A prejudice is a fond obstinate persuasion for which we can give no reason; for the moment a reason can be given for an opinion, it ceases to be a prejudice, though it may be an error in judgment: and are we then advised to cherish opinions only to set reason at defiance? This mode of arguing, if arguing it may be called, reminds me of what is vulgarly termed a woman's reason. - Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Women
It was, as far as she could tell, a lovely ball.
"I almost wish my mother was here to see this," said Anne.
Darcy smiled. "I could always ask Bingley to invite her to his next ball."
Anne laughed at the thought of Lady Catherine deigning to be seen at an assembly organised by anyone as lowly as the Bingleys. "But that would not be my great coming out. She had it all planned out, you know. I would be presented at court at the start of the season, and go to all the best parties, where I would dance with only the most eligible of bachelors, but twice with you." She felt a moment of self consciousness at this reference to her mother's past expectations, but he did not seem to mind. "Alas, it was not to be."
"It would be my pleasure to dance with you now, if you so wish it," said Darcy. "Although I must warn you that I am indifferent partner. Elizabeth has often complained of it." He said this with an affectionate smile that spoke of a private joke. The Darcys had many private jokes; Anne tried not to find it too obnoxious. And it was kind of him to ask, even if he knew the answer would almost certainly be no.
"Thank you, but not tonight," said Anne. "Coming out is exertion enough for one evening. Dancing can wait for another ball." She was determined that there would be another ball, even if she had to sleep after this one for the rest of the season.
"Very well. I am regardless glad to see you here. I know that your health prevents you from many things, but we always missed you in town during the season, and I am glad you have had the chance to experience it."
"Yes," said Anne, trying not to let herself be overcome with regret for a youth spent waiting until she was well enough for the proper coming out Lady Catherine had been so determined on. She was not sure Darcy and the rest of the family had truly missed her, but as Miss de Bourgh of Rosings she would never have lacked for introductions or invitations. She certainly did not lack for them now, she was forever having to decide which of the many possible engagements she was invited to she should spend her limited energy on. If she had had a coming out ball, even now, there was no doubt it would have been popular, and no-one would have dared complain that she was too old or sickly to be a debutante.
But all she would ever manage, and all she needed, was simply this: to go to a ball. The denizens of the royal palace would happily go on without ever making her acquaintance, and avoiding a gala in her honour meant that she was free to leave whenever she wanted, or call off sick entirely, and no-one would mind.
And she was at a ball. The room was large, and hot, and bursting with more people in evening wear than Anne had seen in one place since she was a girl and her parents stopped hosting balls of their own. Dancers bowed and whirled to jigs and airs, and the conversation was so loud it was difficult to make out the words of the person next to you. And this was a small ball! Anne was not sure how much more of it she could take, but she was very glad to have seen it. She was out at last, and it had only taken her twenty nine years to get there.
Darcy was eventually dragged off to dance by Bingley's sister, and Anne was left to consider the room in solitude until the next well meaning soul or social climber tried to make conversation. She could see Mrs Darcy talking to Mrs Bingley and some other friends, while Miss Kitty Bennet danced with her fiancé, recently arrived in London. Anne had not had much of a chance to speak to Mr Hewitt, but he seemed a decent man, as did the friend he had brought with him. Mrs Wickham was dancing with the latest of a string of young men Anne did not recognise. She was less sure that the young man in question was decent, but Mrs Wickham seemed happy all the same.
Mary was dancing too, with Mr Bingley. She did not look entirely happy about it. As she had told Anne earlier, she would much rather have been playing the piano, but Bingley had hired professional players. Anne watched the white beads in Mary's dark hair glint in the candle light as she wove between the other dancers, arms swaying as she grasped Bingley's hand and then let it go, eyes focussed at a point midway between them. She was concentrating so hard on remembering the steps perfectly that the tip of her tongue had stuck out. Anne flatly refused to find this endearing, or feel sad that she could not dance with Mary herself. It was not as if Mary would want to dance with her even if she could. Such things were not part of the natural order, after all.
Anne frowned and looked away. She spent a moment wondering where Georgiana was before remembering that she was not yet out. Darcy was very protective of his sister, and did not want her attending balls until he was sure that she felt up to them. But it would not be forever for Georgiana, just a year or so. Darcy was not Lady Catherine.
The music ended, and the dancers bowed and scattered. Servants replaced a large bowl of punch just in time for Mary to pour herself a glass, drink it, then pour herself another.
"Would you like some punch, Anne?" she called across the small space between them. "It is quite refreshing!"
Anne usually avoided punch, her stomach not being much in favour of fruit juice or spirits. But though she could not dance she was determined to still take some part in the festivities. "Just a little," she said.
Mary sat beside her and handed over a pretty cup filled with a pungent smelling yellow liquid. Anne took a sip and then grimaced at the taste. "This is very strong," she said. She took another, larger sip on principle then gave up.
Mary took a swig from her own cup and swirled it around in her mouth before swallowing. "I suppose it is," she said. "Would you like some water instead?"
"Yes please," said Anne. Mary poured Anne's drink into her own cup and emptied it, then left for the refreshment table. Before she had time to return Anne had started to regret her decision to be festive. Her throat was burning and she could feel the stirrings of dyspepsia.
Anne took the glass of water from Mary gratefully. "I think it may be time to retire for the evening," she said, and felt her voice already starting to go hoarse. "Could you please thank the Bingleys for me? I must call for the carriage."
"You are unwell? But I will go with you," said Mary.
Anne shook her head. "The ball has barely started," she said. "You should stay and have fun."
"It is a ball," said Mary. "I only came to be polite, and be with you." It was hard to argue with that.
"Then shall we thank the Bingleys together?"
Thankfully, Anne had had the foresight to leave a a bottle of medicine in their carriage for just this eventuality. The chalky liquid did not taste pleasant but it soothed her throat enough for speech. She sat back in the seat with a sigh, and smiled across at Mary. "I believe I shall classify this as a success," she said. "Though I may feel differently tomorrow."
"Better than a success," said Mary. "A triumph! Now everyone in London knows how pretty and wonderful you are. And you can go to balls whenever you like! Next time I will play. What is your favourite dance?"
"I do not know," said Anne, a trifle wistfully.
"Then I will play you all of them," said Mary. She gave out an unladylike cackle and then rested her head against the wall of the carriage as if the sound had taken all her energy to make.
"Are you quite well, Mary?"
"Very well," said Mary. "Did I mention that you are pretty? That dress suits you very well. And your hair is...all..." She swirled her fingers at her temples in the shape of Anne's ringlets. "You look as if you were a princess in a fairytale. If you had been willing to dance, I am sure all the men would have asked for your hand." She leaned towards Anne and added, sotto voce. "And all the women too. I know I would much rather dance with you than with Mr Bingley."
"I thought we agreed not to speak of such things," said Anne, discomforted. She did not know what to do with Mary in this mood.
"Very true, very true," said Mary seriously. She gave a heavy sigh and looked out the window.
As they travelled across the city a light rain started, and Anne's condition worsened. She shivered as they left the carriage. "You are cold!" said Mary. "I shall give you my coat,"
"We shall take two steps and go indoors," said Anne, impatient to do just that.
"You are so wise, Anne," said Mary. "It is one of the things I love about you." She clasped Anne's hand and smiled at her dopily.
That did not sound right at all. What could have gotten into her?
They stepped inside.
"You have returned early," said Georgiana, rising from a chair near the entrance. Mrs Annesley had gone out for the evening, leaving her to manage the household alone. "Are you unwell, Anne?"
"Yes," said Anne. "But I had a delightful evening."
"Oh good," said Georgiana. "Next season, if I am out, I would be so happy if..."
"Is Anne not beautiful, Georgiana?" interrupted Mary.
"Yes?" Georgiana gave Anne a weak smile.
"She was the prettiest woman at the ball. Far prettier even than Jane. Or Elizabeth. Or Lydia. Or Kitty. Or Miss Bingley. Or Mrs..."
"I believe that Mary is drunk," said Anne.
"Oh dear," said Georgiana.
"Drunk?" cried Mary, loudly and in a tone of great offence. "I am never drunk. Drunkenness is a sin."
"You are drunk," said Anne. "How much of that punch did you drink?"
Mary pursed her lips in thought, and counted on her fingers. "I do not recall," she said at last. "The room was very warm, and dancing makes one remarkably thirsty. But I am not drunk."
Anne sighed. Her throat was still sore, her head swam, and her stomach had not forgiven her the insult of the punch. "Let us go to bed, and in the morning we will see if you also never suffer the after-effects of drink."
"And again you are wise," said Mary.
Anne said good night to Georgiana and left Mary in the hands of Mary's maid before returning to her own. Anne gave a relieved sigh as Jackson undid her laces, grateful to be finally out of her ball dress and free of the forest of pins holding up her hair.
"Should I have done up something simpler, Miss de Bourgh?" asked Jackson. "I did want you looking proper for your coming out, such as it was, but it's no good if it's made you too sick to stay."
"No, I do not regret it," said Anne. "I am sore now but it was a lovely evening. Thank you for your help."
When Jackson was gone Mary smiled to herself. Drunk or not, Mary had called her pretty. What a fool I am, she thought. But that was hardly a new revelation. She closed her eyes and started drifting off to sleep.
She was woken not long after by a creaking sound, and the sensation of the mattress shifting as someone got into bed. Half asleep and with her throat still hoarse, she managed to croak out a weak "What?"
"It is only me," said Mary. "I was falling sleep, and I thought about how lonely it was, to sleep alone. And I thought you might be lonely too. Especially because it is so cold. So I have come to keep you warm." She rolled over and gave Anne a kiss on the cheek.
Anne groaned. God save her from a well meaning, drunk Mary. "Go away," she said.
"Oh," said Mary. "Oh I thought you...but of course. If you do not wish...I am sorry." She sat up. Then she curled in on herself and started to cry.
Anne groaned again and sat up herself. A crying, drunk Mary was even worse. "Do not cry," said Anne. "Just go back to bed."
"I am sorry," said Mary, sniffling. "I just...I feel sad sometimes, that I cannot touch you. I know you worry what others will think, and I suppose...I suppose for you it is different. Since you see women as...as I do men. And so you only wish to embrace them in the context of marriage, or something like it, and you do not wish to embrace them as friends. But I wish to embrace you as a friend very much."
"It is not different for me," said Anne, too irritated by Mary's poor logic to think very hard about what she was saying. "That makes no sense. I enjoy embracing women far more than I enjoy embracing men! And I am sure I wish to embrace you just as much as you wish to embrace me. Why would I not? It is not a matter of wishes, it is..."
But before she could explain why it was a bad idea for Mary to embrace her, she had already done so. Mary pulled her close with a happy sigh.
"Oh, that makes me so happy!" said Mary. "I thought you did not like me to touch you, and I want to touch you so much. Do you also wish to kiss me as a friend?" Mary kissed her on the lips, leaving behind the taste of pineapple and tooth powder, then kissed her on the forehead and chin. The kisses were loose and wet and Anne's skin was left feeling sticky and tingling.
"No," said Anne, wishing to kiss her very much. "Go to bed."
"Oh," said Mary. "That is a pity. For I wish to kiss you a great deal. But embracing is also agreeable." She smiled at Anne and put her hand on Anne's thigh under the blanket. Her hand was warm through the thin fabric of Anne's nightgown.
Anne put her hand on Mary's shoulder and pushed her away. "Mary...," she started, then lost her nerve. Did she really have to explain this? Mary smiled at her again and started running her fingers down Anne's hair. Anne sighed and cleared her throat, wincing at the painful way it rattled. "Mary, you are being a terrible moral guide," she said in a disapproving tone, feeling very put upon. "This is not helping me avoid impure thoughts about women at all."
"But of course it is," said Mary. "If you have innocent, friendly embraces with me you will feel less lonely, and thus less tempted to engage in impure acts with other women. It is only logical." Mary embraced her again, and gave her a squeeze, nuzzling her head into Anne's hair. "There is no way you would impure thoughts about me," she said. "So it is perfectly safe."
"Yes, I would," said Anne. "Trust me, I...Please, Mary, this is every kind of inappropriate. You must go back to bed."
Mary stiffened and shifted away, looking at Anne with wide eyes. Well, that was that. Maybe she would forget in the morning and they could go back to pretending everything was fine.
"You have impure thoughts about me?" asked Mary. "You would like to–do–sinful things? With me?" Her eyes were very bright and Anne could still taste the memory of her kiss. Anne had to look away, sure the answer to Mary's question was written all over her face.
"I am sorry," said Anne. "Knowing your disinterest I would never consider..."
"I would be willing," said Mary. "I had not considered the possibility before, but it solves everything. As your friend, I would be willing to help you resist temptation by lying with you. I have spent some time considering the method, and it does not sound disagreeable."
"No," said Anne, horrified. This was like some strange, shameful dream. "No that is...Mary, that is perverse. How is that any better than me simply taking a lover in the first place?"
"Because..." Mary frowned in concentration, seriously considering the question. "Because nobody should touch you that way but me," she said, in a wondering tone, as if it was some great truth that had just been revealed to her. "They will not love you as I do. It would be impure and sordid. With me it would be a pure, transcendental expression of friendship and love." She sighed happily and lay back on the pillow, closing her eyes. "We would be like Diana and her acolytes, bathing naked together after a hunt," said Mary. "How agreeable it would be..."
"Oh my God," said Anne.
Surely Mary could not–not really be attracted to her? There had been many times Anne had thought she saw something beyond friendly affection in Mary's fondness for her, but had chided herself for wishful thinking, and then had chided herself for even having such wishes. But the thought of Mary reciprocating Anne's affections made Anne suddenly aware of how deep those affections ran. How had she ever thought her plain, or dull? She was an angel, even in the darkness she radiated a warmth that melted the ice that had paralysed Anne for so long.
"Do not take the Lord's name in vain," mumbled Mary.
And if the Lord had sent an angel to punish and tempt Anne he could not have done much better. For Mary was still Mary, and she still thought Anne's preferences were a sin. The fact that she shared those preferences changed nothing, if anything, it just made the situation more awful.
"Mary Bennet you are the most incredible hypocrite I have ever met," said Anne, affectionately. She let herself touch her fingers to Mary's cheek, and just for a moment imagined that Mary really meant what she was saying, and would still mean it in the morning.
Mary did not reply. Instead she started to snore softly.
"No, no, no, you are not falling asleep in my bed," said Anne. "Wake up." She poked Mary in the side. "Wake up!"
Mary was not a light woman, and Anne was not strong, but somehow she managed to push her out of Anne's bed and send her stumbling out the door. At which point, Anne encountered a very surprised footman.
"Are you having trouble, Miss de Bourgh?" he asked, with the expression of a servant not sure if he should be pretending not to see what his betters were up to.
"Miss Bennet sleepwalked into my room," said Anne. "Can you please make sure she gets back to her own room safely?"
"Of course," he said. Anne watched Mary to see if she was about to repeat her previous sentiments, but she just blinked sleepily and went where she was led.
Anne sighed gratefully and went back into her room, though she had her doubts about getting any sleep.
There are many stories of weak minded people who drink to forget their troubles. Mary was not tempted to join their ranks.
Being drunk had caused her to forget many things: her dignity, her principles, her self respect. But it had not erased her troubles, and the morning brought nothing but the stark, cold knowledge of what she had done.
Mary winced at the sunlight streaming across the carpet as she stumbled out of her chambers.
"Oh dear," said Elizabeth in a concerned tone that did not quite hide her amusement. "Did you drink the bad punch?" She stepped over and closed the curtains, and immediately became Mary's absolute favourite sibling.
"Bad punch?" replied Mary.
"As far as anyone can tell, an entire bottle of brandy somehow got exchanged for one of the bottles of champagne. Someone noticed quickly and the tainted bowl was taken away, but more than one guest inadvertently overindulged in the meantime. Poor Mr Brown fell and twisted his ankle after trying to dance on the piano." Poor Mr Brown indeed. Elizabeth looked more amused than sympathetic. "Bingley is distraught, but the ball was otherwise so charming that I think he shall be forgiven."
"Ah," said Mary. "Yes, that would explain my current and previous state."
Elizabeth poured her a drink. "A little hair of the dog that bit you?" She was likely remembering, as Mary was, the many times their mother had used this phrase in the morning after a rowdy night. Elizabeth herself had always been too careful to need it herself, and until now so had Mary.
"Thank you," said Mary. The wine (or was it brandy? You would think the difference would be obvious) burned as it went down, but did help a little with her headache. Why anyone would choose to get drunk was beyond her, this was awful. "Have you seen Anne?"
Elizabeth directed her towards the sitting room. Mary thanked her and went to face her fate.
"You remember, then," said Anne, seeing Mary's expression. "I was not sure that you would." Her voice was still hoarse, and for some reason this was intensely attractive.
Everything about Anne was intensely attractive. It was like a screen had been removed from Mary's mind, and all the feelings she had labelled as friendly affection and aesthetic admiration were now clear in their nature as love and desire. Realisation that she felt this way had felt like a glorious revelation last night, and Mary had felt buoyant with truth and joy. The thought was no longer joyful but the attraction remained. Looking at Anne set off a sharp yearning in Mary's chest.
"Not everything," said Mary. "But I know that I...that I was unforgivably forward. No, beyond forward. Obscene. The things I said! I cannot forgive myself. I can only express my deep sorrow and penitence."
"You were drunk," said Anne. "I know you would never say such things in your right mind." She frowned.
"That excuses nothing! Drunkenness itself is a sin," said Mary. "To be drunken and...and lustful is the worst sin I can imagine."
"Neither of them are sin to me," said Anne. "In my opinion, your worst sin was bothering me when I was trying to sleep." Yet she was curled up in on herself, clearly miserable. There was no doubt that Mary's actions had upset her, whatever she might say.
"That is very kind of you," said Mary. "But I cannot agree. And to think I claimed to be a moral guide to you. I have always considered myself chaste and virtuous, yet in the end I am...I am no better than Lydia. No, I am as bad as Wickham. I tried to seduce you! If you had not resisted..."
"But I did," said Anne. "For you are no rake, and I am no innocent young girl. Mary, you must not...it was a moment of weakness. If you must see your actions as sinful then...you have repented. Now you can move on, wiser and more careful."
"Yes," said Mary. "You are right, as always. You are so good, Anne. I have pretended to moral purity but my purity is base and hypocritical. It is you who truly virtuous. We shall be two brave soldiers together, fighting the call of sin."
Anne made an irritated noise. "If you must see it that way," she said.
"Would you rather I did not?" asked Mary. "Would you rather we...no, I must not ask that."
"Indeed," said Anne. "You must not."
Did she mean to imply that she was interested in Mary? But she had pushed her away. As was right and good, and only logical. Yes, Anne was interested in women, but that did not mean she would be interested in her. Why would anyone as beautiful and wise as Anne look at someone as plain and dull as Mary?
And why did Mary feel so sorry for it?