Children of the future age,
Reading this indignant page,
Know that in a former time
Love, sweet love, was thought a crime. - A Little Girl Lost, Songs of Experience, William Blake

"Sooo...," said Lydia, "have you kissed him yet?"

Kitty blushed bright red and burst into giggles, covering her face. "I...we..." But she was too overcome with laughter to finish her sentence.

Visiting Lydia and Kitty at Jane's London residence was far more agreeable than living with them at Longbourn had ever been, but neither of them had entirely outgrown their silliness.

"Lydia," said Mary, "Mr Hewitt is a priest. He would never..."

Kitty gave a final cough and then stopped laughing. She sat up primly and gave Mary a disapproving glare. "We have kissed, actually," she said. "And why should we not? We are engaged to be married."

"You are not married yet," said Mary. It was hard to accept that she was to be married at all, she still so often acted like a child. "Many is the young woman who has been left in disgrace by a man she intended to marry. We need not look far to find an instructive example." Mary looked significantly at Lydia, who stuck out her tongue. Lydia's husband's long threatened visit to London had been cancelled on short notice, and she had become more energetically cheerful at the news. Unfortunately, this good cheer largely manifested as silliness.

Mary looked to Georgiana, who could be relied upon for much more sensible behaviour. She was horrified to see that Georgiana looked almost on the verge of tears. Was her sensitive heart hurting at the reminder of Lydia's shame? Mary was trying to be kinder to Lydia these days but it was difficult. She tried to undo the damage. "Of course, we must not blame such women, it is understandable to wish to express an innocent affection to the one we love. And Mr Hewitt sounds like an honourable young man, I am sure he intends no harm. But even when our intentions are pure, we must ever guard against the temptation of..."

Lydia gave a harsh sigh, unimpressed by Mary's attempt at kindness. "Oh, leave off, Mary. As if you and Miss de Bourgh are any better."

Mary gaped. "Miss de Bourgh and...but that is not at all the same! We are women! And she...I..." She was overcome, as Kitty had been, but with much less pleasant feelings.

"That hardly makes it less of a sin," said Lydia. She sniffed. "Do not mistake me, unlike some people I do not judge what others do when they are alone. As long as it does not hurt me I do not consider it my business. But do not pretend that you are better than Kitty and me, Mary. For you are not. Always whispering secrets to each other and blushing, and holding hands under the table. And I have seen the way she looks at you when she thinks nobody is watching; you cannot tell me it is innocent."

Not...innocent? The idea that there was anything sordid or improper about her relationship with Anne was so alien to Mary that she could not think of how to even begin to refute it.

To Mary's surprise, it was Kitty who came to her defence. "Come now, Lydia. Do not say such shocking things." Her eyes flicked towards Mrs Annesley, who sat doing embroidery a short distance away. "True or not, it is no topic for teasing. We should..."

"It is not true! It is entirely ridiculous!" said Mary. "There is no way two women could...ever..." Attempting to finish that sentence headed towards topics Mary was not supposed to know anything about, and largely didn't. She pushed away the vague but alarming mental images produced and faced Lydia's accusations with the stout heart of one who knows they are in the right. "Even if you were to judge our behaviour by the more stringent standards expected of a man and a woman I can see no fault with it. I do not wish to know what you imagine we do when we are alone, Lydia, but it is much the same as our behaviour in company. We talk, we read together, we sometimes...we sometimes embrace, but in an entirely innocent manner. Anne does not...does not even like to kiss. But if she did it would be entirely appropriate for two female friends as close as we are."

"Close in a platonic sense," said Kitty, firmly.

"Yes, exactly," said Mary. "To suggest anything else is beyond perverse."

"Your friend Anne might say different," said Lydia. It pained Mary to hear her use Anne's given name in such a familiar way. "Wickham tells me she got up to all sorts of mischief when she was young, but it all got hushed up."

Georgiana gasped, sounding as horrified as Mary felt.

"Wickham," said Mary. "Well that it explains it! I know he is your husband, Lydia, but...well. You must not trust everything he says."

"I know the evidence of my own eyes," said Lydia, petulantly. She gave an exaggerated sigh. "Yet I suppose I must believe you. For your denial has the ring of sincerity to it, and you were never any good at lying."

That was hardly the heartfelt apology Mary would have hoped for. "I am glad we can agree that your accusations are baseless. And you must not speak of such things; I am sure you would not wish for Miss de Bourgh or I to suffer any scandal."

"It might do you some good," muttered Lydia.

"No!" said Georgiana, speaking for the first time since the conversation had turned tawdry. "Lydia, you must not...you must keep these things to yourself, whether or not you think they are true. Surely you understand how much it can hurt...how much..." Her eyes pleaded silently as her words trailed way.

"Yes of course," said Lydia. "Of course I know, I was never...I am not stupid. I was only teasing." She looked truly ashamed now, it was an unusual sight. She reached out and patted Georgiana's hand and then turned to Kitty, all smiles. "Tell me, what kind of dress are you going to wear?"

Mary submitted to embraces and kisses from her younger sisters with practiced patience, and even managed to give Kitty a small kiss on the cheek. Georgiana was just as awkward, but whether she actually minded or was just shy was hard to tell.

"Farewell," cried Kitty over the sound of the carriage wheels rolling over the cobblestones. "We will miss you!"

Mary gave a final wave and settled back into her seat with relief. It was not that she did not feel affection for her sisters, it was just that she would rather express that affection from further away.

Now that she was away from Lydia's constant stream of conversation, Mary had an opportunity to puzzle over the conundrum of her earlier insinuations. What did she think Mary and Anne did when they were alone that was so awful? There were many possible sins, of course, but she was fairly sure that Lydia was not accusing them of heathenistic ritual or excessive gambling. No, it was something equivalent to the many sins a woman must guard against with men. But what equivalent could there be?

And then there was the scandal in Anne's youth. Assuming that Wickham's report could be trusted in any way, what exactly had she done? Mary could not imagine Anne doing anything truly immoral. No, she was sure that at worst, Anne had been the innocent victim of speculation and gossip.

"Mary?"

"Yes, Georgiana?" she replied, trying not to resent the interruption.

"You will not.." Georgiana leaned close and whispered, prompting an expression of curiosity to flicker across Mrs Annesley's face before she turned to stare out the window with an expression of calm indifference. "You will not tell my brother what Lydia said, will you?"

"Of course not," said Mary. "He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life: but he that openeth wide his lips shall have destruction." She was not whispering, but there was no reason to keep such universal sentiments a secret.

"Yes," said Georgiana, with uncommon fierceness. "Yes it is. I am glad that you agree. I would not want him to think poorly of Lydia."

"Of Lydia?" said Mary in surprise.

"Yes," said Georgiana. "I know you have not always been the best of friends. I was not sure I would like her myself. But I would not want...oh!" She whispered even softer than before. "But of course I did not believe her, Mary. I know better than to trust...than to trust that kind of hearsay. And I would not think ill of you if it were true, though I would of Anne if she were to take advantage of her position."

"It is not true," said Mary. "And Anne would never abuse my trust."

"Of course," said Georgiana. "I only meant that – it does not matter. I am sorry Lydia's words hurt you, it was not very kind of her to say."

"I do not allow myself to be hurt by such words," said Mary.

"Then I am happy for you," said Georgiana.

When they arrived back, Mary found herself staring at Anne, trying to imagine her through Lydia's eyes. But she could find no fault with her.

Anne touched her hand briefly to Mary's arm. "Is something wrong, Mary?"

"I am fine," said Mary. "What of yourself? Are you improved since this morning?"

"Yes," said Anne with a smile. "As you see, I am out of bed. And you have just missed a spirited discussion between Darcy, your sister and myself about a bill before parliament. But they have left now, and will not be back before dinner." Anne led them away from the door and towards the drawing room, sitting down on a settee and taking a moment to catch her breath. Mary sat down beside her. "Your sister is remarkably clever," said Anne. "I see why Darcy likes her."

"Yes," said Mary, trying not to feel jealous. She was clever too, but not the kind of clever that let her keep up with Elizabeth when she was having spirited conversations. "I am glad that you are becoming friends."

"As am I," asked Anne. She looked at her hands. "But...I must admit to enjoying her occasional absence." She looked up at Mary. "You must understand, I mean no disrespect to Mrs Darcy. She is a lovely woman! I could not ask for a more generous and patient host. But...she is just so quick, and so talkative, that I feel stupid and shy."

This made Mary happier than it probably should have. "I entirely understand," she said.

"I am sure you do," said Anne. "To have four such sisters! Not that they are all the same, of course but...they can be quite overwhelming."

"Yes," said Mary. "Very much so."

"I suppose I should not be surprised that you returned from Mrs Bingley's house looking a little wan. But I did not ask you about your visit! Did you have an agreeable time? Are they all well?"

"Quite well," said Mary. "As is Bingley. They have installed a new dining table and it is very fine."

"...And did you have an agreeable time?" Mary squirmed under Anne's perceptive gaze.

"Pleasant enough," said Mary. Anne stared a moment longer, but did not press her for further details.

"Is there anything more you wish to discuss?" asked Anne. "I am fatigued at present, and would like to rest quietly for a while."

"That sounds ideal," said Mary. "Would you like me to read to you?" As an experiment, Mary put her hand on Anne's knee. Anne looked down at her hand briefly and then back up at Mary.

"No, thank you," said Anne. As she spoke, she shifted her knee slightly so that it moved out from under Mary's hand. "But it would be pleasant for you to sit beside me, if it would not interfere with your plans for the afternoon."

"Not at all," said Mary.

They sat quietly for some time, Mary reading and Anne resting her head against the back of the settee before slowly slipping into a doze and sliding down to rest against Mary. It felt very companionable.

After a half hour or so Mary felt Anne beginning to wake. At first she shifted around without purpose, her body rubbing against Mary's, but then as she came back to consciousness she pushed herself away from Mary. She then settled back onto the other side of the settee so that they no longer touched at all.

This was not the first time she had behaved in this manner. A suspicion was brewing in Mary's mind. "Anne?" she asked.

"Mmm?" replied Anne muzzily.

"Why do you not touch me?"

"What?" Anne sat up and pulled her hands to her chest, as if protecting her heart from a blow.

"We are friends. And yet, you do not touch me with affection. You do not embrace me, and when I embrace you, you move away, or say you are not feeling well. Is it that you do not like to be touched?"

"No. Yes. I...why do you ask?"

"It has occurred to me that perhaps...that perhaps it is not your preference, not truly. That you are trying to protect me, protect us both, from what others might think." Mary paused to gauge Anne's reaction, but she was staring silently. So Mary ploughed on. "Lydia...Lydia made some very suggestive remarks, and said that she had heard of some scandal in your youth."

"Oh no," said Anne, her face white.

"I did not believe her! I am sure, whatever she has heard, it is untrue. Her insinuations about you and I were certainly quite baseless. But if you were the subject of scandal, if others have made such insinuations in the past...it is only natural that you would be cautious."

"...Yes," said Anne. She stood up, unexpectedly, and went to the door. She called for a servant. "Miss Bennet and I are not to be disturbed," she said. She closed the door and sat back down, not next to Mary this time but in a chair a few steps away.

She curled up into the chair, back bent and eyes downcast. "I suppose...I suppose in essence you are right. I have been cautious, trying to avoid a repetition of...of the events of the past. If I have seemed cold or distant–" She looked up at Mary, eyes wide and sad. "Oh, Mary I had hoped it would not come to this. If your reputation suffers because of me I will not forgive myself."

"It was only Lydia," said Mary. "Kitty and Georgiana did not believe her. Nobody of sense would."

"They were there as well?" Her voice was very small.

"Yes but...Anne, it was ridiculous. She said..." Mary spent a moment trying to untangle the vague statements Lydia had actually made from her own more detailed imaginings. "She said our friendship was not innocent, and implied that...that inappropriate things happen when we are alone. I am not sure quite what she meant to imply, but I made it very clear that our behaviour is at all times entirely above reproach, and she was forced to admit that I was right and she was wrong. So you see, there is nothing to worry about."

"Oh, I wish that were true," said Anne. She stared at her hands, face distraught. "Mary, this is Wickham's doing, I am sure of it. And if he has decided to cause trouble for me there is not much I can do to stop him. Perhaps it would be better for you to distance yourself from me."

"No," said Mary, "Anne, you cannot...I will not leave you. I do not care what Lydia says. I do not care what anyone says. You would have these lies part us when we have come so far?"

"Oh," said Anne. "Oh, Mary. No, I would not gladly part from you. And I have little concern for what the world thinks of me. But I would hate to cause you harm. And I do not know..." She looked so sad. "Mary. You are my best and truest friend. But there is something I must tell you, and I am not sure that you will wish to be my friend when I am done."

Anne silenced Mary's protestations with a raised hand. "Please," she said, "let me finish. If I do not say it now I may never get it out, and I would have everything be honest between us." She stared into space, as if reading from a letter only she could see. "You said Lydia mentioned a scandal from my youth, and that you were sure that it was all lies. Scandal is too strong a word for it; my mother was very thorough in keeping a lid on the situation. And I cannot know exactly what Lydia told you. But there was probably some truth to it."

"She told me very little," said Mary. "But whatever it is, I am sure I will forgive you."

"As you have forgiven Lydia?"

"But she..." Mary gasped. "Anne, tell me you did not...did you let yourself be seduced by Wickham?"

"Wickham?" Anne laughed. "No! Though not for lack of trying on his part."

Mary sighed in relief.

"But what if I had? What would you think of me then?"

"I...but you would never..." Mary tried to imagine how she would feel. It was unpleasant. "I would...if you were truly sorry for what you had done..."

"What if I was not? You know my opinions on Free Love."

Mary made a face. "Anne...I cannot..." She shook her hands in frustration, but Anne simply stared at her calmly, willing her to answer the question. She sat in serious thought until she could come up with an answer. "I would need to know your reasons. You are a sensible, moral woman. I cannot imagine you debasing yourself with a man like Wickham. Not unless you were mistaken about his nature, or were other than the person you are now."

"Or other than the person you think I am."

"Yes."

Anne sighed. "Well, you are not entirely wrong. I never fully warmed to Wickham, for all his charm. As a young woman, I might have let myself be fooled into thinking myself in love with him, but it seems I am not...predisposed to that particular kind of foolishness. Not with men."

Mary smiled.

"But I am with women. Do you understand me?"

"No," said Mary.

Anne made a sound of frustration. "I suppose I must tell you it all then. Perhaps after that you will understand. And it will be good–good to have it all out. Do you remember when my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam visited, he made reference to a woman named Amelia Finch?"

"No," said Mary, feeling increasingly stupid.

"No, I suppose it would not have seemed significant to you," said Anne. "Well, she was one of my few friends growing up. She was one of the rare local young people my mother considered a suitable playmate for the great Miss Anne de Bourgh. By lucky happenstance, our personalities were as well matched as our fortunes, and we became good friends."

"I always had a deep affection for Amelia. When we were very young I declared that I would marry her instead of Darcy, until it was explained to me that this was impossible. As we reached adolescence, our friendship became...changed. Stronger, more passionate. We wrote each other poetry and declared our eternal devotion, vowing that even when marriage separated we would always be first in each other hearts. Our parents found this charming.

"What they did not know is that...we..." Anne coloured. "We became intimate. I cannot remember who initiated what. But by the time we were seventeen we were engaging in amorous congress." She looked to Mary to see her reaction, but Mary continued to be baffled. Surely only men and women could engage in amorous congress, or the term lost all meaning. It was as if people kept describing some strange and fearsome creature everyone but her could see.

"I was the happiest I have ever been. Amelia often spoke of finding a husband, but somehow I still believed we could stay together forever, married in all but name. But of course it could not last." She sighed. Married? thought Mary. Another word that made no sense when applied to two women. Yet Anne kept talking, as if the events she described made perfect sense and it was Mary's understanding that was at fault. "It was Amelia's mother who found us, and the uproar was overwhelming. Amelia's parents blamed me for corrupting their daughter, and Lady Catherine blamed her for corrupting me. It was agreed that the Finches should move elsewhere, and that we would not be allowed to see each other again."

"There was never any scandal. As you have seen with your sister, enough money can soften even the most shocking of revelations. But it cannot make people forget entirely. It took a long time before the mutterings in the village stopped when I drove by. I imagine that is how Wickham found out. And things were worse for Amelia, since she was not as insulated by wealth and influence. I think it was the gossip that made her family decide to leave as much as anything. I found out her address and tried writing to her, but she never replied. A few years later I heard that she had married. And so ended our great love affair." Shen looked up. "Do you hate me now, Mary?"

"No," said Mary. "The things you have told told me are strange and confusing, but I do not hate you. Did you truly think I would?"

Anne replied by bursting into tears. "I have worried...for so long," she sniffed. "I have told no one, not even let myself think of it–and with the way you judge Lydia..."

"But that is entirely different!"

"No, it is not!" said Anne. "It is exactly the same. Except that I had less excuse and my–sin–was never sanctified in the eyes of the church. I am as guilty as her of falling in love injudiciously, just as guilty of giving in to desire. If you despise her you must despise me also."

"Do you want me to despise you?"

"I want you to understand!" said Anne, her voice loud and hoarse. "I am attracted to women as other women are to men. I have lain with a woman as a husband lies with his wife. Others know this! When they see us together, they will think that you are like me. That you have done these things with me. Do you accept this? Can you still really be my friend, knowing what I am? What others will think?"

Mary's mind whirled. "I cannot...I cannot imagine not being your friend. But I..." She escaped towards the door. "I must think."

She opened the door to see Elizabeth and Darcy standing in the hallway outside, having recently returned to the house.

The thought of facing them now was more than Mary could bear. "I am going to my room," she said, and ran.