Be it far or nie, wedding is destiny And hanging likewise, sayth the proverbe, sayd I - John Heywood, Proverbs
Mary was not usually plagued by extended self doubt. Whenever the universe contradicted her point of view, she either changed her point of view or, if necessary, simply ignored that part of the universe. In either case she saw no need to dwell for too long on the fact that she had been mistaken, or the possibility that she might be again.
But she could not reconcile her attraction to Anne with her view of herself as a good, moral, appropriate person, nor could she ignore it. Every time she saw Anne, she was overcome with a deep, bittersweet yearning. It was the first time in her life that her personal preferences and morals did not align, and she found it most uncomfortable. Self sacrifice had been much easier when it had involved giving up things she didn't really want in the first place. She had been so self righteous about her moral fortitude, including to Anne, yet it was Anne who had stayed strong and Mary who had strayed. Even now Mary had to struggle against the desire to try again, to find out what Anne would be willing to do when Mary's mind was not clouded by drink. This desire was a constant reminder to Mary of her own hypocrisy and sinful nature, and since she could not change her nature, her only relief from self reproach was to try to make up for her hypocrisy.
She was thus faced with an awful task.
"Lydia," said Mary, "I would like to apologise. I have been quite unfair to you."
"So you admit you owe me two shillings," said Lydia. "For it did rain on Sunday, just as I said it would."
"Indeed I do not," said Mary, annoyed. "I never agreed to your bet and in fact consider gambling a..." She reminded herself of her purpose, and modified her tone. "I speak of my treatment of you regarding the circumstances surrounding your marriage. I was too unkind; I should not have blamed you for being misled by Mr Wickham, for you were very young and did not know he was false."
"Oh," said Lydia. Then she laughed. "But that was years ago, Mary; nobody cares about that now. It is not as if I ever listen to anything you say anyway."
"Be that as it may," said Mary, "I apologise."
"Then I accept your apology," said Lydia, with an affectionate smile. She smiled often, but not usually at Mary, and almost never with such affection. Perhaps Anne was right, and their unfriendly state was not entirely Lydia's fault, but might be mended through more kindness from Mary. Lydia gave a small curtsey. "And in return, I shall forgive you my two shillings."
"...thank you, Lydia," said Mary.
Mr Fletcher poured the tea and sat quietly as Kitty and her fiancé told Mary all their plans for Mr Hewitt's parish once they were married. These plans were more focussed on saving the parishioners from starvation or illiteracy than saving their souls, but that was important work too, and Kitty and Mr Hewitt's optimistic enthusiasm was infectious. Many of these plans also involved Mr Fletcher, a friend of Mr Hewitt's who had recently bought a house near the vicarage. He seemed an amiable fellow, a handsome gentleman in his early twenties with a soft voice and gentle disposition. What Mary couldn't figure out was why he was here.
"You should hear David...Mr Fletcher play hymns; it is quite inspiring," said Kitty. "He is very fond of music. Books as well. He is always reading. And he has offered Mr Hewitt so many clever suggestions for sermons, for he is deeply pious. I believe he also likes beetles, is that not right, Mr Fletcher?"
Mr Fletcher responded to the question with a look of surprise, and then a softly spoken "Yes?"
Mary was not always very good at noticing when people were trying to manipulate her, but Kitty was not very good at manipulation. Even she could tell that Kitty was trying very hard to get her to like Mr Fletcher. This impression was strengthened when Kitty took Mary aside after the gentlemen had left and asked, "Do you like Mr Fletcher? Please tell me you do."
"I have no objections to him," said Mary.
"Really? Oh, that is wonderful," said Kitty.
Mary could think of only one reason Kitty would be so determined to make Mary like this young man, and she was not pleased about it. "Kitty, I am sure that Mr Hewitt and yourself are well suited. He seems a sensible, moral young man and I am sure you will be very happily married. But you must not assume that just because you have found happiness in marriage, every other person should therefore be pushed into marriage as well. I do not mean to shock you, but I...I have recently been of a mind to stay unmarried indefinitely. My friendship with Anne..."
Kitty laughed. "Oh, Mary. Of course I am not shocked. And I do not intend Mr Fletcher for you. I understand your friendship with Miss de Bourgh, and why you have become so much more free thinking of late. For you see, Mr Fletcher and Mr Hewitt and I...we are friends in the same way." Kitty smiled at Mary bashfully.
Mary stared at her. Friends in the same way? Forever on the brink of an unspoken desire? It was a tenuous way to maintain a friendship, but no way to maintain a marriage. Unless Kitty thought that Anne and Mary were something other than what they were. But how would such a relationship contain a third?
"Oh dear, now I have shocked you," said Kitty. "I knew I would explain it wrong!"
"Kitty...," said Mary slowly. "Either I am misunderstanding you, or you are quite mistaken about my relationship with Anne." To her surprise, she was not offended or worried that Kitty would think that she and Anne were lovers, if that was indeed what she she was implying. Mary felt only an intense melancholy about the fact that Kitty was wrong.
"Oh no," said Kitty. "Am I really? Does that mean...oh, tell me you are not too shocked, Mary. And do not tell Papa or the others, they would never understand, and Mr Hewitt and Mr Fletcher could go to prison. Oh, oh, I have ruined everything, I should never have told you." She put her hand over her mouth and made a soft cry.
Mary had spent her whole life trying to be virtuous via the meticulous following of rules: the rules of the church, of her parents, of the books she had read. But these rules had played her false. They told her that there was no way to not break the rules, that her very nature was unacceptable. Mary's nature included a fair portion of self respect, and it rebelled at the idea of giving up on virtue as an impossible goal. So she was forced to rely on the more nebulous guidance of her own conscience. It was difficult, and confusing, and frightening, but the more she did it the easier it became.
"Do not be distressed, Kitty," said Mary. "You have nothing to fear from me. I am surprised, but if you are truly happy then can have no strong objection. In fact I have been reconsidering the correct theological stance on such matters, on a rereading of Leviticus..."
"Oh, Mary, we are so happy!" said Kitty. "At first it was only flirtation, and none of us thought anything would come of it. I could not decide between them, you see, and it turns out they could not decide what to do about me either! For they have been in love with each other for ever so long, and had promised to never leave each other for a woman, is that not romantic? But then they met me, and they both found they liked me very much, and I liked them, and for a while we all felt terrible about it, for we did not wish to cause each other pain. But then one day we sort of...fell into talking about it, I suppose, and in the everything worked out for the best!" Kitty beamed, so perfect an image of a young girl in love that the strangeness of the nature of that love seemed almost irrelevant by comparison.
"My goodness," said Mary. She could not help but be reminded of Anne and her Miss Finch. If they had found an accepting bridegroom, would Anne have been as happy with her lot as Kitty was now? What if she found a lover, as she had said she might? Neither thought brought Mary joy, yet Anne's current, lonely state was hardly preferable. "And do you not mind that Mr Hewitt and Mr Fletcher are in love with each other as well as with you?"
"No," said Kitty. "I found it strange at first, but now it feels the most natural thing in the world. They are so darling together, how could I mind it?"
"I cannot imagine feeling such a lack of jealousy," said Mary. She felt envious enough of Anne's imaginary groom.
"I cannot imagine being happy with only one man or–" Kitty paused "One person."
She poured herself another cup of tea and smiled at Mary. "What of you, Mary? So you really do plan to remain single in truth? I apologise for assuming the wrong thing about you and Miss de Bourgh, before."
"You need not apologise," said Mary. "You were..." Mary felt overcome with emotions she could not express. "You were not entirely wrong." Her voice cracked and she felt her eyes burn with unshed tears.
"Oh," said Kitty. "Would you like to talk about it?" It occurred to Mary that she was possibly the only person in the world who she could trust to understand her situation, and not think badly of her or Anne about it.
"...Yes," said Mary. "But I may first require another cup of tea."
Anne tired of London. She liked the people, the fashion, and the culture, and loved having the freedom to decide which of them she would see or not at any given time. But she did not like the dirty air or the filthy streets, and as much as Kent had been figuratively stifling, at least when she lived there she had found it easier to breathe.
She tired too of being a houseguest, and longed for her own home to be mistress of. There was no question of ruling Rosings, not while her mother lived, but her needs were small. A country house, helpful staff, the capacity to host her own guests, and she would be content.
Content, but possibly alone.
Before they left Rosings, there had been much discussion between Anne and Mary about the logistics of finding a new house. At first Anne had thought perhaps to stay in London permanently, but that had quickly been rejected once Anne experienced the reality of city life. They had then been faced with the more challenging task of deciding on a location for a country house: near Rosings? Near Pemberley? Neither had suggested living near Longbourn, but it had still gone without saying that Mary would come to live with Anne, and that their life would continue on as it had before.
It did not go without saying now. Anne had continued to investigate possible new homes, but without Mary, and without the assumption that Mary would be coming to join her. Their friendship had been strained of late. In some ways it had been easier when Mary simply disapproved of Anne; now that she also disapproved of herself, and her reactions to Anne, things had become awkward.
It had been worst just after Bingley's ball. Mary had barely been able to stay in the room as Anne. Now it was almost the same as it was before. Almost, but not quite. They still talked, and read books together, and offered each other a refuge of calm and understanding when the rest of the world became too much to bear. But they were never entirely relaxed in each other's company. Not any more. It was as if a chasm had formed in the very centre of their friendship, and they were constantly, silently stepping around it, afraid of what might happen if they tumbled in.
And that was when they shared a busy household with many other people to distract them. What would it be like if they lived alone? Would Mary even be willing to accept such a situation?
Anne had become reliant on Mary to give her courage when she was afraid; what was Anne to do when it was Mary she was afraid of? But she could not wait forever: the season was coming to an end, and soon the Darcy family would be returning to Pemberley. Anne did not wish to be forced to go with them, not without at least trying to find a home of her own first.
And so she found the courage, in the end, somehow.
The two of them sat in silence for some time. They did not sit in the same chair any more, and the settee felt very large with only her on it. Anne wanted to speak, but found herself unable to do so. In the end it was Mary who broke the silence.
"I am glad you asked me to speak with you alone," she said. "For there is something...that is..."
"Please wait," said Anne. "For I must..." She trailed off, and there was an awkward pause. Mary looked at her with mute confusion. Yes, it was ridiculous to sit here without speaking. Anne steeled herself.
"I have found a house," she said. "It is near Reading, in Oxfordshire. And...and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me. You are most welcome, of course, but am not sure that your previous role...that is, I am not sure that companion is quite..."
"Indeed," said Mary. "That is what I wished to speak to you about." She seemed nervous. It was hard not to take that as a bad sign.
"It need not be the house I have chosen; we could find a different house, if you like," continued Anne, quickly. "And you would be my equal in every way. Free to come and go as you please, and with the same power as me over the servants and so forth. I would pay you an allowance, still, but you would not be...reliant on me. In fact, I had thought...thought to settle an annuity in your name, and make you my heir. So you need not worry about...about me liking you, if we were to quarrel. You would always be free."
"Your heir?" said Mary, eyes wide. Was it too much? Anne was sick of being cautious, but did not know how to be brave without being foolhardy.
"I will have no children," said Anne, "and Rosings is not entailed. I would rather it to go to you than..." she muttered to her shoes "...than anyone else. Is that something you would like, Mary? To come and stay with me and be my friend? You need not say yes." Say yes, she thought.
"Anne, I...that is very kind of you," said Mary. But her face was sad. Anne felt her tenuous mental strength begin to fail her. She had to resist the urge to crawl back into her bed and never leave it.
She forced out the words "...And what do you say?"
Mary looked away. "I had hoped that...that is to say, I have been considering our situation, and I would prefer..." Mary straightened her dress and frowned before taking a deep breath. "Anne. I know you have said you do not believe in marriage." Anne's heart sank. "You have said that it is an oppressive institution. And given your past experiences, I understand that you would not be quick to...to be so united with another. But I wonder if you might, under the right circumstances, be persuaded to consider a marriage where..."
This, again? After everything? "No," said Anne, firmly, desperately. "Not under any circumstances. Mary, you know I cannot marry, how can you even suggest such a thing?"
"I am sorry," said Mary sadly. "I thought perhaps...but of course I cannot ask you to abandon your beliefs any more than you have asked me to abandon mine. In that case, yes, I would be happy to accompany you to your new house, as your friend."
It seemed impossible. Had she really said yes? "Oh, thank goodness," said Anne. "You frightened me when you spoke of marriage!" Though that fear had quickly evaporated in the face of the knowledge that Mary was to live with her.
"My apologies," said Mary. "I did not mean to frighten you. I will not mention it again."
"Thank you," said Anne, heart energised with joy and mind full of daydreams. "Do you like the sound of Reading then? It is near London, so we could visit for the season without too much trouble. And it is an easy distance to Hunsford and Meryton without being...too close. I have not been there, but it sounds a charming city, and the village of Caversham where the house is located is known for its fine woods."
"I like the sound of that very much," said Mary.
"I am so glad to hear it!" said Anne. "Oh, I do hope you like the house. It is very small...well, I suppose it may not seem small to you, but I assure you that my mother will be quite shocked by its humility. But I think it will suit us perfectly. We would have a bedroom each, with room for several guests besides, there is a sitting room facing South which will be warm even in winter, and room for a library..." She laughed happily and grasped Mary's hand. "Oh, I am so happy," she said.
"As am I," said Mary. But there was still some sadness to her smile.
"Mary?" said Anne. She searched her face, and Mary turned from her again.
"Anne," she said. "I have one more question." Her hand twitched nervously under Anne's palm. "As I have said, I would be happy to stay with your as your friend. But I was wondering, if I became comfortable with the idea, if you would be willing to...that is, if there is any chance that you would wish for me to...be...your..." Her face had gone beet red.
"Your..." Anne could not think of any end to that sentence she found credible.
Mary had gone entirely still, except for her hands, which twitched slightly as she frowned at the floor. "I know I cannot expect that you would care for me as I do you," she said. "I know that the fact that you like women does not mean that you would ever like me, not that way. I have been so cruel to you, and you have been so patient. You are so elegant and wise, and I am so...so..."
Anne had been happy already, but she began to feel the beginnings of an even greater happiness, tinged with concern that Mary would think herself so unworthy.
"Mary," she said, gently placing her hand on the tense knot of Mary's fingers. "When mentioned marriage, did you mean that I should marry you?"
"Yes," said Mary, looking at her in surprise. "Who else would I have meant?"
Who else indeed?
They fell silent again, but the silence now felt full of possibility. Anne waited until her heart had stopped beating too fast for her to think clearly. She rubbed Mary's hand gently, and leaned her face towards her. She kissed Mary lightly on the lips. "Mary," she said. "Mary, I am not wise. My mind spins in circles and keeps me paralysed while you have the strength to step forward and speak the truth. And while I am not quite sure what it will mean...my answer is yes."
"Oh," said Mary, and her face lit up slowly with a smile. She looked so lovely that Anne took her head in her hands and kissed her again.
I can kiss her whenever I like, she thought.
Mary must have thought something similar, for she pulled Anne close and kissed her back, leaving a trail of light kisses across Anne's face and down her neck. Anne gasped.
"Was that bad?" said Mary.
"No," said Anne, catching her breath. "Far from it."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mary. "I know I am plain and inexperienced, but I hope I will not be a disappointment."
"I love you," said Anne. "That is all that matters. And you are entirely beautiful."
"You love me?" said Mary.
"Of course I do," said Anne. "I would not marry you if I did not! Mary, you are dearer to me than anything."
Mary smiled and blushed. "Ah," she said. "I was not entirely sure – I thought perhaps you only intended to take me as a lover."
"No!" said Anne. "I would never expect...is that what you thought I was agreeing to?"
Mary did not answer. Instead she rested her head on Anne's shoulder. "You are dear to me as well," she said, her breath warm on Anne's neck. "I do not have the words to express my affection. It took me so long to admit to it, to even understand that it was possible. But I think...I think that I have loved you for a very long time."
Anne kissed Mary's shoulder, and put her hand softly on her head. "I as well."
"But do you really mean to say that you will marry me?" said Mary in a small voice. "You were so adamant against it."
"I thought you meant that I should marry a man!" said Anne. "But to pledge myself to you, to promise to love you for as long as I live, without priest or judge to watch over us, that I would do gladly." The more she thought of it, the more she liked the idea. For once you removed the oppressive laws that gave husbands so much unearned power, what was marriage but a promise to share one's life with another person? And what had Anne wished for with Mary, but to do exactly that?
She started imagining how they could perform the rite. Her first thought was a forest glade, as part of nature, but many experiments had proven that however much Anne liked forest glades in principle, she did not actually like them much in practice. Indoors then. Just the two of them, exchanging vows of their own design. Or perhaps even with witnesses: Darcy would be willing, she was fairly sure, and perhaps Mrs Darcy as well. Then they would be as married as any farmer of old to his common law wife.
And after that, they would be together for the rest of their lives. No mothers or sisters or cousins to control them, no shame or uncertainty about their love. Just their own little household, and their own two hands held together. Anne gave Mary a kiss and smiled at her affectionately.
Mary smiled back. "Anne," she said. "I have one more question."
"Yes?" said Anne, wondering what she could possibly ask next.
"Do you mean to say you would not be willing to be married by a priest?" She looked very serious. "For that...that is what I meant by a marriage. If you would not then...then I suppose it will be all right. But I would prefer..."
What an exasperating woman Anne had fallen in love with. "It is not a matter of wanting," she said. "I see no reason I would object, were the priest willing. But there is not a priest in the country that would marry two women. I doubt there is one in the whole world."
"Ah," said Mary, with an even larger smile. "But there is."