Soon after their excursion to Sotherton, news arrived of Sir Thomas. He planned to return home that November, his business in Antigua being all but concluded. This affected all present as much as was to be expected; Mrs Norris and his wife were both overjoyed; Edmund was glad that he would see his father again; Julia's feelings were more lukewarm; Maria positively dreaded seeing her father again, for he brought with him the prospect of her marriage. Fanny felt great guilt at being unable to celebrate along with Edmund, but she was unable to suppress her fear of Sir Thomas, and her worried feeling was exacerbated by the knowledge of Mary's opinion of him. A good man does not profit off of slave labour! The words still seemed to echo in her ears. Concern for - and perhaps a bit of curiosity about - Mary's feelings on the matter began to blossom within her, and with it came the side effect that Fanny paid closer attention to Miss Crawford. But Mary was all smiles; no hint of her opinion broke through, and she in fact declared her curiosity to see the man more than once. During one of these admissions, she happened to glance in Fanny's direction and caught her steady gaze. Something about the look, a feeling that Miss Price was seeing through her, caused her to shift uncomfortably, and break off in the middle of her sentence. She stared back for a moment, then, distracted by the others asking her to continue, looked away. By the time she turned her eyes upon Fanny again, she was no longer watching her. After that moment, Mary began to avoid Fanny.

"I notice that Mary has not spoken to you for more than a moment since soon after my father's imminent return was announced," Edmund noted one evening as he and Fanny stood by a window that opened into the cool outdoors.

"Yes," Fanny said sadly. She found she was unable even to admire the stars tonight, with that knowledge so weighing on her. "I wonder whether I have somehow insulted her."

"Nonsense, Fanny! Why, she has probably taken a fancy to someone else for a moment. Young women are not always so constant in their friendships as you are. She will be back by your side soon enough."

"I hope so, Edmund," Fanny said. "I must confess that I miss her company a great deal."

"I notice that you have been neglecting Miss Price recently," Henry remarked to his sister from further inside the room. "Does this have anything to do with the recent announcement of Sir Thomas's return? I would have assumed that you would be curious."

"I am," Mary said, watching Fanny and Edmund as they stood at the window. "Incredibly curious. But I let slip some ill-judged opinions of him to Miss Price that I now wish she was not aware of. I worry that she will be able to discern some change in my behaviour due to the announcement of his arrival. In fact, I have caught her looking at me once or twice in a way that has made me distinctly uncomfortable."

"Oh." Henry thought for a moment. "Well then, I suppose I should take advantage of that. One Crawford sibling is as good as the other."

Mary scoffed. "Please. Miss Price prefers me infinitely over you. Why, every time you have endeavoured to talk to her she has avoided you!"

Henry said nothing. It was true that all previous attempts to strike up conversation with Fanny had failed, but his own high opinion of himself meant that he viewed this as little more than a brief delay. He was sure that, once he showed Fanny her name on his wrist, she would fall deeply in love with him. Besides, he was so unused to challenge when it came to winning over women; it intrigued him - he had never played such a long game before and it would be good amusement for his time at Mansfield Park, which was beginning to stretch out for far longer than he had originally planned.

Henry's newest attempt to win Fanny's heart began the next morning. Tidings had arrived, just after breakfast, of Mr Bertram's return from the races, and he offered to announce it to Fanny, who had retired to the East Room just before the Crawfords had arrived.

The East Room was cold and very near the top of the house; Henry found himself wondering that she should tolerate it so. She was sitting at the window, absentmindedly staring out at the grounds. Henry cleared his throat, and she turned around with a start.

"I have been told to announce to you that your eldest cousin is expected to return to Mansfield Park by the end of this month."

Fanny smiled. "Thank you, Mr Crawford." She hesitated. "May I ask you something, whilst you are here?"

Henry felt a surge of victory. She was beginning to show an interest in him! Soon enough, she would -

"It…it is about Miss Crawford."

Ah. Henry tried his most charming smile, but it didn't quite make its way to his face. "I wonder what you find so much more interesting about my sister that you would ask about her and not me."

For a moment Fanny looked absolutely terrified. Henry suddenly felt that he had made a mistake. "It was a joke," he said.

"I am afraid that I did not find it funny," Fanny said. Henry wondered why he had ever thought it a good idea to court someone so unbelievably boring. Amusement? With her, when there were two very handsome girls in the house perfectly willing to be flirted with?

"Well? Ask your question," he said impatiently.

"I was wondering…does Miss Crawford no longer like me?" Her face crumpled and she started crying. Henry started cursing every decision in his life that had led to this point. "I…I fear that I have done something terribly wrong," Fanny sobbed. "She no longer speaks to me! I tried to visit her before breakfast but she would not see me!"

"I am certain it was only because of the time you chose for your visit," Henry said encouragingly, but it only made Fanny cry more.

"Oh, I should not have come so early! How inconsiderate I was."

It wasn't as if Henry was unused to crying women; he had upset many himself for various reasons. But to see one in such a situation, when he was unable to escape without seriously compromising any plan he might have, was entirely new to him. An idea came to him.

"I shall inform my sister that she has upset you," he declared suddenly. Fanny stared at him in horror and he felt a surge of annoyance; he had been quite proud of that idea, but apparently nothing could please Miss Price.

"Please do not, Mr Crawford," she managed to stammer out. "I would feel terrible if Miss Crawford believed herself to be the cause of my pain."

Henry frowned. "But surely she is; after all, you are only upset at all because she is avoiding you."

Fanny's face began to crinkle again and Henry rushed to amend his statement. "Of course, if you do not wish it, I shall not tell my sister."

Fanny sniffed. "Thank you, Mr Crawford."

"Of course." Henry bowed graciously. "I am here to please." Then he made his way out of the room as quickly as possible.

"You must do something about this, Mary!" Henry said to his sister at the first opportunity. "Why, I was trapped alone with a sobbing Miss Price for what felt like hours because you have been avoiding her!" It had been mere minutes, but Henry was inclined to exaggerate when he was inconvenienced, even in such a minor way.

Mary said nothing, only stared into the fire. They were back at the vicarage now, it finally having gotten too late to reasonably stay at Mansfield Park. Dr and Mrs Grant had faded into the background at the other end of the room.

"Mary?" Henry pushed. "Are you paying attention to me? I was stuck in a room with your latest distraction sobbing at me, because of your actions!"

"Do not expect to win Miss Price's heart if you speak of her in such a manner," Mary said absently. The fire crackled and spat in that strange blazing dance it had.

Henry laughed bitterly. "She shall not know of this, unless you choose to tell her. Which seems to me very unlikely, since you have refused to speak to her for weeks now!"

Mary turned away from the fire. She looked worried, which startled Henry; Mary usually made her way through life with as little care in her heart as Henry had. "Have I really hurt her so greatly, Henry?"

"Miss Price seems to me a young lady much prone to tears, but yes, I believe you have. And I would rather not have to find myself comforting her again."

Mary smiled, but there was none of her usual mirth behind it. "Perhaps if you spend more time comforting her, she will fall as in love with you as you desire."

"Hmm," Henry said. "I think I shall give up my attempts to seduce Miss Price. She is rather too boring for my taste. Whatever great being is in charge of deciding soulmates is clearly playing a cruel joke in my case."

"Ah, that is because you do not take the effort to become closer to her," Mary said. "She is full of vigour, once you touch upon a subject to her liking. And she has a great gentleness to her which I confess to finding rather…well, it is not necessarily to my usual taste, but I find myself enjoying it in her." She paused. "Perhaps I shall speak to her again tomorrow.

But it was not to be; Fanny - convinced now that Mary did not like her at all - remained as much away from the others as she could, and Mary found herself unable to slip away from Edmund and the rest of the Bertram family in order to find her. On top of it all, Tom had arrived only a day behind his letter, with a new friend by the name of Mr Yates following soon after - well, soon enough that Henry had barely returned from a fortnight's trip to Norfolk that he had been forced to take, at least. If Mary had hoped that a time away would have improved Mr Bertram, she was to be greatly disappointed. She found Tom as dull as ever; perhaps more so, now that she had had more time to become close to his cousin and his brother. It was very disappointing (so she told herself) that he shook her preference for eldest sons, but she soon discovered that she did not mind so much as she had claimed.

Thomas Bertram did, however, become marginally more interesting a short time after he was introduced into life at Mansfield. Or at least, the company that he was followed by became so, promising as it did to provide some entertainment. Yates, it seemed, had lately come from another grand house where they had intended to put on a play, only for - regrettably - one of the older women to choose that time to die, making it necessary for them to stop the proceedings. He was now eager to perform at Mansfield Park, and Tom, at the very least matching the strength of that feeling, encouraged him. All seemed keen (apart from, Mary noted, Fanny and Edmund - the latter especially expressed doubt as to whether his father would approve), and after some disagreement on the subject of the play, Lovers' Vows was decided upon. Mary herself was persuaded to accept the part of Amelia easily enough. Henry was chosen for Frederick, and seemed, to Mary's mind, to be rather too keen when he finally resolved a long argument between the Bertram sisters as to which of them should play the part of Agatha.

"You are, of course, aware that Agatha and Frederick are mother and son," Mary mentioned to him offhandedly one evening. "Not the ideal parts to use as cover for your flirtations."

Henry responded with a grin that annoyed Mary in a way that she couldn't quite describe. "On the contrary, Mary. If we had the parts of Anhalt and Amelia, everyone would be too much on the look-out for flirtation. But no one will suspect me to behave in that way towards the woman I practically begged - as much as I ever beg - you all to let play the part of my mother." He laughed at her expression. "Why, Mary, there was a time when you would have gleefully plotted this along with me!"

"I promised Miss Price that I would be more considerate in my actions. I shall not stop you; this is no one's business but yours and Miss Bertram's. But I will warn you that it could hurt a good many people."

Henry regarded her carefully - almost seriously - for a moment. "Now, when did you develop a sense of the moral? I would never have thought that Miss Price would have such a profound effect on you."

"It is not a moral feeling. That is -" Mary searched for words. "Breaking a promise is a different thing entirely." It wasn't any sort of reason, of course, but it was all she could think to say. She liked Fanny, despite her quietness and the way she would always be so good, and she didn't want Henry ruining that. Not that she really needed any help with that, since Fanny still wouldn't talk to her.

"If you say so," Henry said doubtfully. "Personally, I see breaking promises as much the same thing as breaking hearts, and I have broken many of those in my life."

"Hmm." Mary was half-distracted, thinking of the ways she could win Fanny back. She would corner her somewhere, explain with just enough apology in her voice her motives for distancing herself, and then Fanny would be sure to forgive her, because Fanny forgave everyone. All Mary needed was an opportunity.

Thankfully, it was not an opportunity long in coming. Fanny could not avoid company forever, and it just so happened that Edmund had managed to convince her to join them one evening when the topic of the play came up.

"But you simply must play Anhalt, Edmund!" Maria said pleadingly. "If we do not have an Anhalt, we cannot continue the play!"

"Good," Edmund replied. "I have disapproved of the entire thing since the beginning. Perhaps now you can all leave this nonsense behind you."

"Please reconsider, Edmund," Mary said. "I would very much appreciate it if you played Anhalt - no one else would seem quite right in the part. He is, after all, a clergyman."

She got no small satisfaction from seeing the way he softened at her words. "Well...I suggest that you choose another play. One with fewer parts."

Yates, reclining on a chair in a way that he probably thought was dramatic, leapt to his feet. "No, no," he exclaimed, "that simply will not do! The play has been chosen! The parts distributed! If you shall not play Anhalt, then -" he paused to think, cutting himself off. "Although, since we are on the topic of parts..."

Tom realised where he was going. "Of course, the cottager's wife!" He glanced at Fanny, who was staring absently into the fire. An idea seemed to steal over him. "Fanny!"

She looked up, startled from her reverie, and made to stand up with the thought that perhaps Tom wanted her to perform some chore.

"You must play the cottager's wife!"

Mary, watching Fanny carefully, noticed the sudden look of sickness that came over her as she sat abruptly down again.

"Oh no, I could never do that!"

Tom frowned. "Why ever not? It is only a few lines, nothing that will greatly exert you."

Fanny shifted uncomfortably. "I am afraid that I am not a very good actor."

Tom was getting irritable now. "None of us are, Fanny! This play is entirely an amateur affair!"

"Yes, Fanny," Mrs Norris added. "You are being very selfish, carrying on like this. It almost makes me regret our kindness in raising you as we have done."

That was what brought tears to her eyes. All she could do was shake her head and mutter her refusal. For a moment, Mary expected Edmund to do something about it, but he was clearly too shocked to act. She stood up from her chair next to Edmund. There was a pause as she hovered in the middle of the room; she looked almost like she was about to say something. But then she frowned and grabbed Fanny's hand.

"Come, Miss Price," she said coldly. "The atmosphere in this room disagrees with me." At this, she shot a none too subtle glare at Mrs Norris, and flounced out of the room, dragging Fanny with her.

The door slammed as they left the room; it echoed in the empty hall. Fanny stared at Mary in stunned silence. Finally, she managed to force a sentence from her lips.

"That was very rude, Miss Crawford."

Mary almost wanted to laugh. Just like Fanny to complain about impoliteness when she'd defended her! She shook her head. "They were trying to bully you into something that you did not want to do."

"I am sure that I deserved it, when they were all so keen to carry on with the play."

"No!" Mary searched for words, and eventually settled on a statement she wasn't sure she'd ever believed before. "Our enjoyment should not come before your feelings."

Fanny looked just as taken aback as Mary felt. She almost seemed like she was about to protest. But then she smiled. Fanny rarely smiled; perhaps she thought it would be too presumptive of the Bertrams' continued goodwill to show much happiness. In fact, of the few times Mary had seen her smile, most of them were when she had been with Edmund.

"Thank you, Miss Crawford," she said. "But I am afraid that the others must now think us terribly impolite."

Mary hadn't thought of that. Well, she had, but she'd been so caught up in her anger that it hadn't seemed to matter. She frowned. "Yes, that is a problem. We cannot simply apologise, not when their own actions warrant an apology more than ours. Evidently the only solution is to run away to some obscure country in order to escape the shame."

To her delight, that made Fanny laugh. "Perhaps not something quite so drastic," she said.

There was a click as the door behind them closed. Edmund stood there, looking slightly ashamed at himself.

"I have convinced Tom and my aunt not to force the matter," he said. "Fanny does not have to be in the play if she does not wish to be."

Mary smiled at him gratefully, causing him to flush slightly. She turned to Fanny. "Well, Miss Price," she said triumphantly, "it seems that we no longer have need to flee the country."

"Perhaps now you should apologise, if not for defending me, then your rash behaviour," Fanny suggested, smiling slightly.

Anger flashed across Mary's face, but she quickly forced it down and responded with a smile of her own. "Very well," she gave Fanny a mock bow. "Whatever my lady commands." For some reason, Fanny felt that she wasn't entirely joking.

And so Mary did apologise, albeit with a hint of sarcasm to her tone. She and Henry left early (or at least earlier than usual) that day, likely due to the cooler atmosphere Mary had generated in the room by her actions. Fanny couldn't help but think about the entire incident. In part this was due to the reproachful looks certain members of the family kept shooting her, but - silly as the fear was - she was also worried that she had somehow offended Mary. Maybe she hadn't thanked her enough? She resolved to walk to the parsonage early the next day, to make her gratefulness clear. And perhaps out of a revived eagerness to see Mary, as well, although she didn't admit this to herself.

Mary was gazing absently out of her bedroom window when she saw Fanny hurrying towards the parsonage. It was so early that she wasn't dressed, had not even thought of breakfast; Fanny, in her nervousness, had barely slept, and left the house almost before anyone was awake. At once, Mary rushed down the stairs and threw open the door just as Fanny reached to knock. Fanny froze. Standing in the doorway was Mary, wearing nothing but a nightgown, her hair still messy and loose from sleeping. Everything seemed suddenly very out of control in her life, and despite all her intentions in coming there, all she could think of at that moment was how breathtakingly beautiful Mary looked with the early morning sun shining on her half-awake face. She gulped.

"I...came to thank you for the way that you came to my defence yesterday," she finally managed to stammer out.

Mary frowned at her. "You thanked me at the time," she said.

"Oh, but I was very much concerned that I had not thanked you enough." It sounded far sillier out in the open than it had in her head. Fanny yawned, and then blushed as though she thought that she had committed some grave social faux-pas.

"You need not have been so worried," Mary said, stepping aside to leave the doorway open. "Will not you come in?"

"Really, I must be getting back to the house -" Fanny began, but Mary would not take no for an answer; she grabbed her hand and dragged her inside.

"They shall not miss you for an hour," she said as she shut the door.

"Oh but you are not even dressed!"

"I need but a few minutes. I must talk to you, Miss Price; it is of the utmost importance!" With that, Mary hurried upstairs. Fanny was left alone in the room. She sighed and hoped that whatever Mary needed to talk about wouldn't take up too much time, for she didn't share Mary's confidence that she wouldn't be punished for her absence. Mary didn't exactly quell that fear; whatever her definition of 'a few minutes' was, it certainly didn't fit Fanny's, and it was just over a quarter of an hour before she appeared downstairs again. She put her fingers to her lips as she approached her.

"We must be very quiet," she said, as though Fanny were the one needing to be told. "The rest of the household is still asleep."

Fanny was beginning to wish that she was as well. She stifled a yawn and asked why Mary had risen so early in the morning.

"Usually it would be against my better judgement, but I woke up early and struggled to get back to sleep. I decided, on a whim, to look out of the window and there you were. It must have been fate, drawing my eyes to you."

"Miss Crawford, I am sorry -"

"You spend far too great a deal of your time apologising, I think."

Fanny blushed. "Well...I..."

Mary grabbed her hand. "Come, let us go to my room. We are less likely to be disturbed there." She noted with some satisfaction the way Fanny's blush deepened. Once there and sat down on the bed, she took a deep breath and began to speak.

"Having just admonished you for apologising too much, I am afraid I have one of my own to make. An apology, that is. Recently, I have been avoiding you. I...convinced myself it was for the best, but I realise that it has hurt you more than anything else." Throughout this she had been avoiding meeting Fanny's eyes. Suddenly she looked up, and Fanny recognised an expression in her eyes that she'd never seen before in them, or at least not so obviously: guilt. "You remember when I told you my opinion of Sir Thomas?" she said quickly.

"Yes."

"That was why I avoided you. I am very good - excellent, if I may flatter myself - at pretending flippancy around his…his…type of people, but I was worried that you, knowing my true feelings on the matter, would pick up some minute flaw in my guise." She took a deep breath. "That was all I had to say to you on the matter." Mary tried a smile; at first it faltered, but soon it caught and was as sincere as ever. "But will not you stay a while? I have so very few friends here, and I rather think inviting Edmund to my bedroom would raise rather more eyebrows than inviting you."

"Miss Crawford!"

"Oh, come now, you cannot have been so closed off from the world as to be unaware of these sorts of things - the sorts of things people would say, if nothing else."

Fanny looked embarrassed. Mary took pity on her and changed the subject. "Tell me, Miss Price, what subjects do you take an interest in? You must find something to do in the hours you spend alone."

Fanny relaxed slightly, and almost allowed herself a smile. "I do not have so much free time as you seem to think, Miss Crawford. Often I help my aunts, or my cousin Edmund has want of me. Although he has been less interested in my company as of late." It wasn't an accusation, but it still hung in the air between them; both knew how preoccupied Edmund had been with Mary - and of course Mary, who enjoyed both good company and having her vanity flattered by men falling in love with her, and had found those things embodied in Fanny's cousin, did nothing but encourage him. Perhaps, if she had not already been aware that Fanny was her soulmate, she would have even entertained the idea of marrying him.

"I shall scold him for his neglect," Mary eventually declared.

"Oh no, do not trouble -"

"Nonsense! It is no trouble. We must look after you, Miss Price; you are the moral compass of our little group of people at Mansfield - or at least, you are my moral compass - and I sorely doubt that we could do without you."

Fanny shook her head at this grand declaration, a smile playing at her lips despite her best attempts to remain serious. "You must look to yourself for a moral guide, Miss Crawford."

"Well," Mary smiled and drew herself closer to Fanny, "you will be shocked to hear this, very shocked indeed, but my conscience is sadly out of practice on account of my many years of depravity. May I be permitted to use you as substitute for the time being, whilst it recovers?" With that she slid her arm around Fanny's waist - an action which caused her companion to squeak. Mary took one look at Fanny's shocked face and burst out laughing. It was infectious, and soon Fanny was laughing as well, albeit in a more subdued way. It suddenly occurred to Mary that there were other people in the house still asleep who wouldn't appreciate being woken by their laughter, and she clapped her hand over Fanny's mouth (never mind that it was Mary's laugh that was, in fact, louder). Fanny seemed to have come to the same conclusion, and soon their giggling ceased.

Both of them realised at the same time how close they were; Mary had one hand around Fanny's waist and another on her mouth, and their faces were mere inches from each other. Mary was almost disappointed by how quickly Fanny drew away from her.

"I do enjoy reading Shakespeare," Fanny said after taking a moment to compose herself.

"What?"

"You asked me what my interests were."

"Of course! Well, what intelligent young woman does not?" Here, Fanny opened her mouth to protest having such a compliment paid to her, but Mary continued speaking regardless. "I personally have a preference for his comedies; I cannot abide too much sadness - I would much prefer to laugh, with the knowledge that by the end all will be well. What is your preference, Miss Price?"

"I rather prefer the tragedies." Fanny sighed and looked down at her hands. "They allow me to see the good in my life by contrast."

"My, we are serious." Mary leaned close to Fanny and stared at her face intently. "Surely you do not need to see the undiluted misery of Shakespearian characters in order to recognise joy in your own life?"

Fanny hesitated. "It would be ungrateful for me to complain," she said, and then lapsed into silence.

Mary again drew herself close and was relieved when Fanny let her. "Do they love you?" she said, perhaps rather more sharply than she meant to, for all the angry protectiveness that had been awoken in her last night burned again.

"I am sure that they do," Fanny said, sounding anything but. "But they are all awfully busy, and do not often have time for me. They are never unkind, except for Mrs Norris, at times - when I cannot doubt that I deserve it -"

"No," Mary said, so quiet and unlike herself that Fanny stopped mid-sentence. "Miss Price, you are a far better person than I could ever hope to be - although, I confess, that is not necessarily a hard thing - and you could never deserve anything close to the way I saw them treat you last night. And if they will not love you, then I shall."

If Fanny had not been so desperate to ignore the tattoo on her wrist and all the concepts that surrounded it, she would have probably recognised that the emotion she felt for Miss Crawford in that moment was not at all dissimilar to that which she had often felt for Edmund. But if even a small part of her realised this, she ignored it as she thanked Mary.

Mary smiled courteously, then changed the subject to something more light-hearted, as much to take her own mind off of their serious conversation as Fanny's.

It was not long before Henry, awake and dressed and wanting to talk to his sister, made his way to her room, where he heard voices. He hovered at the threshold, unseen, and watched Mary and Fanny's conversation. He didn't bother to pay much attention to the words; he was entranced by the enthusiasm with which Fanny spoke about...well, whatever she was talking about. Perhaps she was not so boring after all. And the light shining in from the window was most becoming in the way it threaded through her hair and caused her skin to shine. In that moment, Henry had discovered that it was possible to awaken some other emotion than sheer misery in Miss Price, and from then on he became set on being the cause for it. Now that he was aware that she wasn't quite as boring as he'd thought her, the idea of breaking her heart grew more appealing to him. Henry could not abide breaking the heart of boring people, or people he deemed boring; getting close enough in the first place was far too dull for him, and usually they did not react in an interesting enough way to make the hard work worth it.

Mary was the one who broke his reverie. She saw him standing in the door and called out, "Henry! What are you doing lurking there? I do hope that we did not wake you."

Henry shook his head and smiled his most charming smile. "Not at all. I did not even hear you until I drew near." He bowed to Fanny, who suddenly seemed more subdued now that someone else was in the room. "Miss Price."

"Mr Crawford," she said quietly. "I…I really should be leaving. I feel as though I have imposed upon your hospitality for far too long already today."

"Not at all," Mary said, and then, "would you like me to walk you back?" at the same time as her brother, who looked rather put out.

"If it is not too much trouble," Fanny said, addressing herself to Mary.

"No trouble at all! I have more to say to you yet, and if you are given trouble for being away so long, I will be there to defend you." Mary stood up abruptly and proffered her arm to Fanny to take. She did so hesitantly, and Mary almost dragged her up and out of the room, leaving Henry to stare after them.

"Now, Miss Price, you simply must tell me your honest opinion on our performing Lovers' Vows," Mary declared once they'd left the house and were walking briskly along the lane. "You need not hide your opinions from me."

Fanny thought for a bit. "I have read the play, and the subject matter...Miss Crawford, if you truly want my honest opinion then I must say that I am quite shocked by it. Even then, I would perhaps not see so much harm in it if it did not require near strangers among us for the other parts. It is not...young women of my cousins' and your status do not perform in plays, especially not plays of this sort. And..." she trailed off and looked worried.

"What is it?" Mary asked.

"I...I fear that Maria's motives for taking the part of Agatha are not entirely honest. But it is not for me to speculate on such matters."

"I suppose not," Mary said thoughtfully. "But between the two of us...I do not believe my brother's motivations for taking the part of Frederick are entirely honest either." She neglected to mention that she knew for certain what his motives were. "I am sure that they will come to their senses eventually."

"But what of the pain that they could cause in the meanwhile?" Fanny protested, looking earnestly at Mary.

"It will be no-one's fault but their own," Mary said dismissively. This was not a conversation she wanted to have.

"We cannot just -"

"What would you suggest that we do?" Mary said sharply. "No one will listen to you, and if I reveal my brother's intentions then I will be barred from here as his sister and from his heart as his accuser."

Fanny was silenced. They walked quietly for a while, the only sound their footsteps on the lane.

"I am sorry," Mary said when the lack of conversation became too much for her to bear. She was rewarded for her apology when Fanny's hesitant hand found its way to hers and squeezed it slightly. They still didn't speak, but the nature of the silence shifted slightly; it was by far more comfortable now. Mary wasn't used to this. In the circles she moved in, people always chatted away even when they weren't really saying anything. Here, she didn't feel unnerved by the silence, only restful. She decided to cherish the moment, looping her arm through Fanny's and slowing her pace until they were moving at what could barely be called a stroll. The day had advanced somewhat since Fanny had made her way to the cottage, and it was uncharacteristically warm for late September, like some last lingering vestige of summer was clinging to life. The ground was mottled from the light shining through the evergreens that lined the side of the path. Fanny let out a contented sigh.

"I love Mansfield," she said. "I do not think that I could ever bear leaving it, not for too long."

Mary glanced at her, a confused frown crumpling her forehead. "You love it so much, and yet so often I have seen you neglected and mistreated here. I do not think that I could ever bear a place like that."

For a moment Fanny said nothing. Then, "We are often so different, you and I."

"Perhaps that is what draws me to you. You are so different from anyone I have ever known. The two of us are natural opposites, complementing each other like hot and cold, chaos and order."

"Are you teasing me, Miss Crawford?" It came out as more accusatory than she'd meant it, and Fanny winced.

"Nonsense; I would not dream of it! You draw out the poet in me, that is all."

Fanny still wasn't quite sure she believed Mary, especially as she was struggling to suppress a teasing smile, but she was eager to avoid confrontation, and so she let it go.

"Besides," Mary added, "if a bit of light teasing irritates you, perhaps you should get a new sense of humour."

Fanny smiled. It looked slightly strained. "I am afraid that this is the only one I have."

Mary realised that she'd upset her, but she didn't say anything. She'd already apologised to Fanny once this walk; she saw no reason to do it again. Instead, she decided to make up for it at some later opportunity.

As it turned out, the opportunity was not slow in coming. The walk had taken longer than expected, not helped by the fact that Mary had chosen to slow down, and when they reached the house Mrs Norris was waiting outside, glaring daggers. Fanny cowered, almost hiding behind Mary in her sudden fear.

"Mrs Norris!" Mary exclaimed before she had had a chance to speak. "I seem to have deprived you of an assistant. Forgive me for propositioning Miss Price for my own ends, but I simply could not do without her company - she is so very charming. Please, I entreat, do not punish her on my account." And with that declaration, she turned on her heel and started to walk back towards the parsonage.

Mrs Norris waited for her to go out of earshot. "You should be very grateful for Miss Crawford's kindness, Fanny," she said sharply.

"Yes, Aunt Norris, I am."

"Of course, it is very unlikely that a woman like her truly considers you her friend. She is of a different class entirely; it is only due to her charity that she spends so much time on you. Now, come inside. I have some tasks I want you to perform."

Fanny suddenly felt very much like crying. She followed her aunt indoors.

The next time Fanny saw Miss Crawford was that evening. After supper, the usual rehearsals of Lover's Vows commenced, and Fanny was hiding upstairs to avoid a repeat of the last night's fight. She had just settled herself down when a knock came at the door, and a moment later Mary came striding into the room.

"Miss Price," she said, "would you mind assisting me with my lines?" Fanny opened her mouth to reply and Mary held up her hand. "Now, do not protest, I entreat; I am not asking you to involve yourself in our amateur dramatics any more than this. But this scene between Anhalt and Amelia is rather too...well, let us say simply that I am not yet comfortable enough to rehearse it with Edmund, and leave it there." She pressed the play, open at the scene, into Fanny's unresisting hands. "Now, all you need to do is read out Anhalt's lines from that point -" here she leant over to indicate the line - "and I shall do my best to remember Amelia's part." She paused for a moment. "I assume, of course, that you are agreeing to do so?"

Fanny was for a moment lost for words. Finally, hesitatingly, she said, "I suppose..."

"Excellent!" Mary exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. "Now, shall we begin?"

Fanny took a deep, trembling breath. She didn't truly understand why she was so nervous; she put it down to her disapproval of the play (although she had already been assisting in various ways) and how close she was now becoming to it. "I come from your father," she began, "with a commission."

"No, no, no," Mary tutted, "I cannot work with an Anhalt so wooden! To truly capture his spirit you must imagine a suppressed love; Amelia is so far above your station as to make it improper, and so you attempt to hide it. Try again."

"I come from your father with a commission," Fanny said again, and this time Mary didn't interrupt her. "If you please, we will sit down. Count Cassel is arrived." Her voice shook slightly. Mary smiled in approval.

"That is good! Exactly how Anhalt would react upon learning that a man who covets Amelia's hand is near."

"If you please, Miss Crawford," Fanny said carefully, "it is you who are rehearsing, not I."

"Quite right. I can always trust to you to keep me focused." Mary cleared her throat. "Yes, I know."

"And do you know for what reason?" Fanny asked. She began almost to imagine herself as Edmund, who, it seemed to her, was very deeply in love with Mary, and so a good template for the role.

Mary thrust her chin up proudly. "He wishes to marry me," she declared. The performance seemed so close to Mary's usual character that Fanny almost believed it to be real; she felt a twinge of...something as she read the next line. A simple conversation, she reminded herself, between two characters in a play. It wasn't really Mary saying these words, but Amelia. And she was Anhalt.

The conversation skipped along, the lines flowing easily from Fanny. She became so involved in the scene that she was unaware of a slight blush rising to her cheeks as she spoke. Mary watched her carefully.

"Are in love!" Fanny recited. "And with the Count?" And with Edmund? A small part of her mind seemed to say.

"I wish I was," said Mary wistfully as she gazed at Fanny.

"Why so?"

"Because he would, perhaps, love me again."

Fanny felt a strange emotion stirring in her, as though the character of Anhalt had taken over her body. She almost wished to grasp Mary's wrists, to declare, "But I do love you!"

Instead, she read the line. "Who is there that would not?"

Mary stroked her arm tenderly. "Would you?" The emotion she exhibited was so believable it could almost be real. But, that, of course, was impossible; although she was playing the part of a man, Fanny was not one. For Mary to feel any sort of desire for her, apart from that produced by a strong friendship, was beyond imagination. And yet, even as she denied it, the same desire rose in Fanny.

"It is your line, Miss Price," Mary urged, amusement playing across her lips.

"I-I-me-I-I am out of the question," Fanny said dutifully. She felt a sort of kinship with Anhalt stammering that line. Apart from the fact that class wasn't the key player in her unsuitability. The thought - the fact that she could even consider that idea of her relationship with Mary - worried her, and, to avoid it, she focused even harder on the lines.

Something which Mary was making difficult with her acting. She leant close, so close that Fanny could feel the hot air from Mary's breath on her face.

"No," Mary said quietly, then repeated it a few times for good measure. "No, no, no; you are the very person to whom I have put the question." She brought her hand to Fanny's forehead and pushed the hair that fell there out of the way. Fanny trembled under her touch, and stumbled through the next few lines nervously. Mary still didn't move away, but in fact seemed to draw closer. The scene grew more flirtatious, and Fanny grew more nervous, now quite pink in the face. By the time Amelia was entreating Anhalt to teach her of love, her usual colour had been almost overtaken. And Mary, as she watched Fanny stutter and blush and be generally awkward, felt a realisation come upon her.

She was in love.

It had approached secretly, manifesting itself in the desire to please Fanny, in the pleasure taken in her company, in the softening of Mary's character due to Fanny's gentle chiding. But now in this quiet moment, she found it had enveloped her heart. As she spoke the next lines, she tilted Fanny's chin upwards, so that their lips were almost brushing.

"A very proper subject from the man who has taught me love," she began.

They were apart before Edmund had even walked through the door. Mary had a vague sense of Fanny struggling away from her, and felt a surge of doubt. Was it possible that she had fallen in love with someone who could not - or would not - love her back?

"Mr Bertram," she said, suppressing these thoughts. "Miss Price was helping me to rehearse."

Edmund looked embarrassed. "That was actually what I came up here to ask about - I hoped to convince her to read Amelia for my Anhalt. But," he adopted a hopeful expression, "now that you are here perhaps we could instead practice with each other?"

He looked so pitiful that Mary decided to humour him. "Of course," she said. Then, turning to Fanny, "Would you watch us, so as to correct any mistakes we make?"

Fanny nodded, and stood up out of her seat to allow Edmund to sit down.

They began the scene again. At times during the rehearsal, Mary could catch the expression on Fanny's face out of the corner of her eye. It was one of extreme sadness - perhaps she didn't even realise that she was showing it herself. Mary knew the look well; in many of her light flirtations she had seen other women make the same face. But this time it was more ambiguous - was Fanny jealous of Mary, or Edmund? Did she even know herself? Mary allowed herself to muse on these questions rather than pay attention to her lines; as a result her performance was distracted, vague. The scene finished; Edmund's clear disappointment at her lack of interest caused Mary to feel a twinge of pity in her heart.

"Shall we go for a walk outside, Mr Bertram?" she asked kindly. "It is not yet too dark out."

Edmund brightened up. "Oh yes! Of course! I suppose we shall need a chaperone, though." And he hurried downstairs without even thinking to ask Fanny. As Mary followed after him, she caught the same deeply sad expression on Fanny's face that she had seen earlier.

"Do you wish to accompany us, Miss Price?" she asked.

"Oh, no," said Fanny, endeavouring to seem cheerful, "I think that I would only get in the way."

Mary didn't question her, but left the room to go downstairs.

"Mary," Henry declared on the way home, "you will be pleased to know that I have decided to renew my attentions to Miss Price."

"I am overjoyed, Henry," Mary said absentmindedly. "But what, may I ask, has changed your mind so completely?"

Henry made an attempt to kick a stone on the path, but missed instead and almost fell over. He looked quickly left and right to make sure that no-one had seen.

"It was seeing the two of you this morning," he said, his voice overly dignified as though trying to compensate for his embarrassing slip. "Enthusiasm quite becomes her. Tonight as well; she came downstairs some time after you had gone out on that walk with the two eligible Bertram bachelors. She seemed very disappointed not to see you there. I spoke with her on a few topics I thought she might find interesting, and she simply lit up! I was so taken with her that I even prevailed upon her to join in with our play, so that I might spend some more time with her."

Mary kicked him in the shin. "You really are an abominable fool, Henry," she said. "Did not you see how much the incident last night upset her?"

"Well, yes," Henry muttered discontentedly. "Perhaps that was not the best way to go about things. Normally I would not take nearly so much trouble, but then again, her disinterest in me is something that I find rather abnormal." He stopped momentarily to rub his shin, wincing.

"You could spend more time with her outside of the rehearsals for Lover's Vows," Mary suggested as she stopped to wait for him.

Henry straightened up. "Perhaps," he said. "Of course, I will have to exert considerably more effort than I am used to in such matters, but I suppose I could do with the challenge."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps, if you fail, you will be taught a lesson for once; if we are lucky you may even entirely give up on toying with young women's hearts."

"You are so fortunate to have Miss Crawford's particular friendship, dear Fanny," Julia declared with a sigh only slightly too exaggerated to be sincere.

Fanny watched her carefully, and not without a bit of concern. Julia had only just stopped sulking after the part of Agatha had been given to Maria - during which time she had only admitted the company of Mr Yates - but now she had immediately latched on to Fanny, showing far more affection for her than she ever had in the previous eight years they had known each other.

"I am sure that Mary, had you wished for the part of Amelia, would not have stolen it from underneath you, especially if you were clearly right for the role," Julia continued.

"But I most certainly did not want the part of Amelia," Fanny replied, a note of panic creeping into her voice.

"Yes, yes, I know, but the point is that if you had... I only wish that I had such a relationship with Maria."

"I think our friendship is quite different from yours with Maria, Julia," Fanny said, blushing slightly - the memory of the evening where they had acted together had come upon her.

"Fanny, are you being deliberately obtuse?"

"Oh no, certainly not!"

It was at that point that Mary came up to them, her usual smile upon her face. "Miss Price! I assume I cannot flatter myself that you are here to watch me rehearse?"

"Oh yes!" Julia gushed. "Why, when I first went over to her, she was looking at you most intently - the sweetest expression of admiration on her face - and I had to speak several times before she could even hear me! If you were a man, Miss Crawford, I should have assumed you and she to be lovers!" When she uttered those last words, there was something uncharacteristically sharp in her tone, as though she believed herself to have uncovered something.

Fanny blushed, and only went a deeper pink when Mary began to speak.

"Is that so?" she said, amusement weaving between her words. "Well, I shall repay the compliment. If I were a man, I would get down on my knees right now and ask you to marry me."

"Did someone mention marriage?" It was Henry, who had managed to join the group without any of them noticing. "May I presume to join this triad of charming ladies?"

"Of course," Julia said immediately, blushing slightly as she did so. She was slightly put out when she saw Henry turn his attentions to Fanny.

"To what pleasure do we owe your appearance at this rehearsal, Miss Price?" he asked in his most charming voice. "Unless I am mistaken, you usually avoid being in such near proximity to our little play."

"She came to see me," Mary declared proudly. Fanny's face was now hopelessly red in her increasing embarrassment.

Henry watched Fanny in amusement. "Is that so?" he said. She nodded reluctantly.

"I feel almost as though I have betrayed my values," she admitted quietly. "I have been so against this play, and yet I do so enjoy watching your sister, whatever she happens to be doing." A sort of joy seemed to light up her features. Henry found himself smiling involuntarily.

"I am grateful that you have discovered my sister's charms," he said. "Albeit a bit later than most do."

"I hope that I am not interrupting anything important," Tom called from the middle of the room, "but it would be greatly appreciated if the performers would return to performing." He reserved an especial glare for Mary, still irritated at her intercession on Fanny's behalf, despite the many weeks that had passed. Perhaps part of the reason he was so frustrated was that, although they were missing their cottager's wife due to an illness of Dr Grant's keeping her at home, Mary's protection prevented him from forcing Fanny to read her lines.

Henry stood up and bowed his goodbyes. He and Mary were about to return to the rehearsal when Edmund came into the room, pale faced.

"Father has arrived," he announced.

All at once the room was thrown into confusion. The Bertram siblings at least had the presence of mind to rush out and meet their father, to try and delay his discovery of their play as much as possible. Fanny was about to follow them, but Mary took her hand.

"Please, stay a while." She offered a weak smile. "Your uncle will not miss you so very much. Not as much as I will, should you go to meet him."

"Mary," Henry said sharply, "I think it best if we depart."

"Nonsense," Mary replied. "I refuse to leave Miss Price."

Fanny sat back down. "Mr Crawford is right; you will only get in trouble with my uncle if he finds you here." But, despite her protests, she made no effort to get Mary to let go of her hand.

"I will bear it," Mary said firmly. It was clear that she had no intention of leaving Fanny to face any portion of his anger alone. Or perhaps she simply did not wish to shorten her evening solely because the patriarch of the household had returned.

Henry shot a nervous glance at Mr Yates, still acting, oblivious to the turmoil. "Mary."

They heard voices from outside.

"...and where is dear Fanny? I would wish to see her."

Everything seemed to freeze as Sir Thomas Bertram entered the room. Fanny felt a sudden urge to run, despite her relative lack of involvement. His eyes scanned the room, his countenance darkening as he took in the entire scene.

"Sir, even if you undertake to punish the rest of us, please understand that Fanny had nothing to do with it - she disapproved even when I ignored what a good moral sense would have told me to disapprove of," Edmund explained.

Sir Thomas' eyes rested on Fanny for a moment - a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

He recovered quickly, and then his eyes snapped to the right, to Tom, looking at his father defiantly, despite the plan that had been uncovered. "Tom, I wish to see you in my study," he said coldly. "Immediately."

Tom drooped slightly, and traipsed out after him. A door closed. Raised voices could be heard echoing throughout the house.

Fanny began to cry. Mary grasped her hand yet tighter.