Mary was gone a long, long time.
Dinner had been the typical small talk, trying to pretend to care about inconsequential things when her heart was entirely elsewhere. It was hard to tell how much Mr and Mrs Darcy had heard, but if they were coming to terms with their houseguest being a pervert they hid it well.
But perhaps they already knew. Perhaps everyone knew. Maybe this was why Darcy had always seemed as ambivalent about marrying her as she had been about marrying him. As Mary would say, that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops.
Anne had sometimes wondered what would happen if Mary found out the truth about Anne. Unlikely as it had seemed, part of her had hoped that Mary would understand, and accept Anne for who she was. Anything beyond that had seemed foolish, even disprespectful, yet she could not pretend she had not sometimes imagined something more than just understanding. Anne had become very fond of Mary, more fond than she could ever have predicted when they met. Mary was stubborn, often obtuse, and sometimes selfish, but she was also kind, loyal, and brave, and the only true friend Anne had ever really had. Without Mary, Anne might have never taken her first cautious steps away from life under the thumb of her mother, and would not wake each morning looking forward to the day.
And now the best she could hope for was that Mary would not abandon her entirely.
After dinner Anne stood at Mary's door, her hand poised to knock, but she could not bring herself to do it. Instead she went to bed and lay, staring at the ceiling, until her heart stopped beating too fast to sleep. It took some time.
In the morning Mary was gone.
"She went to visit Jane," said Mrs Darcy. "I am sure she will be back soon. Would you like me to read to you instead? I have no plans this morning."
"But you are the lady of the house," said Anne in surprise.
"I am Mary's sister," said Mrs Darcy. "If it is no indignity for her, it should be none for me." There was a determined edge to her even tone. Anne had come to realise that Mrs Darcy shared Mary's stubborn and idealistic nature, but without anywhere near as much respect for Anne's opinion. It could be very inconvenient, especially since she was the mistress of this house.
One of the things Anne liked about Mary was the way she challenged her. Until Mary moved to Rosings, Anne had not realised how accustomed she had become to everyone in her daily life quietly anticipating and fulfilling her desires, whether it be to let her win at cards or withhold censure on her less conventional views. Lady Catherine had not been so accommodating, of course, but she had still made Anne's welfare her first priority, and it was only with Mary that Anne had discovered the joy of an honest friendship.
Moving away from Rosings had been a harsh lesson in how much more challenging people could be. The name de Bourgh still held significant sway outside the London house, but within it ultimate power laid with those who bore the name Darcy. Her hosts were very polite, of course, and despite herself Anne was starting to like her cousin's warm, witty wife. Neither of them would dream of bullying Anne in their house the way Lady Catherine had bullied them in hers. But once Miss Lydia Bennet left to stay with Mrs Bingley and Georgiana arrived with Mrs Annesley, Anne had been forced to adjust to the realisation that she was near the least favoured of the house's six inhabitants. She had been too distraught to pay much attention when they were all together at Pemberley, but even Mrs Annesley was given significant respect and notice, and it gave Anne pause when she remembered how her own companions had always been treated. While Anne had been quite happy to see Mary as an equal, it was quite another for her to actually be one.
"You are entirely right," said Anne. The idea of being read to by Mrs Darcy was mortifying, but not quite as awful as the prospect of being alone with her own thoughts. "I would very much appreciate you reading to me, thank you. We were reading Belinda, if you do not object to it."
"Ah!" said Mrs Darcy with a smile of genuine pleasure. "So you like Mrs Edgeworth as well?"
If she was honest, Anne had found the book a trifle silly thus far, but she was in no humour to argue, so she smiled and nodded.
Mrs Darcy found the book and opened it to the marked place.
"Mary will be behind now," said Anne, staring at the open book. "I hope she does not mind." To her horror, she heard her voice crack. She willed herself not to cry.
"You are quite fond of my sister," said Mrs Darcy.
Anne looked at her sharply. Mrs Darcy looked back with a clear, knowing gaze, and Anne felt herself flush.
"Yes," she said.
"She seems quite fond of you as well," said Mrs Darcy. Anne was less sure of that. Mrs Darcy gave a rueful laugh. "This was not what I expected when she became your companion,"
"Nor I," said Anne. "Do you..." Does it trouble you, to have your sister associated with me, she thought, but could not bring herself to say.
"What matters to me is Mary's happiness," said Elizabeth. "If I thought you likely to harm her, or bring her into disrepute, then I would naturally object. But...my husband speaks highly of you, and of your honour. And Mary is of age; she must be mistress of her own fate." She frowned and tapped her finger against the hard cover of the book. Though she was barely older than Mary, she had all the bearing of a protective parent. Given how lax their actual parents were, it was probably good that someone felt responsible for Mary's welfare. Anne wondered how long Darcy had discussed the situation with his wife, and how hard it had been to persuade her to accept it. She felt an uncommon burst of affection for her cousin. Mrs Darcy looked at Anne. "Do you consider her your companion, still? I know you intend to find your own house in time, and I assume you will invite Mary with you."
"If she...if she wishes to go," said Anne. "And she is...she is my friend, not just my companion."
"I hate to be vulgar," said Mrs Darcy, with a sympathetic expression. "But...do you not still pay her an allowance? Will that not make any friendship strange?"
"Of course I pay her an..." started Anne, and then she stopped, remembering that she had forgotten to pay Mary any allowance once they left Rosings until Mary reminded her. "I do intend to pay her an allowance," she continued. "But...I see no way to avoid it, unless you were to support her, and that would be most irregular. And...I also do not mean to be vulgar, but does not Darcy pay you an allowance?"
Mrs Darcy blinked at her, and then laughed. "Yes, I suppose he does," she said. "And it does make our friendship strange, but we remain friends regardless. I cannot expect you to be a better friend than that."
"Thank you," said Anne. "Though I cannot say for certain whether Mary will wish to remain my friend."
"Neither can I," said Mrs Darcy. "But I think she likely will. She has an affectionate heart under all her moralising. And whatever happens, you will always be welcome as a guest in our house."
"Thank you," said Anne.
"Now that I have thoroughly interrogated you, shall I read to you as promised?" asked Mrs Darcy. Anne nodded, and Mrs Darcy opened the book again and began to read.
In the end, continued interrogation might have been preferable.
Elizabeth Darcy was an intelligent, well bred woman, and seemed to be settling well into her role as mistress of Pemberley and the rest of the Darcy estate. But if her circumstances had been very different she could have had a fine career on the stage. In contrast to Mary's calm, measured tone, she had a quick, expressive way of reading, and invested each character with their own voice and mannerisms, from the soft voiced Lady Percival to the extravagant and loud Mr Hervey. It was certainly distracting, but probably better suited to the future Darcy children's tastes than Anne's. She found herself developing a headache.
By the time her sister returned, Mrs Darcy was pretending to be a small boy, wearing an innocent expression and raising her voice as she read, "Here are all the muses for you, Mr. Hervey: which do you like best?"
"Mary," said Anne.
"Actually, Miss de Bourgh, I believe he chooses the tragic muse," said Mrs Darcy, "although I suppose that...ah, I see! Mary!" She smiled at her sister and put down the book at last. "How are Jane and the others?"
"Well," said Mary, looking distracted and a little flushed. "Excuse me, but may I speak with Anne alone?"
"I think I understand now," said Mary.
"You do?" The door had been shut and locked, and Mary's happy expression boded well. But Anne still felt very vulnerable. She had been cracked open to the quick, and all her instincts told her to hide away until she could mend the gap and pretend everything was as it had been.
"Yes. I spoke to Jane – no, I did not tell her that you...I did not explain the specific circumstances! But I asked her...she was the only person I could think of, who I could ask about such matters and know that she would not pry, or make assumptions. And I am sure she will not, Anne, and if she did somehow find out I am sure she would not judge you, or make things difficult. She is a very understanding woman, too understanding really..."
It was rare to see Mary babble like this. She must be embarrassed, thought Anne. A rare sight indeed.
"Jane has not...she has only been with men, obviously. A man. But she explained...things, and I have extrapolated. I think I understand now how two women can behave in ways which are...not innocent, and not suitable between friends. And why it might cause a scandal, and why...why someone might think it was a terrible sin."
"And do you?" asked Anne.
"Yes," said Mary, with a small frown.
"I see." Of course she did. Anne wished she could hate Mary for it, but she could not; she only felt very sad and tired. Perhaps it was a sin. Even those who spoke of Free Love still meant love between men and women, and it had been a long time since Anne thought of Love as it related to herself with anything but despair and shame. Could Anne be sure she was right, when the whole of the world said she was wrong?
"But Anne, it is all right!" Mary clasped her hand and Anne had to stop herself from pulling it back in anger. How dare she touch Anne now, when she was about to take everything away? Mary smiled at her as if she was not grinding Anne's heart into the floor. "It is not as if I did not know you were a sinner before! We are all sinners. I had it figured out last night, and talking with Jane has just solidified my certainty. You are a good person, Anne, and there is no reason we cannot continue to be friends."
"Is there not?"
"No, indeed!" said Mary. "In fact, it would be unchristian of me to abandon you, when instead I can act as a moral guide and example. Who else knows your struggle and can support you through it?"
"My struggle?"
"Against sin! And you are not so terrible a sinner, really. As you explained it to me, you loved...your friend, and would have married her if you could. As long...as long as that does not happen again, you will be safe from temptation. And if you are tempted I can help you remember why acting on that temptation would be unwise."
"So you will counsel me to remain lonely and without love? How kind of you."
Mary's face fell. "Anne, I do not wish...would it really be so lonely? I see why you do not wish to marry, but surely the comforts of friendship, and a loving family..."
"Please, do not continue," said Anne. Her head ached fit to bursting. "I understand you, now, as you understand me."
"I have upset you," said Mary sadly.
"Did you expect me to be happy? Am I to be glad, to have you watching me for–sin–and counselling me to ignore any love I might find?"
"Oh," said Mary, sadly. "Do you...do you not wish to be my friend?" Tears sprang up in her eyes. "I will not pretend not to believe what I know is right, but your friendship is so very dear to me. Must things change between us, Anne?"
"They cannot be exactly as they were," said Anne. "Words cannot be unsaid, and truths cannot be unknown. It seems..." she tried not to waver. "It seems very unlikely that I will ever find another woman who...that I will ever have the chance to face such temptation again. But what if I do? Would you stay my friend if I...if I took a lover?" Anne felt herself flush.
"Yes," said Mary. She seemed surprised at herself. "Yes," she said again, her voice more certain. "Anne, I cannot...I cannot imagine living without you. If you took... a... lover," she coughed out the word like it was poison, "then I would not approve. I would tell you it was wrong, and I would not...I might not wish to receive... her as a visitor." The idea made Mary visibly uncomfortable, her face contorted as if the poisonous word had left a nasty taste. She looked away. "Are you likely to do so?"
Anne gave a short bitter laugh. "No," she said. It felt laughable to even consider such a possibility. Who could she court, with her life like this? Who did she even like asides from Mary? Which brought forth the awful, impossible thought of Mary herself, in a different world where she could see Anne as anything but a friend, a friend whose desires she found abhorrent and sinful. But such thoughts were futile and disrespectful, so she put them aside.
Anne wiped her eyes.
"Mary, I do not wish for us to part. But you must promise not to lecture me; I could not bear it. If I somehow find a lover, we will have to revisit this topic again, but until then may we...simply forget about all this, as well as we can?"
"Gladly," said Mary, "if it means we can be friends again."
"I hope so," said Anne.