplete entry.

“Naturally! For what reason beyond want for your consideration, Miss Bennet, should l endeavour to form any thought at all.” As he satirized, Mr. Seton dragged Mr. Bennet’s chair to where Mary was positioned, standing, bent over, and assessing their work on the edge of the desk. To Kitty, his response was offensively insolent, one she would have never dared say to Mary in her endeavor to befriend her. But Mary did not scoff, demean, nor belittle him in her own defence, as Kitty had anticipated. Instead, she sat soundly in the seat offered, without so much as even looking back to ensure that it was truly there.

“There is little use in pretending otherwise, Mr. Seton.” From where Mary had sat and how Mr. Seton stood behind her, she was required to tilt her head fully back to look him squarely in his eyes. “Do not claim you were one to philosophize before our introduction. With a gentleman’s education, it is only expected that you should know what volumes to access. But do not pretend you had ever done so before, at your own leisure, before meeting me.” She returned to the ledger with an affected air.

“You think too highly of him. Your bias blinds you.” Mr. Seton responded rather than refute her remarks against him. 

Mary twisted in her seat to look at him, correctly oriented and completely, “Ah ha! I have found it out, you are envious! Worry not, I regard your intellect also–”

“Return to the task at hand, Miss Bennet. You have been awfully counterproductive thus far.” And Mr. Seton had never appeared to Kitty more contented and untroubled.

Kitty sat in on many more afternoons after that first. They all followed a similar vein: half-smiles muffled by quarrels fought with false seriousness. And communication that was unspoken and unacknowledged, but somehow constant and tangible. Perhaps it was the poetry, but Kitty likened them to water, or perhaps the wind that ruffled the leaves outside her bedchamber. Awkward and stilted as they were about the study, Kitty would not have labeled them graceful, but they were undoubtedly unified, coalesced in mind and action.

No woman had ever known been subsumed by incredulity, the way Catherine Bennet had been as a direct witness to the rapid, seemingly abrupt construction of the friendship betwixt Mary and Mr. Seton. No, Kitty was certain, no person had been tormented by such bafflement as she was. There was no sense to it, truly. How Mary, serious and unapproachable, could be put so at ease by a mere declaration and decision of friendship. There had to be a good reason for it, a reason as to why Mary may be entirely at her leisure with that man, yet not with her own sister. 

It was not as though Kitty and Mary were not close. Objectively, they were more attached than they had ever been. But Kitty knew it was due to circumstance. If Lydia had remained at Longbourn instead of herself, would Mary and Lydia have formed a friendship just as tentative and situational as the one Kitty presently shared with Mary? No matter her intention, no matter how desperately Kitty wished to become dear friends with Mary. Her sister, both sharp and astute, could not be so simply swayed by the silly witlessness Kitty was known to inhabit. Mr. Seton had championed Kitty; he had accomplished what she could not, with less time, opportunity, and advantage.

As Kitty stood just beyond the entrance of the breakfast parlour, Mary’s glasses clutched like an offering in one hand, she came to a welcome conclusion. A conclusion that served as the reason behind Mary and Mr. Seton’s quick camaraderie. As well as soothed the burn of Kitty’s suggested insufficiency as a feasible friend. There was nothing clearer, Kitty had not known how it had escaped her before. The pair must fancy each other; there was no explanation more sound. It thrilled Kitty and comforted her that she was not being bested by a man capable of being a better friend than she. But instead by a man thoroughly infatuated. Quite happily content was Kitty at the idea of being trounced by romance. She felt no need to oppose the formidable and coveted notion that was love. 

Breakfast was a pleasant affair. The familiar way Mary and Mr. Seton went about each other built no further resentment in Kitty. Given that she was under the impression that they were enamoured by each other. Kitty was not vexed in the slightest, not even when Mary refrained from her usual hearty dollop of strawberry preserves to save the remaining for Mr. Seton. What great fun it would be to prod and quiz Mary later, Kitty thought in lieu of attempting to join their winding conversation, the contents of which she knew nil. 

—-

“Mary! How can you surmise he thinks not one wit of you? Silly, I may be, but you are a fool!” Kitty stood from where she had been seated on the floor before Mary. This effectively removed Mary’s hands from her hair. Kitty had been determined to have Mary practice putting her hair up in convoluted coiffure. Deeming it would be easier to complete in the full view of someone else’s head, before she attempted to figure it out on her own. 

Mary had thought Kitty’s directions to be somewhat distracted, as though half her mind was preoccupied; now Mary knew by what. Kitty had asked if Mr. Seton was courting her, an inquiry that left Mary partially affronted and fully panicked. “Mr. Seton is my companion. A work fellow at the very least and a dear friend at most.” She sat perfectly still, save for her hands, which she wrung together on her lap. 

Kitty turned in a hard, decisive movement to look down upon Mary, arms crossed petulantly against her chest. Her hair made a crown of golden disarray atop her head from the effort of Mary’s clumsy fingers. “Yes! To you, that is what he is, I have no doubt; your refusal of anything romantic precedes you. But what object are you to him? Have you failed to consider?” 

Mary had no sense of how this had come about. From whence Kitty had acquired such an idea. Once a week, she and Mr. Seton met in accordance with their pre-arranged schedule. Where they remained entirely in her father’s study with the door open and welcome to any passerby. Which would have fulfilled, well enough, the duties of a chaperone. Though, Mary firmly disbelieved that they were in need of one, considering again, that neither party had romantic intent. Mr. Seton did not call on her, nor had he ever invited driving. And while they were not yet amidst the Season, Mary did not think he should ever be compelled to ask her to dance more than two sets. As doing so would only be an expression of explicit interest. “We are to each other the very same! You are an incurable romantic, Kitty.”

“And you are all stubbornness! You have not witnessed as I have, observed as I do! Your stance is without weight.” Kitty spat back; she had begun pacing about the room. Her growing upset emphasized by every step. 

“What I have not witnessed, I have lived. Does that not make my judgment better than your own?” Mr. Seton was someone Mary had come to appreciate. In the hushed depths of her consciousness, she may even go so far as to say that she cherished him. He was agitating and disorienting, edifying and kind. He was many things, most of which Mary did not yet know, though she was not opposed to learning. There were roughly two major things in regard to Mr. Seton of which Mary was certain. The foremost being that he was her companion, decidedly and undoubtedly. The second being that she did not fancy him, as he did not fancy her. Mary was not as her sisters were. Mary could not hope for affection nor marriage. She could not afford the demands of love. 

Kitty whipped her face away from Mary, “Hardly, you oblige the company of that insipid and fumbling man.” She could summon little remorse for being mean-spirited, absorbed as she was by her bitterness. 

“If you wish to criticize my judgment of character, do so without the addition of harmful prattle.” Mary was rising now, “I cannot begin to fathom, Kitty, what has possessed you to act,” she gestured about stupefied and aghast, “as you have. But I need not tolerate it.” 

Kitty ceased her pacing with a sullen stomp against the wooden floor. “It is not fair!” and her lament sounded too similar to that of a child throwing a fit. 

Mary was unsure if she should be further concerned or miffed; surely Kitty was not so callow? Not still, after the pains and efforts of both Elizabeth and Jane. “You have abandoned all sense because you are envious of a notion that you have constructed in your mind?” She placed her pointer finger to her temple, allowing her thumb to undo her glasses’ descent down her nose. Wearily, wth thinly disguised disappointment, Mary began her reply, “You will have suitors a plenty when we are in London. None of which are mere companions as Mr. Seton is to me. Please do not—“

“I do not envy you, Mary!” Kitty sniffled loudly, not bothering to still the trembling beginnings of her pout. “Nor do I want for suitors.” She inhaled slowly, steadily, “I envy only Mr. Seton, and the despicable way he has bypassed the threshold of your froideur. Without so much as a misstep. I envy that he has become so dear and familiar to you. When I-“ An errant tear slid down Kitty’s darling face, though she made no move to remove it, “I have not.”

“You envy,” Mary muttered, perfectly inarticulate, “Mr. Seton?” There was a rushing akin to water in her ears, and very suddenly, Mary felt incredibly overwhelmed. This very moment was incongruent with the entirety of Mary’s childhood. The childhood she had recalled spent constantly looking in from the outside. Where she grew slowly and painstakingly from a girl, small and miserable, to an adolescent, tall and deadened. Mary was wholeheartedly incredulous; she was all disbelief.

“Must I elaborate?” Kitty’s arms no longer crossed over her chest in childlike defiance. They were wrapped tightly around her person in need of comfort and consolation. “I am dim-witted and obtuse! You needn't tell me what I am, I know that at least. Yet, I had hoped pathetically that we should become as sisters ought to be.” She coughed, coarse and unrefined. Red bloomed on her full cheeks, “Perhaps I am woefully impatient. But all we ever do is heed politely to one another and prance about warily!” Kitty pressed her thin, elegant fingers roughly to her eyes, unseeing as she continued to speak. ‘And yet! You go contentedly about with that man, all dear and chummy. I abhor it!” She threw her hands from her face, “I abhor it!”

Mary did not intend to respond in defence.  If she had to guess why she had, she would blame it simply on habit. On the unrelenting suspicion that she was destined only to be shunned and dismissed. “It is clear how little practice you have in rejection. You have not endured as I have. You have not yearned desperately for company, for friendship, or for a sister who loved you as Jane does Lizzy. For someone to follow, as you had Lydia. Or some person to humour you, as papa does mama. Do not attempt to elicit my sympathy when you have only grown tired of the menial hours allotted to you each day. Do not want for me when you wish only for someone to entertain you as Lydia did. I beg of you, do not strip from me the peace I have toiled for, by tempting me with the dream I had sacrificed for it. Most especially, when you mean nothing true by it,” Mary did not cry, as Kitty now was, freely and without inhibition. Though an urgency pressed behind her eyes, one that she willfully and fretfully ignored. 

The air in the room seemed to constrict, taut and impermeable. Shrouded in hurt, quiet, and inevitable. “Who are you to announce that my sentiment is false?” Kitty’s voice was dreadfully even, despite the steady succession of her tears streaking down her face. “I have always known you to think little of me, Mary. You cannot deny it, belittling and demeaning as you were, I was not as ignorant as you perceived. Though I had always assumed you had thought me silly, not callous nor avoidant without cause.” Kitty’s expression had not hardened, as her words had; no, her eyes were remarkably imploring, “I am sorry. Sincerely, that we have hurt each other so. But were we not young, were we not both fools in our own ways? Did we not simply act in turns that guarded our hearts best?” 

Mary had always lacked in the faculty of feelings. Was never one much expression and initiative. Her reticence, however, lacked sagacity. It lacked wisdom and empathy and was inundated by self-pity. Her affected disposition was forever habituated by the opprobrium and appraisal of others. It boded well for her the time she spent at Longbourn, distanced from her sisters. It taught her that comparison only wrought unsubstantiated and ruinous division. She discovered that one was indeed capable of significant and material change and that the defenses of youth could be unlearned. 

This revelation was evidenced now in her dear sister, Kitty. Who stood before Mary, exercising an empathy and grace previously unaccessed. That very thought alone stole Mary’s composure. It felt as though something was expanding heedlessly in her chest, benignant but terrifying. Mary reached Kitty before the precarious set of tears held in her eyes took full hold of her vision. She did not speak, for she did not trust her voice nor her ability to put her feelings– her admiration, her relief, her joy– into words. Instead, she wrapped her angular arms around Kitty in an obstructed embrace. Mary paid no mind to Kitty’s crossed arms, she only held her more firmly. Within Mary’s next breath, Kitty had untangled her own arms and had reciprocated soundly and promptly, softening into the embrace. 

It was a healing sort of thing, long overdue, yet entirely unexpected. Mary would not have believed it, hardly believed it still, that Kitty should love her so much she would be induced to initiate an altercation of sorts. It remained laughable to her that Kitty had taken up Mr. Seton as competition. Though if she dwelled on it too long, Mary would be reduced to tears at the idea that Kitty had considered her attention something worth vying for. 

Kitty placed her arms gently on Mary’s forearms, separating them slightly, so that she could look up into Mary’s countenance. There was a mischief present in the curve of her brow and the crinkle of her eyes now, despite them being rimmed red and glassy. “May I then be your dearest friend, Mary?”

Mary laughed, glad and impetuous and still vaguely disoriented by what had transpired, “Certainly.”

“Dearer than Mr. Seton?” The intonation of her words dipped disparingly at the end of her inquiry, yet Kitty’s eyes gleamed with hidden mirth. 

“Dearer.” Mary nodded solemnly, “The dearest.” She affirmed.

“I may have spared us entirely from this altercation, had I known one must only need to ask to apprehend your companionship.” Kitty hummed pointedly. 

Mary only laughed once more. It was a sound drawn in gratitude, in tenderness, and in hope. While Mary did not frequent poetry as Kitty did, her heart muttered a verse nonetheless. Mary felt as though she had come home at last, a home in which she was welcome.

Chapter Text

The study and accompanying library at Lansdowne House was nothing short of ecclesiastical. While Elizabeth had been just by saying it was small, that was only truly applicable by width. It was a wondrous place, with ceilings so tall, there was room enough for a second floor of shelves. There was a single arresting window contrived of stain glass, a medium of art Mary had only ever seen in church. The window was made in the shape of a circle and was fitted harmoniously amongst the higher shelves. Its image depicted a flourishing cedar tree and filtered in a yellow pigmented light that warmed the dark oak that comprised the majority of the study.

It was no wonder to any that Mary had taken up primary residence in the study. She had recently abandoned her decade long exploration of Fordyce’s sermons in favour of more academic tomes. All of which had been recommended by Mr. Seton. Mary had taken quite a liking to the winding nature of philosophy. Studying it felt as though she was walking in a circle attempting to find the end of it. Not in a tiresome way but meticulous and thorough. And to Mary, extremely gratifying.

Allegedly, from amongst the shelves in Landsdowne House, Mr. Seton had found Mary a copy of a work titled the Two Treatises of Government, published initially under anonymous pen. Though Mr. Seton had informed Mary that it’s authorship was later prescribed to that of John Locke, a man who was both a philosopher and physician. Who had written a great many renowned works pertaining to government.That led him to be entitled the Father of Liberalism. All these ceretitudes regarding the history and of the biography of the author was information unsolicited. While that did not mean she was disinterested, Mary only knew of it because Mr. Seton had related it all to her in a noticeably studied and diffident lecture.

Now, the alleged nature of the tomes acquisition, was due to the pristine condition of the specific volume Mr. Seton had handed Mary. One quiet and cordial afternoon, as she sat attempting to embroider with Kitty. With it, he had only said, “More material for us to quarrel over.” Before hurrying after Mr. Darcy’s form that had begun to retreat into the study.

All of the tomes in the library that Mary presently sat, were of the worn and tattered variety. With yellowed pages and a subtly stale scent. The claim that this book, with its freshly pressed ivory parchment, was fellow to those on the shelf was beyond questionable.

“Mary! Good afternoon, dear,” Elizabeth strode into the study with her typical assurdness and startled Mary promptly from her contemplation. “I importune your scholarship in want for company!” She smiled wide and uninhibited. it was a singularly outstanding motion that invoked in Mary more veneration than her more envious and un-christian feelings. She wanted excessively to be as Elizabeth was, both charming and endearing in her manner of self-possesion. Perhaps, when Mary was not precariously dependant on the standings of Longbourn, she would be thus liberated.

“Good morning,” Mary imposed a mildly pleasant expression onto her features and placed her thumb to the margin of her page, closing the cover over it.

Elizabeth paid no heed to Mary’s reticence and had begun to callously tow the chess table from the corner of the seating area to right before Mary. “Shall we play chess?”

Mary’s mild smile curled an inch higher, “Seeing as you have already made such an effort.” She placed her book open on the arm of her chair, for lack of a better way to mark her place, and went about setting the pieces.

Elizabeth only looked past Mary. As she inclined her head an errant curl slipped from coiffure. “How are you taking to your present so far? Any ideas too revisionist or militant?"

Mary’s hand stalled over the rook she had been positioning. “Present?”

“Ah, has Mr. Seton been too unduly modest yet again?” Elizabeth raised a brow as she chuckled. She settled further into her chair, elbows sat upon it’s arms as she interlaced her fingers.

Mary resumed setting the pieces, eyes fixed to the board and attempted to sound incurious. “I am afraid so,” she responded concisely and resumed setting the pieces to refrain from appearing overeager.

“According to Fitzwilliam–if you will abide by my informality, as I divulge this information from his recollection. Roughly a fortnight ago, he and Mr. Seton had been a quarter of an hour delayed homecoming from a meeting. For Mr. Seton had seen Mr. Wharton’s bookshop through the window of Uncle Phillip’s practice and had deemed it necessary to go in.” Elizabeth opened with a pawn.

“Uncle Phillip?” With very little consideration, Mary mirrored the move. She was very amatuer in chess, given that she knew only how each piece moved and little more. Being as she was never one much for games, or partners.

“How little you know Mary,” Elizabeth exclaimed sounding sincerely surprised. Though an arch look was about her countenance. “It has become my unexpected duty to enlighten you. Shall I begin again chronologically, or may I continue henceforth,” she clasped her hands together avidly.

“Continue, I suppose.” An inking of hesitance pulled at Mary’s conscience. While her curiosity nagged at her, she did not wish to pry upon Mr. Seton’s privacy. He was not one to evade her curiosities where most topics were concerned. During their time in her father’s study he had told her a sound number of personal tales. Stories from that spanned the duration of his time at university, humorous happenings and quiet failures. And yet, Mary could sense that there was significant history regarding his family that he held tightly to his chest. Not only from her, however, for the way he spoke on his family suggested he had long been navigating around their mention and had reached an adeptness at doing so.

“Then as I had been relating, the two men had entered the bookshop and remained there for a spell. As Mr. Seton had determined not just to acquire that very tome,” Elizabeth laughed pointing at the book by Mary’s side, “but also educate himself on it’s history and contents by means of Mr. Wharton. Who, as I am sure you are familiar, is rendered rather loquacious on the subject of literature.”

Mary flushed, though she did not reserve much thought as to why. “I suppose he did not exclusively state that he had apprehended it from this very study.” Mary looked about the shelves with a fluttering and unfocused gaze, her head circled around hyperbolically to avoid the prying mischief of Elizabeth. She decided in that moment, to attribute the warmth in her cheeks to dismay that Mr. Seton had allowed her to believe a lie by his own implications.

“Deciet by omission is deceit nonetheless.” The teasing lilt in Elizabeth’s voice only seemed to increase, “Speaking of which I shall inform you how Mr. Seton acquired his position at Pemberly. As it appears that has been omitted also.”

“Is it not a secret?” Mary inquired tentatively, “I do not wish to know things unintended for my ears.”

“I would hardly label it as one.” Elizabeth mused, “He is quite taciturn in regard to his past, is he not? I will attribute you being uniformed to that habit of his. He likely had not deemed it information interesting enough to relate to you.” She shrugged, unconcerned, “Mr. Seton was a clerk of our Uncle Phillip. Fitzwilliam happened upon him when he first arrived to Meryton with Mr. Bingely’s party.”

“A clerk of Uncle Phillip! I had not known!” Mary was all astonishment, she had duly forgotten their chess game as she shifted to the edge of her seat.

“That is the summation of the arrangement. Mr. Seton had been there but a month before Fitzwilliam stole him away. His employment had already been firmly established at Pemberly by the time I had arrived in Derbyshire.” Elizabeth had begun to roll a fallen pawn between her forefinger and her thumb in an absent movement.

Before Mary could emphasize her surprise, and offence at not having been told, the very object of their conversation burst forth into the study.

Mr. Seton did not appear to notice them at first, as he moved hastily and unswervingly toward the desk. It was only upon reaching it, did he appear to regain some consciousness of composure. Both of his palms were splayed atop the desk, if they had not been Mary was certain they would tremble. Beneath his right hand sat what was presumably a letter, considering that it was a trim piece of parchment finely folded. With a tremulous exhale, the letter crumpled within his closing fist still against the desk.

“Sir?” Mary spoke slowly, though she did know if it was out of her own discomfort or a sorry attempt to ease his.

Mr. Seton straightened in a deft movement, the ball of parchment fell wayside and bounced gently upon the floor. He made no move to retrieve it. His cropped umber hair pointed erratically in all directions as though it had been ran through several times over by his perpetually agitated fingers. His cravat sat wayward about his neck and his eyes were wide and fitful. He blinked hard into a wince before imitating the semblance of a smile. Then bowed in such a way that Mary feared he would keel over.

Mary tried again. “Mr. Seton, are you quite alright?”

“I am well, my apologies for the intrusion.” While he did face Mary fully, his eyes did not meet hers, he looked to Elizabeth before returning his gaze to Mary. “Thank you for the kind concern, I was only surprised.”

Mary did not respond for moment, as she was unsure of whether or not coax him further. Certainly to no one did he appear well. Restless as he often was, Mr. Seton’s current disposition was undoubtedly operating on dregs of his composure. Mary settled on humoring him, and his unconvincing declaration of wellness, “Certainly, we must have been too quiet in our corner.” She drawled with little credence to her tone.

Elizabeth smiled, unperturbed. “I believe we had summoned you by our colloquy.” She inclined her head to the seat nearest to Mary, in which, Mr. Seton obligingly sat. “I was just revealing to Mary that you were once a clerk of our Uncle Phillip.”

Mary watched the side of his countenance for displeasure at Elizabeth’s words. He blinked inscrutably as his tongue seemed to prod at his inner cheek. “Had I not told you?” He shifted towards Mary, and for the first time since his sudden entrance into the study, Mr. Seton’s eyes met hers. This only served to trouble Mary further as they were pleading.

“No, I do not believe so.” She spoke carefully and diverted her attention to Elizabeth. Mary tried for levity in diversion. “I am of the opinion that Mr. Seton maintains my curiosities regarding his person to prevent me from tiring of him too quickly.”

“I prefer simply to speak more of you than myself. Much more pleasant are conversations in which you are the subject Miss Bennet, than me. I think my interest is quite chivalrous, you simply fail to appreciate it.” At their usual banter Mr. Seton seemed to regain some sense of equanimity. The tempo by which his boot worried the floor slowed.

Mary flushed, instantly disoriented and mortified at Elizabeth to witness it. Her older sister only stretched and rose from her seat. She regarded the neglected chess game with distant deliberation. “I will declare you the winner of this inadequate match, Mary. For no particular reason at all. I must discover to where my husband has gotten.” There was too much presumption in her tone for Mary to find comfort.

Mr. Seton uttered something pertaining to where Mr. Darcy may be found, in the context of how business had concluded that afternoon, before he had joined them in the study. Yet, Mary had not been listening. Selfishly, horribly, she did not wish to be left alone with Mr. Seton. She was not skilled in articulating her sympathy nor was she particularly proficient in the art of consolation. The crinkled clump of parchment still laid menacingly upon the floor, evidence of Mr. Seton’s distress. Mary must have bid Elizabeth farewell amidst her turmoil, for her sister left with a great many declarations of seeking them out later to discuss the plans concerning their impending departure to London.

Mary studied her hands, anticipating stilted conversation and forced agreeableness. Mr. Seton was usually quite good at acting how one ought to, or at least he was to Mary. In the presence of company he was not often tactless as she was. He knew how to construct an amicable expression and exude enough interest to appear engaged. Yet, in this moment, his practiced casualness had been subsumed by the restless agitation she always attributed to him. From the very moment of their introduction within Mr. Seton existed an undercurrent of unease. It was now made palpable for the first time. Mary could not say how she was made aware of it, she had no explanation as to why she was so attuned to the minor fluctuations of his temperament.

“Miss Bennet?” He sighed heavily as he hunched into what had been Elizabeth’s seat.

“Yes?” Mary replied faintly with a strange lilt to her voice that was not quite cordial. She did not look up from her hands.

“I am going to attempt to reconcile an ongoing injustice I have committed against you with a misdeed.” She looked up to find that Mr. Seton engrossed in his hands also. The nail of his right thumb pushed harshly into the palm of his left.

“What ever are you on about?” She cupped her knees with her hands, grasping to her growing frustration. Mary loathed conversations in which she was not expert. She did not reserve much patience for those who for those who were oblique. If one did not wish to communicate with her outright, little communication would there be at all. She would not beg to be made privy to particulars of which she was not welcome. Her pride had not and would not allow it, she had never begged to be included. She would not now. “Do not say what you do not wish too. I am content in our standings.”

“But I am not and I have not been.” Mr. Seton looked directly at her once more. Mary had never witnessed weariness so plainly. “I admire you Miss Bennet. You are not practiced in artifice as I am. I had requested for us to be candid familiars, though I have failed my own bargain. That is what drew me to you, did you know? Your honesty is beguiling.” He looked awfully abject, “Allow me to commit the misdeed of forced familiarity, even though you so thoroughly reprimanded me over it during our second meeting.”

Still as he sat, there was a wavering to his voice that disquieted Mary more than his compliments. “I declare it shall not be forced. As we are friends and have been for many weeks now. I consider us familiar, do you not? Frankly, I do not why you still find it necessary to prevaricate as you do, it is quite tiresome.”

The hard lines of his posture eased. “Ha! There is no one capable of drawing me from my mind as effectively as you Miss Bennet.” The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Then I shall reciprocate your honesty at last.” He stood determined and strode promptly to the discarded parchment. “This is a letter from my father.” His hands worked to flatten the letter as he spoke. “He has requested I return home. For I have not in the past six years.”

“Six years!” Mary did not hush her exclamation as soundly as her dignity would have preferred.

“I was admitted into Oxford at the age of six-and-ten. For I had plenty of time all on my lonesome, within the vast halls of my father’s estate. Time, of which, I dedicated to my studies.” Mr. Seton began to share, informally unrestrained, “I had intended to become clergyman- that I believe you have been made aware. ”

Mary nodded the affirmative.

Mr. Seton situated once again across Mary. Setting the crinkled letter upon the abandoned chess game. “Once I graduated, I simply needed to wait to be of age, for I had been only twenty. I had considered momentarily taking up law, though I could not commit to the Inns of Court, feeble as I am.” Mr. Seton tried to laugh but it left him hoarsely.

“You did not become a lawyer because you did not wish to. I have no doubt in your competence” Mary retorted by quoting Mr. Seton himself, though she remained unamused.

“Limited are the options of sons of my familal branch.” Mr. Seton reminded her, amusement blooming on his features in challenge to her solemnity.

“I am aware. Yet, you are dictated by remorseful and wary morals. You would not have dedicated your competence to an occupation of such insecure ethics.” Mary would not claim that all lawyers were wayward, but she had always had confidence in the wickedness of the majority.

Mr. Seton waved away her commendations, “That is besides the point, Miss Bennet. In short, I had deemed myself most fit for clerical work. When the parish position I had secured for myself, through connexions I had made with a professor of mine, was usurped by my brother— the fifth eldest, if that detail is of any import.

Mary knew not what to reply. For he spoke callously on a dire circumstance. She echoed his words unhelpfully, “usurped?”

“That is the most polite way of saying it.” He ran his fingers through his thoroughly mussed hair, Mary dampened a smile despite everything he had been relating. “To my brother some gratitude is due, for he offered me the opportunity of being his curate.”

Mary stood at that, indignance simmered in her stomach. “After upending from you your parish, he possessed such audacity still?” Realizing her mouth had been foolish agape, she shut it, reddening. “And your father? Did he have nothing to say for it?”

“My father and I are not of the most..” he grimaced humorously, though a sorrow traced the lines of his face, “..civil terms.” Mr. Seton made a teetering gesture with his hand. “He blames— ah that is too harsh a word. He attributes my birth to the passing of his wife– my mother.”

There was a preganant pause, as Mary comprehended his words. “My goodness! Your mother is dead!” Mary suddenly felt faint. She fell back onto her seat and swiped her spectacles from her face to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Do not tell me now that you have killed her!” It was a half-jest of sorts. While Mary knew she should have been more couth, less forthright and more reasonable. The revelation that she did not know this man as exhaustively as she presumed was dawning too quickly and successively. Dear as she may consider him and despite their mounting hours of conversation, Mary had not known his mother was dead.

“I am sorry,” Mr. Seton whispered pacifyingly, ‘But there is background to her passing that I did not wish for you to pity me by.”

“I pity only myself.” Mary muttered lamely, placing her palms to either side of her forehead and pushing upwards. Mr. Seton did not answer and Mary feared for a moment that he had suddenly decided to regard the conversation seriously and took offence to her insensibility. Panicked, she scrutinized him urgently. Much to her relief, he was laughing in that miraculously silent way of his. He had leaned back in his chair. Mr. Seton seemed to calm down further for every second he riled her up.

“Out with it!” Mary cried.

Mr. Seton coughed, his voice still shaking with trembles of laughter, “My mother had me much too late in her years, her health had already been tremulous before I was conceived. After I had been born, her health declined quite rapidly and she ultimately passed away when I was around three.” His voice bore a compulsory lightness but tendrils of guilt seeped through yet. Mary would not have it.

“I am sorry,” and she was. More by the fact that he burdened his father’s grief than anything else. “Though that is not your fault.”

Mr. Seton only hummed disapprovingly. “You mustn't waste your pity Miss Bennet. I have lived a comfortable life, with little issue beyond too much time spent in my own company. I am quite tedious, though I needn’t enlighten you.” His cheeks dimpled, and he looked upon Mary with an implacable expression.

Mary’s chest ached at the scene painted. A young boy in a grand home, raised by nurses and nannies. Sibling to a disproportionate number of brothers all mature and distant, none of which to share a childhood with. She bit her bottom lip to conceal a pout. Mr. Seton did not want her sympathy, therefore Mary could do nothing for it. She sighed for what felt like the upteenth time and attempted to realign the conversation, “How did you end up a clerk of my Uncle Phillip?”

“It may have been the shadow of my mother’s poor health, or perhaps the matter was as simple as what incited my interest most amidst my studies. But I had always quietly aspired toward medicine.” He began in lieu of responding directly. A sheepishness overtook his smile, as though he expected Mary to respond adversely. “Devoid of the promise of a parish, my aspiration burgeoned. And I determined to become a physician.”

“Do you still intend to?” Mary hoped he did, truly she hoped more than she ever had for herself.

“Yes, I do.” Mr. Seton examined Mary, seemingly off put by how little she had to say. “But medicine is too precarious an occupation in the maintenance of gentlemanhood. Unlike the clergy, law and army, which are so undeniably genteel.” The derisiveness in his tone did not go unheard, though he tried to lessen it, “My father refused to pay the furtherance of my education if it were to go such a deplorable direction. I left home at that and decided I shall find some way to pay myself though the remaining duration of my studies.” Mr. Seton positioned his hands out in a flourish and inclined his head theatrically, “now here I stand, or sit, I suppose.”

The fact that Mr. Seton still dreamed beneath the oppression of his father’s neglect heartened Mary. At the face of abandonment at disappointment, Mary had alway responded in such a way that would lessen the blow. She had learned quite early to quell her eagerness and excitement. She had learned not to expect too much from life, and from others.For if she lowered her expectations and shortened her sight, it would hurt much less when the inevitable came to be. It was how she regarded matrimony, if she removed herself wilfully from the marriage market and designated herself a spinster prematurely, no one could accuse her of failing, of having her wanting go unfulfilled. It was safest that way. A less mortfying existence was all what Mary could still hope to want.

Yet, Mr. Seton had done the opposite. Confronted and rebuffed, he had responded by wanting and hoping for more. He was actively taking measures to materialize the expectations and the aspirations he had conjured of his future. Despite– or in spite of the shame and the fear, that Mary knew binded them both. It endeared Mr. Seton to Mary entirely, it inspired her. it stirred within her an insatiable want for the autonomy and liberty he had taken for himself.

Mary wanted desperately for him to accomplish his aspiration, perhaps he may allow her to exist vicariously through him, resigned as she was to accomplishing her own silent hopes. “What of your inheritance? May you appeal for it? Then you may resume your education more immediately.”

“As you know, primogeniture dictates that the bulk of my family’s wealth be passed to my eldest brother.” Mr. Seton did not sound nor look resentful. He seemed perfectly acceptant of the way of things. “Presently, I may only inherit my share if I become my brother’s curate, or perhaps take up law,” he managed a scoff, though there was not enough malice equivalent to what Mary felt.

“Certainly, there must be some other way!” Mary was near fuming at the unfairness of it all, she had not known she possessed so strong a sense of justice beyond her sermons. She simply could not conceive how long it may take to support oneself through school. Especially, with a specialty as rigorous as medicine.

Mr. Seton made no immediate reply. He did not laugh nor attempt to mollify her fury. A long stretch of silence began to pull taut between them and Mary had become equal parts puzzled and discouraged. Mr. Seton stood, with an uneasy tilt to his step, he meandered to the shelf near Mary’s left and tapped one of the worn volumes thoughtfully. He then pivoted toward her. His eye catched on the treatise he had gifted her, still laid across the arm of Mary’s chair. Mary dried the nervousness from her hands down the length of her skirt.

“There is one other way,” Mr. Seton’s voice was far too placid.

“Which is?” Mary huffed, she would admonish him later on his deplorable habit of building suspense.

“If I am wed,” and his words were little more than a whisper.

Chapter Text

“If I am wed.” The intonation of his words was enigmatic and obscure. And could not be categorized by Mary’s ears one way or another. Neither a complaint nor a question. They were words simply said, and nothing else.

“If you are wed?” Mary waited for Mr. Seton to continue and offer further explanation. Naturally, he did not, as succinct as he had always been. Mary attempted to tamp down her exasperation, “Pray! Do not rescind your bout of honesty yet.”

Mr. Seton’s brows drew together in a display of reluctance. His arm made unconsciously for his hair, before he took notice and stopped it suspended mid ascent. Mary watched as his fingers twitched disobligingly. Mr. Seton slapped his palm to his knee in a decisive movement before lifting his hand once more and presented to Mary three fingers. His forefinger, his middle finger, and his ring finger.

“There are three ways in which I may apprehend my inheritance.” He held up only his forefinger, “endure unhappily a more genteel occupation.” Both his forefinger and his middle finger, “my father passes, God forbid,” and it was said with more sincerity than Mary thought the stranger warranted. “Or if I marry,” He slackened his hand with a resigned movement, “Oh! And it must be presented as a lovematch, otherwise my father reserves the right to withhold my share.” This was said with a befuddling forbearance, as though he had not just explained the single most senseless arrangement Mary had ever been made privy to.

“You must explain hastily, how that third option had come about before I relinquish my weakening hold on my many–” Mary emphasized, “many judgements and make myself out to be insensitive.”

“You do not have much claim to the realm finer feelings in the first place, do you, Miss Bennet?” Before Mary could take offence, or more likely, become vexed at his distracting her again, Mr. Seton added, “I depend on you for it.”

Mary only narrowed her eyes and hoped that the potency of her impatience was not diminished by the heat rising in her cheeks.

“It was a clause added by my mother before her passing. I had told you she was affectionate. She must have had some sense of the poor impression her husband had taken to his newborn son, and wanted to ensure that I derived my affection from someplace eventually?” The explanation was provided as though it were a question, with less than mild certainty. “In all honesty, I am not quite sure. I have only a theory built on sparse evidence. The only component I may relate to you with full confidence was that it originated from my mother. My father was not one to deny her anything. Most especially in the last years of her life.”

Mary almost could not fathom the absurdity, the downright ridiculousness of it all. She furrowed her brows and willed herself to understand. To find some sense to the nonsensical logic that bound Mr. Seton so greatly. Through her eyes, squinted in contemplation, Mr. Seton grinned wearily. “You mustn't try to understand it, my dear Miss Bennet, I had ceased attempting to long ago, and I am a much saner man for it.”

“What are you? The heroine of an anfractuous novel? A damsel who must be whisked away from the wrongful conduct of her family by the passage of matrimony.” Mary mused, eyeing his weary figure. She attempted to laugh, but what left her mouth was a more disbelieving noise than anything else.

Mr. Seton smiled and leaned forward in his chair, picking up the letter he had set down from his father. His fingers began to fold the parchment idly, hard and precise, “Alas! I await only my hero.”

“Why have you not just married then? A man in want of a wife cannot struggle overmuch to find one. Marriage is the one thing society has given to young ladies that they might rightfully want for.” Mary settled back into her chair as the edges of migraine fluttered at her temples.

“I am not the most eligible bachelor, being as I am partially disowned. In addition, I am neither a charmer nor a romantic.” Mary studied Mr. Seton’s countenance. A sorry smile pulled at his mouth, though Mary did not think his remorse was for himself. “As you said yourself, Miss Bennet, matrimony is of serious eminence in a young lady's life. While it should not, it often determines the very quality of her life, and I do not wish to tarnish some poor woman’s ideals of romance.” He gestured to his person as if that further proved his reasoning, “Love does not intrigue me, Miss Bennet. Not what I have come to know of it.”

“You make your standing sound far worse than it is, and one needn’t be a romantic to be married; do not be fanciful.” Mary bristled at what she understood plainly as naivety. “If you and your bride share a mutual understanding. As well as lay out plainly the expectations to be maintained throughout your marriage, you do not unfairly disappoint, nor deprive her of anything.” It was awfully simple, and Mary felt as though Mr. Seton was making the entire affair much more convoluted than need be.

Mr. Seton looked upon her sideways, narrowing one eye as he did so; his tousled hair fell over the other. He looked upon her as though she were the uncomprehending one. “I deprive her of the opportunity to be wooed, to be doted on, to be loved! I am not so cruel as to perpetuate such a tragedy for my own financial gain.”

“Do you intend to be wicked?” Mary asked, more to prove a point than for want of an answer. For she knew with certainty what his answer would be.

He startled somewhat humorously, “No.”

“How about domineering?” She suggested. Mr. Seton’s grip upon his letter faltered. Mary leaned the slightest bit closer.

“No.” Mr. Seton shook his head earnestly.

“Will you squander your inheritance to gambling debts, proceed to take up a handful of mistresses, and grow to resent your wife for the obstacle she poses?” With too much difficulty did Mary hide the vindication from her voice. She fluttered her lashes against the lenses of her spectacles with poorly mustered sincerity. Mary could never quite act as she ought to.

Mr. Seton’s whole body seemed to shudder at the thought, thoroughly affronted. “I could not-“ he sputtered, one hand making its way to his hair, “I cannot imagine—“ He blinked appalled. He took in the amusement that had begun to twist Mary’s lips, “Miss Bennet! Who has taught you to jest thus so!“

“Hush now,” Mary smiled at the effect of her goading. Which did little much to subdue the triumph in her voice, “You are a greater blessing to the marriage market than you realize, Mr. Seton.”

“Yes, but--“ At his insistence, Mary could no longer refrain from rolling her eyes in a hard, exasperated movement. A tentative half-smile played on Mr. Seton’s lips as his gaze followed the motion.

“Oh my! You can not be helped! Not one bit! You are afflicted by the pestilence that is hopeless romanticism. You may no longer pretend to have no claim to it.” Mary did not straighten with her conviction; if anything, she curved further into her chair. “You provide her autonomy, liberty to maintain her own household. You provide her security and relief from the prying eyes of society.” She threw an arm up and made an all-encompassing sort of movement. “You provide her with all of the means that a man inherently possesses that a woman does not. That is what a lady truly desires in marriage, not the fleeting moments of tender feelings.”

Mary tilted her head up only slightly. Mr. Seton had folded the letter into a small ball that was a little larger than a thumb's width. His elbows pressed into both of his knees as he compressed the wad of parchment tighter. His long fingers were stained with ink. He did not look up from his menial undertaking, “Is that what you desire in marriage, Miss Bennet?”

“I am a lady, am I not?” Mary was unable to see his face, but the timbre of his words suggested to her that his countenance had taken on that odd and implacable look she had yet to define. Simply stated, it made her nervous, the strange way he would observe her when he thought himself beyond her periphery. “Any one person who possesses even a modicum of sound reason would think the same.”

“Permit me then, Miss Bennet, to present you with a hypothetical, and you mustn’t confront it only with your formidable rationale. You must listen attentively to the little murmings of your sensitivities.” Mr. Seton's gaze flitted from his hands for only a brief moment. Their eyes locked, before his returned hastily to his trifling wad of parchment, his shoulder rose and dropped in a heavy exhale.

Mary could feel the thrum of nervousness in her veins. An instinctive thing that had the predilection of appearing when something profound or momentous was looming. “They are one in the same, my mind and my heart. ”

Mr. Seton gave a drawn smile, his dimples sat shallow. “Say then, that a man were to approach you. Naturally, he is intimidated. Being as he knows you are far more wise and astute than he.” Mary’s eyes rolled once more; it could not be helped. Mr. Seton had become less cautious in his praises since their debacle at breakfast. Mary had conditioned herself to endure it, though crimson still brushed her cheeks. “Imagine he is outright trembling out of his boots. I set this precedent so that you are well aware of the advantage you hold in this hypothetical.”

“I have been made aware.” Mary straightened now. Her glasses, which she had thrown inelegantly from her visage in her earlier frustration, laid precariously in her lap. She placed them slowly atop her nose, for some frail sense of control, before interlacing her fingers politely.

Mr. Seton made no indication that he heard her; his eyes remained fixed downwards. “Say, he offers to provide you all that you have just listed. Autonomy of your day-to-day, security financially, and refuge you from the marital expectations set upon single persons.” He inhaled shakily. Clenching the parchment ball in his fist, Mr. Seton dragged his hands up from his knees to his lap. “S-say that he asks for your hand in marriage, would you respond in the affirmative?”

The purpose of the hypothetical struck Mary turbulently. That this was not another of their inconsequential debates. Where they quarreled senselessly on constructs and classes of society that did not so much as concern them. This was a matter that concerned them directly. Perhaps Mary should not have been so confident in the union of her reason and feelings. For while her mind was contentedly gratified by the way his supposed hypothetical fulfilled her every sentiment of matrimony and pleased every misanthropic notion she held of romance and affection. The palpitations of her heart multiplied terribly with every moment she found herself more amenable to the idea of marriage, more specifically to the man across from her. Still, she would not be Mary Bennet if she were not all honesty, even, or more especially, amidst discomfort.

“Mr. Seton,” Mary spoke slowly. Almost inaudibly, though she had no doubt in his hearing her, “In this hypothetical, are you perhaps the gentleman in question?”

“Would that alter your response, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Seton set the compacted parchment onto a square of the chessboard. He wrung his hands together as though he could wash away the ink that decorated his fingertips.

Despite her rapidly increasing panic, Mary contemplated his question fully still, “yes,” and she spoke firmly. The clipped intonation of the word struck the heavy anticipation that pulled downwards upon the atmosphere. Mr. Seton seemed to flinch. “Though not in the sense that I predict your mind is leaning.” Mary tried to soften the austerity of her manner. Though the alarm that stirred within her chest did nothing to expedite her effort.

Mr. Seton stilled. Not even his hands continued their agitated travailing. He did not meet Mary’s scrutiny, though he did at last look up. His gaze darted all about her face, save for her eyes, for he did not know how he may act should he be taken captive by them. He began evenly and practiced as though he was reciting a speech etched onto the forefront of his consciousness. “Someone wise had once told me, Miss Bennet, that if I wish to use someone I must do so with, at the very least, the decency of candour.”

He stood gracelessly, the chess table swayed, and a rook toppled over. It rolled from its square upon the board and descended to the floor. Mary watched as the small tower disappeared beneath a shelf. She was half tempted to make a fuss over the disappearing piece, to attain some relief from the dreadful anticipation that had begun to prickle at her skin.

“Miss Bennet, If at present I am misunderstanding you, please interrupt my rambles, for I do not wish to distress you nor estrange us. I do not doubt that you know what I am about to ask, astute as you are and conspicuous as I have been.” Mary may have interrupted him at this point. For his necessity to breathe lulled, for the briefest moment, the haste in which he spoke. Yet, she did not, for she did not want to. A desire that was only just coherent enough for her to acknowledge and heed.

Heartened, evidently by whatever it was he read within Mary’s expression (Mary was unsure of what, for she had lost authority over her countenance much earlier on in the conversation), Mr. Seton continued deliberately slow. Mary might have easily intervened if she did not wish to hear what she anticipated was about to be said. She bit her lip. “Miss Mary Bennet, will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?”

Mary had known it was coming; nonetheless, it still stunned her. She could scarcely hear herself over the thundering upset of her own heart. “Truly?” That was all that she could manage to say. The tentative hope she heard in her own voice baffled her as much as it sickened her.

“Miss Bennet, you want for marriage only if it is grounded in mutual sensibility and rational thinking,” Mr. Seton quoted Mary verbatim. “I am in need of a bride who, like me, is not incited by tender feelings. Yet, is of enough comfort and familiarity with my person to play a besotted partner. I will provide you with all the means I possess, the life of freedom and autonomy you deserve and seek with your intention of becoming a governess.” He offered Mary his hand. Smudged as it was with ink, she still did not hesitate to take hold of it.

He pulled Mary from her seat and took her other hand in his also. Mary’s hands warmed quickly in his, and the sensation pulled her serviceably from the disorder of her mind. The sun had begun its slow descent on the other side of the stained glass window as it was, at last, the latter part of the afternoon. Greens and yellows shifted slowly about the study, surrounding the pair. The light made a strange spectacle of Mr. Seton’s eyes, turning the inky brown nearer to an opulent amber. The change transfixed Mary, focusing her to his words, “You may give me your answer before we depart for Derbyshire. For we are set to leave in no more than a fortnight. If by the time we have taken up residence in London, I have received no answer. I will stomach your rejection and swear to never mention the matter again. We shall return as we have been.”

His face was flushed, and his chest heaved gently, as though he had just run a great distance in incredible haste. Curiously, his unease served to calm her, for it did not just match, but exceeded hers. “And I know I needn’t tell you, for you are perfectly adept at thinking and considering overmuch– but I beg of you, do not accept me if even a cell of you does not want to.” Mr. Seton’s hold tightened minutely

An inexplicable ease overcame Mary at his words. One that affirmed the decision she had been unconsciously leaning towards. She had no fear of the man who beheld her. Not once, in the entirety of their acquaintance, did he ever patronize or contemn her, even when it had been warranted. Nor had he ever left her unnoticed or unacknowledged; in Mr. Seton’s company, Mary was always seen, she was always heard. They were both stitched so tightly in their similarities that Mary had little doubt that he would provide her the life he promised. What they both yearned for was the very same. A life composed of quiet reason and companionable moments. One where they may be to each other what they had lacked in childhood– constancy and companionship.

Better yet, a partnership in which both partners held the other in friendly regard did not horrify Mary, as a marriage built on passion and affection did. Mary could not feasibly be rejected; she could not be jilted by a man she regarded merely as her companion. She did not know how she had not considered such an arrangement before. What better way, may she shun society’s tender feelings entirely, than by appearing as though she possessed them? Far more effective would doing so be than enduring the life of a spinster. Even as a governess, she would be poised beneath the whims and kindness of her employer. Constantly riddled with unspoken judgments on her singleness. Mary trusted the security and goodwill of Mr. Seton, her dear friend, far more than whatever household she may happen upon in her future occupation.

Mary was a great many things. Things deserving of ridicule, of censure, and of correction. What she may never be accused of being, however, was impractical. She had long dismantled the idealism of her youth. Her feet remained planted firmly to the ground, so much so that they were sore for it. She did not want for love nor for romance, and she did not feel sorry for it as one should at such a loss. The marriage that Mr. Seton had proposed was more than Mary had ever imagined for herself. A marriage in which she was equal and esteemed could not be dismissed so easily.

“I hardly think...” Mary began. Mr. Seton’s grip on her hands tensed. “…That I need a fortnight to decide. I have but one question, then you may have your answer.”

“Should we get married, there shall be no more secrets. I swear it.” Mr. Seton’s right hand relinquished its grasp on Mary’s and settled over his heart. It discomfited her slightly how her hand seemed to itch at the loss of contact.

“What is your first name?” Perhaps, once, she may have heard it in passing, though she did not think that she had. For Mary was certain, she would have remembered it.

Mr. Seton peered down at Mary with mild surprise in his slight smile. He replied succinctly, “Ian.”

“Huh,” Mary huffed insufficiently. She freed her left hand from his hold and placed both of her hands on her hips contemplatively.

He chuckled silently and looked suddenly as he usually did– entirely unsure of what to do with his hands. “What is the matter? Does it not match?”

“No, no. It is just–” She took a step back and swept her eyes over Mr. Seton, examining. “It suits you, in its distinctness. I have not heard a name similar. It is an uncommon name, no?”

Mr. Seton inhaled sharply and made a clicking noise with his tongue, “Very little passes you by, Miss Bennet. It is of Scottish origin.”

“You may call me Mary as we are to be betrothed in a moment.” It was stated with very little procession, though her heart stuttered in spite of her. “Do you have ancestry in Scotland?”

“Miss Mary,” and Mary could hear the smile he had put into her name. “You may call me whatever you best see fit.” Mr. Seton then added quickly, “I was named by my mother’s wet nurse. My father had no proclivity to do so, and my mother had been rendered unable for a period, namely the beginning.”

Mary frowned, “I presume then that the nurse was Scottish?” Faint sorrow pulled within her chest; at least her parents regarded her well enough to name her.

“Naturally,” He replied, unmoved. Mr. Seton shrugged one shoulder, indicating he had moved to a new subject of discussion. His habit of reticence regarding his family was one Mary had determined, just then, to resolve. It was by this thought that she was half distracted when Mr. Seton had muttered, “Miss Mary, I cannot accept your assent presently.”

Mary raised a brow, properly unimpressed, “You truly must make all things more complicated than need be. Am I not the one who holds the authority to accept or deny in this circumstance? What is the issue now? We agree that yes, then this arrangement will benefit us both. Why must you stall?”

“Patience, dear,” and the following smirk, unpracticed as it was, served to pronounce Mary’s blush more than the endearing term Mr. Seton had adopted. “In a weeks time, if a fortnight is too long, we may agree to marry. Then, is when I shall implore for your father’s blessing, and you may announce it to your family. But it shall bring me comfort if you think upon the matter for longer, more than you are able to in this moment. I know I needn’t lecture you on the absolute seriousness with which marriage ought to be regarded, but I do not wish to entrap nor shackle you to me. For, as you know, it is a lifelong arrangement. Though I assure you we shall enter it and remain in it as equals.”

Mary considered his words. It was a request that abided by the prudence and caution she normally possessed much more of. Therefore, she could not will herself to be vexed by it. “Fine, your reason is sound enough. Will you draft a contract then, in the meantime? I will provide additions and amendments, of course, but I should like to see the parameters of this arrangement laid out. As you have reminded me of my usual circumspection”

Mr. Seton grinned at her, satisfied and obliging, “Of course, it would be my pleasure.” He proffered a hand. And even though a significant portion of the conversation, Mary’s hands had been held in his, she still swiped her palm to her skirt, cautious of moisture.

For the second time in the pair's acquaintance,

They shook hands.

Chapter Text

Ian Seton was not a man of great possession. This was a fact applicable to the whole of his person in both material and self. Of his material possessions he maintained what he considered the bare necessities. Though to the majority, his means of living may be considered a routine of scarcity. Which he imposed upon himself not to relieve dire financial circumstances, but because of the guilt that accompanied much of his joyousness. It was a habit perpetuated by his upbringing. When one’s entire existence is cause for upset and grief, he does not abide so easily to the concept of contentment. Which, naturally, does little for one’s sense of self possession.

Yet, his failing to become self-possessed was an issue in itself. For to lack calm composure and confident control was unacceptable, intolerable behavior. To the great and excess of men that carried the Seton name. This was why, despite the constant anxiety that thrummed within him, he maintained tirelessly that it only prickle beneath his skin, where none may see it, and none may feel it, but himself. Never once within him, had one feeling ever been outstanding. All his emotions sat subdued and swirling in the core of him, a medley of sensitivities that were undefined and indistinguishable from the next.

This was the state in which he had lived. As unobtrusive as a boy so objectionable and tall may hope to be. No person had ever noticed, or perhaps had taken enough mind, to the timorous tilt of his gait. Nor been off put by the pretense of his amiability. He had come to think of himself as quite skilled in navigating the nefarious course of social circles and connexions. While he did not pretend to think himself delightful nor undeniably pleasant, to most, Ian was certain, he was company well enough.

This was the way he had held himself until he had, at last, made the acquaintance of Miss Mary Bennet. During which, he had been struck, for the first time with a feeling, clear and identifiable, the unmistakable weightlessness of relief. She had looked upon him immediately, with an obvious skepticism. Like she did not think for one moment, that he had been glad overmuch to be meeting the relations of his employer. Mary had furrowed a brow at his smile. Her lip had quirked down at his practiced agreeableness. She had scoffed at his humility and appeared to wince at his proposition of friendship.

Mary Bennet, had never, not even amid the polite demands of introduction— bothered to humour the artifice of which Ian Seton was so wholly comprised. At no point, did his rehearsed affability convince her of anything. While one may cower to be understood so directly, Ian had been elated that one may be so capable of seeing through his facade with so little effort beyond mild scrutiny.

It was then, as Mary had reprimanded him on the dangers of false modesty that he had known how ideal a wife she would make. Not that he had been dictated by any intention to ask such a thing of her. It was merely an agreeable thought, one that he would frequent amidst the more weary of his days. A bride, one that conducted herself with no more feeling than he, was a conjecture Ian had long made out to be a fantasy.

However, soon after, the issue of breakfast had occurred. The acute sense that Mary was a woman unlike all else, composed of all that he lacked, assaulted the tangled amalgamation that was his senses. Ian was all certainty on the point that he did not fancy Mary Bennet. He had not a bone of romanticism. Yet, within the fluttering sunlight of Landsdowne’s breakfast parlour, he had almost been persuaded to ask for her hand. It was an urge based purely on logic—is what he had decided later that day, unconscious of the way he grinned at her haughtily squinted eyes through the morning light.

Beyond her infallible honesty, of which he made his admiration adamantly known. Mary possessed a great many characteristics that further recommended her with every minute he spent in her time. She was sharp. Ian considered her sharper than many of his fellows at university. It was a tentative and careful wit, easily and quickly withdrawn. But it was cutting and priceless, something he determined to elicit from her with every debate he had prodded Mary into.

She was calm, irrefutably so. It was a composure, real and persisting, so unlike his tenuous posture. Mary was not susceptible to forcible response and emotional reaction beyond what was justifiable. She was in the habit of considering, of reflecting, and thus acting in accordance to what she understood. It should not have been a process celebrated over much, yet Ian had considered her reason something novel and brilliant.

It was also this grounded nature of Mary, that— without her knowing— dampened his persisting agitation. Her very presence was a thing of comfort, in the very same feeling that a familiar space should elicit. Ian did not need to circumvent her judgement. It was not possible. For she had exasperated it the moment their introduction was through. He had been conditioned so quickly to her criticism and scolding that he had little fear for it. Contrary as it may seem, the fact that Mary had offered no pretense, had been wholly herself, all presumption and tactlessness, had given Ian the consent to be true also. Explained simply, with Mary, Ian had no other option than to express his sincerest self, otherwise she may only scoff and lecture him. With Mary, Ian did not need to wonder nor fret, whether or not he was conducting himself sufficiently. For she would not fail to tell him if he was lacking. He appreciated her all the more for it.

It was these strange virtues that Ian had marvelled at as he quietly composed the contract Mary had requested of him. It had been not more than a day since he had paced and proposed about the very study he sat now. The evening was nearing its end, and he had a handful of errands to attend to the morrow’s morning. But he had been over eager to fulfill Mary’s will, despite his own wish for her to ponder his proposal at least a week more. Ian needed something meticulous and comprehensive to present Mary with at the end of her reflections, therefore she may be affirmed in his competence and in conjunction, her own acceptance.

“What are you drawing up?” Ian had not meant to flinch so severely, he had not done so in quite some time. Yet, he had been so focused upon his task he had not taken note of the entrance of Mr. Darcy.

Instead of looking up immediately, Ian placed a discarded parchment outlining a farm settlement atop the wetted ink of his and Mary’s contract. He did so indifferently, cautious of drawing attention to the words he was obscuring though he winced at the very thought of all his efforts smeared across the page. “Nothing of very much import sir. Only an outline for the remaining work Miss Bennet and I must accomplish in Mr. Bennet’s library.” Unsurprisingly, the lie fell from his lips with little difficulty.

“Ah. I suppose that is why Miss Bennet’s name was scrawled so indiscreetly at the very top.” Mr. Darcy smiled, an amused thing that Ian was certain the older man had stolen from his wife.

Ian quite liked Darcy. He was a kind man, despite the frown lines that decorated his mouth and the utmost rigidness by which he conducted himself. Ian found that the severity of his austerity largely softened when he grew used to his company. They were friends, to the greatest extent that their stations allowed. Though Darcy had become notably less concerned by these positions after his having been wed. Darcy knew of Ian’s circumstance, of his education and of his family history, he knew all of which an employer ought to know.

“I am in the habit of labeling my paperwork in a way that there is little opportunity for error or confusion.” Ian stared at the shadows of ink that stained his fingers and wondered distantly the cause for Darcy’s uncharacteristic questioning. Half his mind still occupied by possible structures by which he may reorder the contents of the contract.

“I have no doubt, Pemberley has never conducted so smoothly as it has with your aid.” Darcy replied easily.

Ian looked up at that. It is not as though Darcy did not express his gratitude. Only that it usually took on the expression of monetary thanks, far more than it did spoken-word. He squinted an eye at Darcy. No part of the other man’s person moved, save for his eyes. Which moved slowly down to the desk. Ian looked to the table quickly and bit his tongue at the telling mess he had unwittingly made.

The farm settlement he had used to cover his and Mary’s schemes, was splotched with ink that had begun to seep through from the contract. His false justification lay exposed before him and Ian could only squint harder to conjure up a credible explanation for his odd behavior. All that talk on the avoiding of error while small pools of ink filled before him. Ian braced himself, he had been caught out.

A mild smile played on Darcy’s lips, never one for meandering talk, he spoke plainly, “Do you fancy Miss Bennet?”

Ian blinked. But before he could hesitate, his forethought grasped to the ample opportunity provided, "Immensely." His reply was concise, Ian thought it sounded more earnest for it. Perhaps Ian should have felt more shame for the ease of his deceit, but at that moment he had only known relief for the explanation Darcy had provided him by his assumptions. “I had been writing my proposal. A declaration of my affection and a request for her hand.” He looked down and rubbed empathically at the back of his neck, a play of nervousness, “I have little confidence in my ability to improvise, sir.”

Darcy’s mild smile had raised itself into a small smirk. And he nodded once as though he had suspected it all along. Then he replied with a tone that had experienced and conquered much regret, “No, that is quite alright, I would not recommend an impromptu proposal, they leave much to be understood. You are a wise man to plan. What had you written down?”

“I had written that she is comprised of all that I lack.” Ian spoke easily, truthfully. While that hadn’t been what he was writing down, it was not especially hard to relate all of Mary that he admired. Particularly as he had been contemplating on her many esteemable qualities just moments before Darcy’s interruption.

Darcy hummed in response, encouraging and waiting for Ian to continue.

Remembering that he was meant to be a man besotted and inflicted with heartsick infatuation, Ian attempted to speak to the more romantic qualities of Mary he appreciated. More than his exclusively and most definitely objective appreciation of her commendable and rare character.

“I believe she has made me sick. I do not believe I have spent one hour today, in which, she has not plagued my mind. Her eyes arrest me every instance I am bestowed the honour of meeting her gaze. I had thought them grey. Despite that being very thoroughly impossible, I should not have even considered it, being that I am supposedly a man of science. But she has eroded all of my reason.” Ian allowed himself to ramble. Love, he believed, was an unreasonable and irrational thing, he therefore must appear so. “Miss Mary’s eyes are green, not grey. They are so light that they often appear the latter.”

Darcy chuckled, low and perhaps, disbelieving. “I do hope that you have written far more beyond the enigmatic nature of Miss Bennet’s eyes.” His smile was genuine, pleased. For a man so stoic, one would not think him so swayed by romance, not until Mrs. Darcy’s introductions were made. “I presume that Miss Bennet advised you to address her informally.”

“It is the very facet of hope by which this entire ambition hinges sir.” Ian offered a crooked and wary smile. “Allow me to clean up the mess I have made,” and he gestured at the pages stuck and drying together with ink. “Then we may retire for the night.”

“Do not fret over much. I am not one to provide encouragement if I deem it unfit.” Darcy rose from his seat, and the lines beneath his eyes, impressed upon Ian a sense of wisdom wrought from experience had. “Elizabeth, is of the understanding that Mary feels similarly, you may only need to pursue her with clear intention to have your feelings reciprocated.”

Ian’s hands stilled their cleaning for the briefest of moments. Considering the gall with which he confronted tender feelings, that pause was more acknowledgment than the strange stutter of his heart could hope to get.

Chapter Text

The week was nearing its end and Mary was still in the affirmative on the question of marrying Mr. Seton. She had gone over the issue many times over, thinking as far ahead as her mind had the capacity to. In five years time, likely less, Kitty would undoubtedly be married. And Mary would be left alone to make do with the dissatisfaction of their mother. Mary would be soundly on the shelf, and she would only be despised further for it. 

It would take a good while before she may find a position secure enough as a governess, and that was only after she rounded out her studies very thoroughly. Meaning then, that there was no way for her to not be dependent on the whims of her eldest sisters and their husbands, unless she remained at Longbourn indefinitely. Mary shuddered at the thought. 

The only way in which Mary could feasibly apprehend the independence that she had placed upon her infirm hope to be a governess would be by marriage. If she married Mr. Seton, in the eyes of all society she was free to do as she pleased, given it was by her husband's consent. While Mary doubted that Mr. Seton should exercise very much control over her, she had a contract should he be struck evil. 

That is what she read now, as she sat amid her father’s study. Mr. Seton circulated around her, marking down the multitude of tomes with which they were almost through. He hummed a tune of no melody, as unsettled dust decorated the air about him in the clement midday light. It was a very thorough contract, written in clean succinct script that did not lean lackadaisically one way or another. All of its contents were very neatly arranged, pleasing and clearly understood.

The summation was as stated: As per the contract, both parties shall enter the agreement and remain in it as equals. The companionship by which they conducted themselves previous to the marriage shall persist amid the marriage. Both parties shall be afforded equal autonomy in their personal ongoings. If any issue or outstanding information should be had it must not be withheld to any great nor detrimental extent and must be communicated. All concerning finances will be made known and addressed by both parties- either consensus or compromise must be reached pertaining to all major monetary disagreements. Both parties recognize the formal, platonic and mutually beneficial nature of this arrangement and will not harbour any extraneous expectations, romantic or otherwise. Both parties, do however, agree to present the arrangement as a “love match” to all external and observing facets of society, family and confidantes withstanding. All appearances will be maintained to the full capabilities of both parties. These agreements shall be fulfilled in agreed partnership and operated in equal exchange.

Mary read the contract twice. One finger absently traced her name inked by his deft pen as she scrutinized it the second time. She could feel him watching her, it was confirmed to her in the way that his humming slowed every time she made an adverse expression. “I have one stipulation.” She made a flippant gesture with her hand, “or addendum.”

Mr. Seton was before her quickly, drawing up a seat across from her. He took up his pen and nodded, “Of course.”

“The section on secrecy” Mary's voice quietly rose in question. She pointed her pale finger to the offending line. “May I tell not even Kitty the truth of our arrangement?”

He tilted his head, his frenzied brown eyes studied Mary curiously. “Well, I suppose it would be alright. I simply question the soundness of her discretion.” His brow furrowed gently, “Given, however, that you trust her, I shall learn to also. I hadn’t considered that you may want to inform anyone in your family.” 

Mary smiled lightly, a quiet chuckle escaping her, “I believe not telling Kitty will cause greater issue and outrage than informing her would.” She pressed her hands gently to her cheeks and leaned slightly further into the chair, “You mustn’t let it be known to her what I shall tell you. She will consider it plainly as betrayal.”

“I swear it.” He replied, placing the pen back into the inkpot. “There shall be no record of your confession.”

“Kitty was under the impression that we fancied one another. Or– at the very least you fancied me,” She did not remove her fingers from her face, instead, she placed her elbows on the desk, postured as though she was holding up her head. “She will undoubtedly question our engagement and certainly quite vocally. For I had assured her plenty that we were but mere friends.”

Mr. Seton, placed a square fist to his chin and set his elbow upon the desk also, mirroring Mary’s position, only slightly varied. “Can you not convince her otherwise? Certainly you are not a woman easily persuaded by trivial feelings, but that does not make change an impossibility.” He leaned into his fist and his face neared Mary’s so quickly that her eyes widened instinctively. In an impossible instant, Mary was informed of the freckle that dotted the corner of his right eye and of the light smudge of ink that stained the apple of his left cheek. “Simply expound to her your listless fall into sudden and overwhelming love and devotion for me.” He smiled and Mary may have studied the lines of his cheeks at such a distance, “If you sigh wistfully enough she may believe you.” 

Surely it was their censurable proximity that alarmed Mary the greatest. Alarm so great she could feel the warmth of illness rise urgently up her neck. The heat upon her cheeks warmed her fingertips and she determined that perhaps she really may be falling ill, being that she was so suddenly faint. Mary swatted a hand into the small space between their countenances and fell back into her seat. “It is not only a matter of whether or not I may convince her of our attachment. But also a matter of pride.”

“Pray, tell on.” He removed his chin from its position on his fist. Mr. Seton’s gaze flickered across the distance Mary had made between them. He had a studied expression upon his face, as though Mary’s retreat had proved some theory. 

“I had, quite vehemently, denied the possibility of any such attachment.” Her finger tapped upon the word marriage at the very top of the contract. “With language very effusive, and very much determined. This grew into quite an altercation— I shall not concern you with the details. Only know that It would be very shameful of me to have said all that I had, with such ardent denouncements of romance. Then proceed to announce myself engaged and infatuated little more than a fortnight later, no less. Kitty is not as Lizzy and Mr. Darcy are, left alone in their presumptions.” Mary shrugged a shoulder, concluding, “She will not believe it, even if I sigh wistfully a dozen times while describing the pleasantly practical slope of your nose, she will simply think me hysterical.” 

Mr. Seton looked upon Mary for an unblinking moment before laughing hard and noiselessly. He grasped fitfully at the edge of the desk as though he must stabilize himself or otherwise be overcome. “I have never received a compliment-“ his voice wobbled over the last word, “—as such. The pleasantly practical slope of my nose! Whatever does that mean?”

“I am glad you find my kindness so amusing!" She crossed her arms with indignation, and yet, she was smiling. Mary pinched the tip of her nose, lightly between her fingers. “I have a little snub of a snout,” With a small nod her spectacles fell down to the slight upturn of her nose. “It holds my glasses quite inconveniently upon my face, I am constantly adjusting them. You however have that very practical notch, on which your spectacles may nicely sit.”

Mr. Seton grinned so wide, Mary had half a mind to think him insolent. Mary had never seen his eyes possess so much mirth, “Your nose is not snub, I think it pert.”

Mary scrunched her face, her arms tightened  across her chest. “You mustn't talk like that.” She blew a hard breath from her mouth.

His one brow drew downward while the other raised, it was a precariously concerned yet amused expression. “Why ever not?”

Mary wasn’t quite sure—that thought was at the forefront of her mind. She was not sure why he could not speak so. In lieu of responding, Mary only narrowed her eyes and placed upon her countenance her most pointed and common look.

With his forefinger Mr. Seton drew a line betwixt them. “Very well” he conceded though he did not know for what, only that he did not like the scrunch of her frown.“However, this brings about the issue of appearances. I do not wish to violate the bounds of your comfort Miss Mary, but we must maintain some farce of marital affection in the face of polite society and of course, most importantly, my family. My father is a scrupulous man, he will suspect foul-play for far less than your refusing my compliments.”

Both parties, do however, agree to present the arrangement as a “love match” to all external and observing facets of society, family and confidantes withstanding. Mary read the section once more as thrums of doubt and dread twinged in her chest. It was not necessarily a matter of discomfort, it was, as it always seemed to be, a matter of ill-confidence. Did she possess the capacity to inhabit the role set in front of her? Could she lie in a manner so convincing that her audience could possess no conceivable doubt? 

Her anxiety told her that she could not. That Ian’s father would see through their scheme immediately. That she would fail to aid him in apprehending his inheritance and every day thereafter her presence in his life would remind him of that failure. But the greater part of her person, the persisting and unabiding notions of her heart would not allow her to think overmuch about her incapabilities. For if her mind managed to convince herself that she could not fulfill her end of the arrangement her conscience would not allow her to proceed in it. And selfishly, horribly she needed to see the arrangement through. She could not remain at Longbourn for the rest of her days, subject to her mother’s ridicule and her father’s indifference. Mary wanted to be wed. 

“You are correct in saying so, I must abandon my reservations should we make this scheme convincing.” Mary nodded, though she did not meet his gaze. For his second brow had relinquished its amusement and his expression had become all concern. “I must admit sir, that I shall have to follow your steed, for I have little practice in the artifice that you have laid much claim to. You may be as felicitous in your outward affections as you deem necessary to our mutual effort, and I shall play along to my greatest abilities— and I will trust also that you will inform me if I prove lacking.”

“No-“ Ian shook his head, and pulled the pen from its ink pot. He held it to Mary, forcing her to take it lest she allow ink to drip upon her father’s desk. “Under that clause, you must communicate your boundaries pertaining to nearness and appearances.This is as much for your protection as it is for the soundness of my mind. We needn’t endure unnecessary hardship through our misunderstanding each other.” 

Mary shook her head back, “I cannot begin to outline what you may and may not do, certainly not thoroughly. Though what should take the preeminence of our concern is how convincing we are capable of making our charade. For any person to think otherwise makes this arrangement for nought. Whether this be at the expense of my comfort is hardly a concern. “

Ian made an uneasy sound of dissent, before he could argue, however, Mary continued. “I swear to it, I do. That I shall tell you if I am truly unsettled by any part of this performance. It will be an exercise of trust at the beginning, then we will grow used to it as all things that become common with time. I trust in your direction and I will act to it.”

There was a long quiet of contemplation. In which Ian had removed his glasses and put them back on twice. He stole the drying pen from Mary’s hand, and revived it in ink, before turning the contract toward himself. “It is because we are equals in this partnership Mary that I will abide by the process you suggest. Though I would have preferred a list of allowances and prohibitions that I may inscribe into my memory.” 

“It is because we are equals that this process is applicable to you also. If I act in turns that discomfort you, you must be contractually obligated to inform me also.” Mary replied thoughtfully as she watched his tremulous hand neatly mark the paper. 

While keeping the presentation of a “love match” is of the utmost priority, both parties agree, to inform the other if any actions taken to ensure the maintenance of the charade become cause for discomfort or perturbation. 

“Are you certain, you wish to endure my compliments Miss Mary? Presently is an ample opportunity to prohibit me from speaking your praises ever again.” The pen remained poised for additions, though his voice eased mildly into teasing insinuation. 

Mary exaggerated a grimace, “I will persevere for our greater cause.” She spoke with faux solemnity. 

His left cheek dimpled and the small divot served to assure Mary somehow. “As for Kitty, you may tell her if you believe it best. I trust your discernment.” Ian pulled the conversation back to its beginning, as he scribbled Catherine Bennet below the clause of secrecy. “Do you have any further changes?”

Mary shook her head once, succinct, decisive. “No.”

“Then our contract is complete, Miss Mary,” and he smiled with an eager tentativeness that made Mary feel ill indeed.