Summary: Follow Mary Bennet in her quest to discover her true self, as unlikely friendships are formed, tentative romances occur, and attempts at matchmaking (or insufferable meddling) run wild. Also featuring Kitty, Georgiana Darcy and Susan with Mansfield Park.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Jane Austen's genius. Only this plot is mine, along with a few original characters. A few Emma references in this chapter (both the novel and the movie adaptation) + your usual ratio of Austen quotes per chapter ^^.

Thanks to all the kind people who took the time to leave feedback, you made my day! Replies can be found on the TODQ forum.

Susan's voice was weak, reflecting the young woman's uncertainty. The musician in Mary mentally cringed at the few false notes which crept in Susan's rendition; but the friend won over the critic. Surmising that a familiar, non-judging face would cheer the performer's spirits, she tried to project calm and confidence in her friend's abilities; when a slight crack slipped in Susan's voice, Mary kept her composure intact and was gratified to see her friend recover.

In spite of the appearances, Mary was fuming on her friend's behalf. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr Bertram looking puzzled at the discrepancy between his cousin's first previous performance and the one they were currently being subjected to. Maybe he was regretting his intervention; but Mary's sympathy went to Susan, who was valiantly fighting the urge to flee the scene.

After an excruciating first verse which seemed to go on forever, Susan made a desperate attempt to collect herself. She had a better inkling of what the tune ought to sound like- if only she could hear it sung right just once…

How far away was the success of her first performance! But she would overcome the wave of distress which was threatening to engulf her; she must salvage the rest of the performance.

Three parts remained, she thought with trepidation; she must attack the second verse:

Oh, saw you not my lady

Out in the garden there

Susan was stunned into speechlessness; Miss Sanders was stunned into abruptly ceasing her playing; the rest of the company was stunned into wonderment.

Indifferent to awe and the sudden lack of accompaniment, the improvised singer rose from his seat to walk towards Susan. Mellifluous tenor wooed their audience, hitting all the right notes effortlessly while singing a capella. Susan's quick mind went still and uncomprehending as the Earl of Hampstead stood next to her.

Shaming the rose and lily

For she is twice as fair

She could not think, nor could she reason; her bewilderment did not dissipate, but it turned into delightful confusion. Despite her dislike for the Earl, she found his presence by her side comforting as she committed the song to memory.

Her heart swelled; the third verse began. The Earl looked sharply at her as her voice joined his:

Though I am nothing to her

Though she must rarely look at me

She was dimly aware that somewhere, Miss Sanders had gathered her wits and had resumed her playing; but all her surroundings disappeared as their voices merged with astounding ease. Susan's last misgivings vanished; once again, singing felt as natural as breathing. That it should have happened with the proud, disagreeable Earl of Hampstead, she did not pause to consider, lost in the delight of having her true voice back:

And though I could never woo her

I'll love her till I die

Here came the last part:

Surely you heard my lady

Go down in the garden singing

At this point the Earl shot her a warning glance; Susan understood its significance, as a look at the music sheet confirmed that there would be some variations on the previous verses. She sang in a milder fashion while he tackled on the technical changes.

Silencing all the songbirds

And setting the earlies ringing

Yet, to Susan's amazement, his voice did not overpower hers; indeed, he was harmonizing with her, she realized.

The rumours were true, she thought in a daze. He really is an excellent musician.

But surely you are my lady

Out in the garden there

He held on a hand to silence her; she complied. She did not begrudge him the right to sing the last notes alone when he had come to her rescue.

Reading the two last lines "Rivalling the glittering sunshine/ With the glory of golden hair", she wondered if this was one of the reason why the gleaming blonde Miss Sanders had chosen the song. From what she knew of the lady, she would not put it past her.

The Earl glanced at his sister as he sang:

Rivalling the glittering sunshine

He looked at Susan's brownish curls framing a face flushed with animation, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he went on to sing the last line:

With the glory of fair brown hair.

Thus the performance was brought to an end. The Earl took Susan's end and they both bowed. There was a flurry of compliments; Susan vaguely heard the Earl tossing carelessly "You must bow too, Annabelle- your playing was charming. Now we must leave it to you to entertain us with your singing", knowing full well that Miss Sanders could not rival them; with authority, he led her back to her seat, braving Lady Prescott's attempts to engage them in another song with a curt "We do not want Miss Price to sing herself hoarse, don't we?"

Much later, back in her room at Mansfield, Susan could only wonder at such an extraordinary behaviour from the Earl. Was it possible that he had taken pity on her predicament? She found it hard to believe that she would be worthy of such condescension. It was more likely that he had stepped in to spite his sister…

Surely she could not have misjudged him so badly? However, regardless of his motives, Susan could not go on harbouring so strong a dislike against him; she swore that from this day on, she would try to be more civil to the Earl.

The morning following the musical evening, Mary found herself in a room of Mansfield, waiting for Susan who was to go for a walk with her. While her friend was busy making sure that Lady Bertram would not be uncomfortable in any way during her short-lived absence, Mary could not help but overhear Sir Bertram's voice. She could not make out his words, but his tone of reproof conveyed through the door.

At last Mr Bertram emerged frowning from the room; upon seeing her, he schooled his features into a blank mask, but she was not deceived. They exchanged pleasantries; she mentioned that Susan and she were headed for a walk:

"How right you are!" he exclaimed. "Such a fine weather-it would be a pity to waste it by staying indoors, and even more, to conduct tedious business."

"It would depend on the nature of this business," Mary interjected.

"Writing painstaking business letters to punctilious solicitors, for instance- isn't it best saved for a rainy day?" Mr Bertram said with levity.

Mary did not find an answer to this reply; again, she felt that under the guise of flippancy, Mr Bertram's carelessness was exposed. The mixture of disappointment and anger she had experienced last evening surfaced again.

She could not quite account for it, since this was Mr Bertram's business and no one else's; but maybe this was another manifestation of this friendship she had just acknowledged? At the root of it was concern; concern for the friend whose company she had come to value. She did have doubts on his steadiness of purpose and character; but she had seen enough marks of his kindness and good-nature to believe in his potential for becoming a true gentleman.

Her silence prompted Mr Bertram to talk about last night's performances:

"You did train Susan very well for her song. What a pity that she had such a bad case of nerves for the next one. I was readying myself for some chilling remarks from Lady Prescott, who holds her performing guests to high standards – when Hampstead salvaged the whole thing single-handedly. Braver man than I! Of course, even if he had sung badly, no one would have dared to boo him off the stage. I have to say this for him, he saved Susan from embarrassment."

Mary was struck by Mr Bertram's insouciant comments. Did he truly think that his cousin had sung poorly because of some crippling stage fright?

"Did it occur to you that Susan would not have been in need of any rescue if you had not publicly urged her to sing?" she settled for asking.

Mr Bertram looked puzzled:

"Why, she could well have refused to sing if she had wished to! I thought that she did not want to put herself forward, and I was encouraging her to do so! Only when I saw how fretful she was did I understand her reluctance to sing in the first place!"

Mary could not believe her ears.

"She was not fretful before, wasn't she? Mr Bertram, you know that your cousin is brave and outspoken. How can you believe that her unease stemmed from shyness? Surely you must be aware that her former education has been sorely lacking in some areas- that she was never taught music. She was reluctant to sing a song she had not learnt, because she could not read the music sheet Miss Sanders so obligingly proffered!"

She watched as realization dawned on Mr Bertram.

"How was I to know…?" he protested.

"You took her in, Mr Bertram; you knew that she never had any tutors or governess to teach her. Neither had she access to a well-furnished library, or a pianoforte. This is nothing to be ashamed of; but to admit it publicly would be grounds enough for some people to look down on her. This is why she did not give a reason for her unwillingness to perform."

She glared at Mr Bertram:

"If you had supported her, instead of interfering in such a high-handed manner…"

"Susan was free to refuse!" he countered in earnest.

"How so?" she said with some exasperation. "How could she possibly deny your simple request, in front of all your neighbours, in her situation? When most people gossip about her circumstances; when they closely observe the way you are treating Miss Price so that they can know how far their courtesy towards her shall extend; when gratitude is so much instilled in her! No, Mr Bertram, she is not free to refuse, when you bid her to sing! She is not in your position, to do as she pleases!"

His face showed genuine remorse; by his expression, Mary could tell that her arguments were novel to him. In a lower voice, she said:

"Indeed, how were you to know? You are a man. You are the elder son of Sir Bertram. With all the privileges which come with your sex and your rank, how have you ever been coerced into doing something against your will?"

"You must think that I am very selfish," he said at length. "Yet I do care for my cousins' well-being."

"I do not doubt your generosity," Mary replied. "You are generous- in a grand, careless way."

His words from last night echoed in her mind: "In time, I shall hire a good steward, rely on his competence and hope he shall not cheat me excessively."

"You are quite prone to mockery too, whenever one attempts to engage you in serious talk; and I begin to suspect that even your jabs at yourself have some truth in them. You do care very little for your responsibilities, don't you?" she said sternly.

She willed for him to react and to prove her assumptions wrong.

"You are not the first person to paint such an unflattering picture of me, Miss Bennet," he replied with equanimity. "You are right. I am the elder son. I have enjoyed all the privileges this conferred me. But," and he looked at her right in the eye, "I did try to shoulder my responsibilities to my estate. My father, however, is loath to trust me- with good reasons, though, since I have been quite careless in the past. For everything I do he advises me to emulate Edmund's patience and attention to details."

His sudden bitterness startled Mary:

"My brother is closer to my father in habits, wisdom and temperament. If it was not for my birthright, Edmund would have fulfilled my duties to Sir Thomas' greatest satisfaction. I have no head for management, it appears; then I shall dutifully pay more capable men to manage my business. Why should I trouble myself with such cares, indeed?"

He smiled at Mary:

"I can see that you do not approve; but I have been universally described as a man of leisure, and I bow to the public's superior assessment of my character. I am a lost cause, Miss Bennet."

Mary stared at him. She had finally cracked the veneer of light-hearted pleasantries Mr Bertram used to deflect enquiries. While Mr Bertram had still been true to his teasing self during their exchange- it was in his nature-, he had been honest in his defense (if one might call it a defense, Mary countered). Her awareness reached a new high as she put on the finishing touches on a picture she had not realized she had been painting over the past months.

In all fairness, she could not call him careless: she had seen the flash of hurt he had not been able to conceal as he had mentioned his father's distrust and disappointment. There was hope for him, still; but there was a greater danger threatening to break out. She apprehended its nature with sudden clarity; she almost staggered under the crushing weight of this enlightenment.

Now would have been a good time to accept Mr Bertram's last statement; she had already overstepped her bounds. With some clever change of subject, both could have retreated into an (almost) peaceful state of polite acquaintanceship (there would be some time before Mr Bertram could call her his friend again, Mary surmised; his others friends probably did not answer his pleasantries by leveling charges of selfishness and irresponsibility against his character).

Alas, this was not to be. For all her flaws, Mary had always obeyed her conscience. She must warn Mr Bertram of the evils which would befall him if he persisted in his unconcern:

"I do not pretend to know on which grounds the public have judged your character, Mr Bertram. Such terms as "common knowledge" and "general opinion" have always filled me with mistrust; many people refer to them in order to delegate the exertion of their own judgment."

This prelude was a bit lengthy; she hastened to go straight to the point:

"I do not believe that you are completely careless."

At this Mr Bertram looked up in surprise. This must have been the first time anyone had nuanced their phrasing of his flaws. Fleetingly, Mary wondered about Sir Bertram's parenting. She pictured a young Mr Bertram brimming with unrestrained liveliness, under the care of a very tranquil mother and a repressive-looking father. Sir Bertram appeared to be the kind of well-intentioned albeit rigorous man, who would hand down definitive judgments.

"Indeed, it seems to me that you are trying very hard to be indifferent."

I understand this perfectly. I used to do it too.

Mr Bertram recovered and said in his pleasing way:

"You give me too much credit, Miss Bennet; I am not trying so very hard."

He underestimated Mary's tenacity. She was on a mission; she would make him understand.

"Your readiness to relinquish your responsibilities does not signify at all, then?" she challenged him.

Anger and injured pride shone in his eyes; but he controlled himself and said flatly:

"What does it signify? There is no harm done."

Troubled grey eyes rested on him:

"Of course there is. It is harmful to you, for one."

This argument left him speechless.

"You cannot wish for indifference," she whispered softly. "You do not know how far it can lead you."

She paused. Empty rhetoric would not sit well with Mr Bertram. He had disclosed important, private matters; this required equal frankness from her.

Mary took a deep breath:

"It seems such an easy path, doesn't it? My father does think so."

She had his attention; but she looked away as she went on:

"I know the effects of indifference; I can only speculate as to its causes. Maybe it stems from his dissatisfaction with the choices he made younger." (marrying my mother, who was not his equal). "Maybe his worries were not alleviated by my birth, which did not give him the heir he had hoped, for our estate is entailed."(If I had been a boy…)

She blinked to dispel treacherous tears and focused to keep her voice steady:

"As a result, he did not seek to improve Longbourne. He has his study, where he spends most of his time. He does not care for social events, nor does he care to know about his younger daughters very much. He is removed from all the proceedings. He appears content, I believe; but I do not think this is happiness."

She did not see Mr Bertram's features soften; she said with more strength:

"I was headed this way. In such a place there remains little but emptiness. Isn't it better to find one valued and useful?"

She turned to look fiercely at Mr Bertram:

"Your father may doubt you; mine is barely aware of my existence. Sir Bertram is asking you to prove yourself; in exchange, you are gifted a place which no one shall take away from you. You hold your destiny in your hands, as well as the destinies of all who depend on your estate; and you want to remain indifferent!"

There was a deep frown on Mr Bertram's brow. He was staring at Mary as if he, too, was putting on the finishing touches on her picture.

Mary misread his look. She remembered where she was and what she had said; she glanced down and spoke quietly:

"I have taken a great deal of liberties, Mr Bertram. It was not my intention to offend you; but I cannot regret my words. I have come to regard you as a friend; and as a friend, I find it my duty to tell you…"

She struggled to find the appropriate words.

"To tell me that it was badly done?" Mr Bertram supplied.

His tone like his usually open face was unreadable.

Mary held bravely her own.

"I have witnessed first-hand what indifference has done to my father. I do not wish it on you."

Something passed over his expression; he looked ready to say something, when Susan's footsteps made them turn away from each other.

Mary was preoccupied as she walked with Susan. Had she gone too far? The regrets started pouring in. She had been so caught up in the moment, so sure that the conclusions she had come to needed to be said, that she had forgotten that Mr Bertram did not wish to hear them.

For how could he forgive such a lecture! Would she never learn? Had she not been rebuffed, time after time, whenever she embarked on what Kitty and Lydia called "her sermons?"

He had called her his friend. Well, after such a display, this amiable thought would never come to be again. What had possessed her? Did she want to alienate the few friends she had?

But it had felt like the right thing to do, Mary argued back. Mr Bertram had been ready to give in to indifference; but he lacked the coldness which made such a choice bearable. She had been concerned for him- she still was. Had she cared less, she would have been able to ignore it more.

She nodded and interjected "very generous of him, indeed", as Susan was praising the Earl's magnificent timing last evening. After such a spectacular intervention, it was only natural that a young lady of sixteen, in spite of her initial prejudice against the gentleman, should be willing to discuss him at length; and Mary was only too happy to oblige her.

Kitty was enjoying herself excessively. Her eyes fell upon Mr Clifford, who was gesticulating wildly in front of a captivated Miss Halifax; but she felt nothing more than relief at the thought that he would not inflict his irksome company on her. She would not have traded her companion for Miss Halifax's.

True to his word, Dr Campbell had not been a scintillating dance partner; but his even temper, his source of exhaustive anecdotes kept Kitty thoroughly entertained. There was something else, too, which impressed her as Dr Campbell was once more acknowledged by another family attending the assembly. He was well-known and appreciated by all; in his quiet, unassuming manners, there was the confidence of a man who had found his place in this community.

It occurred suddenly to Kitty that their stay with the Hardings was coming to an end; and the thought of not seeing Dr Campbell anymore (of not seeing him ever again) made her quite distressed. In the carriage which drove them home, she was unusually silent; she did not notice that Georgiana was similarly distraught.

Georgiana's mind was still reeling from the conversation she had overheard. It consisted almost entirely of hints and vague allusions, but she understood all too clearly the gist of it; and once the seeds of suspicion had been sowed, she found herself powerless to dispel them.

Mrs Harding peered anxiously at her son:

"Are you certain of your decision, Hadrian?"

"It is not my heart I am unsure of, Mother," he replied.

Mrs Harding could not remain silent:

"I do find Miss Darcy a lovely young lady; but I am sorry to say that so far I have not seen in her any signs of partiality for you."

"She is very reserved, Mother; but I hope that she is not indifferent."

"Yet she has not given you any signs of her regard?" Mrs Harding insisted.

"No, she has not," her son admitted at length, though it cost him to do so. "But how is she supposed to? She does not know the arts and entrapments other coquettish ladies would have no qualms in setting up; and I love her all the more for her simplicity."

Mrs Harding shook her head:

"I do not talk of "traps"; believe me, Hadrian, when a young lady wants you to fix your interest with her, she will always find a way to let you know that she is not averse to you. You witnessed how Miss Catherine behaved with our physician at the assembly, didn't you?"

She stifled a sigh as she saw the impact of her words on him:

"Your father and I were blessed. Ours was a love match. I know you well, Hadrian, and I know that you cannot be happy in a union of convenience. I have no objections to Miss Darcy; but if she were to accept you, could you bear to be the one who loves more than he is loved, again?"

He flinched, but she would not be deterred.

"If you are sure that her affection matches yours, I shall have no more concerns; but you deserve to have your wife return your love."

Mrs Brereton was visiting. While Mrs Traumayn thought her a very foolish woman, she found her an unending source of information: it does not hurt to know what is being said here and there; and she knows all the gossip of the county, child!

Mary was doing her best to carry the burden of the conversation as Mrs Brereton shared some tedious insights on the difficulties of keeping a good cook, the health hazards –according to her apothecary- which came from partaking in a piece of cake, and so forth, until Mrs Brereton gave a self-satisfied smile which heralded juicy news.

"We might have news of the happiest sort sooner than we expect it," she said.

"Which sort?" Mary asked politely.

Mrs Brereton looked offended at the question.

"Why, a marriage, of course!" she retorted. "A most brilliant match, indeed," she resumed. "Fortune, rank, elegance on both sides. He is a most handsome, agreeable gentleman; and she is a lady of quality. They are suited to each other perfectly."

And on the basis of such flimsy details we proclaim two individuals' suitability!

Mrs Traumayn's amused smile seemed to echo her thoughts:

"What paragons! Pray, Mrs Brereton, do we know of such people?"

"You are mocking me, Mrs Traumayn," Mrs Brereton cried out; "you have guessed it! Why, who can it be but Mr Bertram and Miss Sanders!"

Mary froze. Mrs Brereton whispered in a conspiratorial fashion:

"I have it on good authority that Sir Bertram thinks that it is time for his son to take a wife. Miss Sanders is very much in favour with the Yates, which is understandable. She is all elegance, isn't she?"

And no substance.

"So great connections, too! What a handsome pair they should make, don't you think so?"

Mary was at a loss on how to match such panegyric; Mrs Traumayn raised an objection:

"I do not recall any instance of Mr Bertram acting besotted with Miss Sanders."

Mrs Brereton quelled the opposition:

"All gentlemen in the county are besotted with her! She is no simple country belle. Why, she has turned down very good offers from wealthy gentlemen! Mark my words, Mr Bertram has noticed her!"

"You cannot possibly believe her, Ma'am?" Mary asked as soon as Mrs Brereton was gone.

"It is likely that his family wishes for an alliance which is so advantageous under many aspects; but I do not know Mr Bertram's feelings on this matter," Mrs Traumayn answered evenly.

She eyed Mary shrewdly:

"You are more intimate with Mr Bertram than I; I leave it to you to assess whether Mrs Brereton can be trusted."

Mary coloured as she recollected her latest interaction with Mr Bertram.

"Mr Bertram has not confided in me," she said eventually. "Such matters must remain private, I believe; and I wonder at Mrs Brereton, spreading such rumours with no concern for the parties involved."

Sensing Mary's trouble, Mrs Traumayn decided to postpone the mention of a certain Lord G. who was rumoured to have taken an interest in Miss Bennet.

This was idle, unfounded gossip. Such matters were private. There were Mr Bertram's business and nobody else's.

(Also, Miss Sanders' business, in all fairness).

She would not join in the speculations on a match which might not even exist!

She only hoped, for Susan's sake, that Mr Bertram had perceived the true nature of Miss Sanders and would not impose such a mistress at Mansfield.

(Also, while wiser men had been taken in with flatteries and good looks, she did hope, for Mr Bertram's sake, that this would not be the case. He had potential; but she doubted that his marriage to Miss Sanders would be the making of him).

It was out of friendly concern that she was so affected by the news; only out of friendly concern. Yet it did not completely explain the slight shudder that went through her as she thought:

Miss Sanders and Mr Bertram? Every feeling revolts!

From Georgiana Darcy to Mary Bennet:

Dear Mary,

Forgive me for such unorganized thoughts. I cannot think; I barely know what I am writing. I cannot confide in anyone but you- I rely on your generosity to attempt to make sense of my jumbled accounts.

Last night, at the assembly, I overheard ladies I did not know talking of Mr Harding. They were saying…that I was rumoured to have a considerable dowry; that it was clear from his attentions that he was angling for a rich heiress; that they did not wonder anymore at his abruptly removing himself from Miss Rickman's society.

I was shaken by their words; I did not believe that Mr Harding was in need of a fortune, and they were quite spiteful; but once the doubts have entered your mind, it is impossible to dismiss them. I had been wrong once; how could I trust Mr Harding's intentions?

This morning, I mentioned you in our talks. I said that I had a dear friend of mine staying in the county of Northampton; that she had met his close friend the Earl of Hampstead; and that a Mr Harrison had mentioned that he knew you both. (Forgive me for using you, dear Mary, but I had to find a way to bring up the subject).

Then, I said that I remembered Mr Harrison from London; we had met him in the company of Lord Glowner and Mr Rickman; was Mr Harding acquainted with both gentlemen too?

I was looking at him closely to see his reaction to Mr Rickman's name. Oh, Mary! He went pale; he could not speak for a few moments; then, at length, he spoke.

"We have been acquainted at some point, but I do not see much of them nowadays."

He dropped the matter then, and I followed suit, hiding my feelings as well as I could. Mary, I cannot forget his embarrassment. What was he concealing?

How I loathe secrecy! The man who betrayed me made me swear to hide our understanding from my brother; the whole business was clothed in secrecy. Honest and pure feelings can be said aloud without shame- what was it then that Mr Harding could not tell me?

Georgiana's decision to send this letter to Mary would have far-reaching consequences. Without the effect of this letter on Mary's newfound conception of friendly duty, it could have all turned out differently, I suppose; but it was as well that it didn't.

-as usual, I'd love to have your thoughts on this :)

-next chapter (might be in two instalments): engagements might be in the cards (or not), Mr Bennet is surprised, and Mary and Susan investigate!