It wouldn't have surprised Fanny if she'd learnt that the shock of that moment had stopped her heart. The Crawfords, here! All human intelligence vanished from her mind as she sat there, staring at Mary. She had forgotten how to speak, to move, to do anything that might have marked her as anything other than a petrified statue.

Perhaps it would have been easier to recover had Henry not been eager to try and fill the loud silence with eager questions.

"How are you enjoying Portsmouth, Miss Price?" he asked.

Fanny looked around desperately for some help, but the rest of her family had miraculously disappeared - presumably they wanted to help the Crawfords in their supposed desire to get to know Fanny better, and did so by leaving the three of them alone. She could not help but be surprised that there was any space to disappear to.

"I am finding it very pleasant, thank you, Mr Crawford," Fanny replied. That was good. Pleasant was a neutral word. Her eyes rested back on Mary, although she would have denied directing them there of her own accord.

Henry coughed loudly and lapsed back into silence. Even he was starting to look uncomfortable.

Mary wished that she could send Henry out of the room in order to speak with Fanny privately, but she knew that that was impossible; after all, she had convinced him of this visit by framing it as another chance for him to win Fanny's heart. But there was no other option, no other hope of privacy. Mary had never imagined the Prices' house to be this small.

"Shall we go out for a walk?" Henry suggested. "I would much enjoy being shown Portsmouth by a native of the place."

Mary knew her brother, and she knew that this suggestion hid a desire to get Fanny alone, no doubt to impress her with some selfless act that he would claim he had performed entirely for her benefit.

Fanny gave him a false smile. "Of course, Mr Crawford," she said, "but may I suggest that my younger sister Susan accompany us? She is far more knowledgeable than I about Portsmouth; it has been so long since I have been here, and I am sure that much has changed."

Henry's charming grin immediately dropped from his face. He looked taken aback; Mary had to cover her mouth to avoid laughing.

"Of course," he said at last. "That seems to me to be an excellent course of action." He spoke with a barely disguised annoyance.

Henry's plan had been as follows: suggest that he, Mary, and Fanny take a walk; when it was inevitably agreed to as most of his suggestions were, he would lead Fanny far enough ahead to have a private conversation where he would impress her with his recent exploits, and perhaps - if all went well - convince her at last to marry him.

The presence of Susan spoiled this plan somewhat. But Henry was willing enough to adapt his plan - he would somehow convince the child to walk with Mary instead of her sister.

Unfortunately, Mary had other ideas; as soon as they had all left the house, she looped her arm through Fanny's and set marching off ahead. Susan as well had her own plans - she took the opportunity provided by Fanny and Mary leaving to interrogate him.

"Are you in love with Fanny?" she asked abruptly.

Henry managed to act unfazed by her directness. "Yes," he replied. "I mean to ask her to marry me."

Susan stared at him with an intensity which almost frightened Henry.

"Does she love you?" was her next question.

Henry, for a moment, considered lying. Perhaps if he could get this girl on his side...

"Not as of yet," he replied, "but I am sure that she soon will be, when she learns of the charitable work that I have done since we last parted. I went to such great lengths that I am sure that she will be impressed." He sighed, and in a half joking tone continued, "I suppose that if I cannot speak to her then there is no point in doing such grand things, for she will never know of them."

Henry didn't notice the stoniness of the silence that followed; he was just happy to continue walking in the hope that they would catch up with the others.

"Miss Price - Fanny - you must speak with me," Mary's tone was almost desperate, certainly pleading. The shyness that Fanny had shown at the start of their friendship had returned in full force and she could barely have opened her mouth even if she had wished it.

Mary pulled her closer. "Fanny, I must be honest. While I was in London I came to a realisation: after your company I could bear no other - your friendship is of a far better sort than any of my acquaintances there could offer. I had to come here because I could bear no place away from you for long; I could not bear the company of those that I used to call friends."

This wasn't entirely true, of course, but surely a young woman who wishes to win back the one she loves can be excused of bending the truth slightly in the pursuit of her goal?

Mary was gratified when her words caused Fanny to colour slightly. But still she could not find the courage to speak. She stared at the ground.

"I have another reason for coming here, Fanny," Mary admitted after several long minutes of silence, in which the only sound was their footsteps, gradually becoming more and more in sync with each other as they walked along next to the sea. "I must apologise for something."

Fanny was startled out of her silence. "Apologise?" she exclaimed, almost involuntarily.

Mary laughed. "Yes, you may well be surprised. It is not something that I for the most part make a habit of."

"Oh no, I did not mean-"

"I am not angry, Fanny. I only wish that you would let me speak so that I can say my apology." She smiled, and her smile was returned in kind by Fanny.

"I breached your trust, Fanny, and for that I can only hope for your forgiveness. I should not have taken such...such liberties with you. I was becoming impatient, but of course that was no excuse. Will you ever be able to forgive me?"

Fanny didn't speak for a long time. Mary's heart began to sink in her chest. Oh...this was a mistake - of course Fanny could not forgive; the fear of what Mary could have seen probably held her back.

"I am sorry too," she began, but Mary cut her off.

"You have nothing to apologise for," she told her gently. "Unless defending yourself from a friend who is too self absorbed to think of anyone's feelings but her own is a crime."

Fanny relaxed - she'd been thinking of the names on her wrists, but either Mary hadn't properly seen them, or she had interpreted them in such a way that there was no danger for Fanny. There was another option, but she refused to let herself think of it.

"Whilst I am on the subject of apologies," Mary continued, "I feel I was rather eager to pressure you into a union with my brother. You must understand that it was born from a desire to spend all, or most, of my time near you -" (here, Fanny blushed deeply) - "but I realise now that I should have taken your wishes into consideration as well as my own."

Fanny didn't respond immediately. She was of course grateful for Mary's apology, but she could not help but remember all the pain this betrayal (for that is what it had felt like) had caused. Yet she was so used to easily forgiving people, avoiding conflict, not even receiving an apology, that even as part of her shrunk from the idea she longed to dismiss it all, to say that she didn't mind so that they could return to the way things had been that winter.

Mary was still watching her. They had slowed so much now that they were barely moving at all; Henry and Susan would catch up with them soon.

Something in Mary's expression - a sort of gained self-awareness, proof that this was a genuine realisation of her own guilt rather than an apology only to smooth things over - made her think that she could be honest without fear.

"Thank you, Miss Crawford," she began, "but…" (she felt a pang of guilt as she saw a look of disappointment cross Mary's face) "it may take me some time to truly forgive you."

"Of course," Mary replied, a little sadly. "I shall even leave Portsmouth, if you wish me gone."

The idea of Mary leaving seemed far worse than anything Fanny could have imagined; for Mary to leave would mean that there would only be Henry, who seemed set on spending time with her. Panic overtook Fanny.

"No!" she exclaimed, rather more forcefully than she had intended.

Mary seemed taken aback. "If you would rather that I stay..." she said hesitatingly, hopefully.

"You have only just arrived," Fanny explained. It was an excuse more than anything else. She certainly hadn't been thinking about it when she had told Mary not to leave. "It would be unfair to demand your departure so soon."

Mary doubted the truth of this statement, but she was happy for any excuse to stay with Fanny.

"Of course," she said. "If that is what you wish."

At first, it was difficult to communicate with Fanny; she had put up a wall between herself and Mary that seemed unlikely to come down any time soon. She was even secretive about her correspondents; once, when Mary out of curiosity had asked who had written the letter she was reading, Fanny had panicked and bolted upstairs, without answering, in order to hide it from her. It pained Mary, but she could not argue with its justification.

Fanny, for her part, felt immensely guilty about her behaviour, but somehow she could not bring herself to stop it. She knew it was rude, she knew it was overly distrustful, but still she was terrified by the thought that if Mary had been proved untrustworthy once, it could happen again. Despite this fear, she still felt some comfort in Mary's company, not least because it protected her from Henry and his keen, searching interest in her. Something about his sister's presence always held him back, whether it was her own closeness to Fanny or because he desired privacy for his goal. Whatever his reason, it was a great relief to Fanny that he would not press his court whilst Mary was there.

And during these long times where Henry would sit awkwardly, longing for his sister to leave as she conversed about nothing much in particular, they began, imperceptibly at first, to grow closer together.

Fanny did not speak as openly as she used to, but it wasn't long before the suspicion which had crept into her gaze without her noticing was no longer present in her eyes when she looked at Mary, and she began to seek her company for reasons other than the protection she provided from Henry.

Mary, for her part, took great pains to care for Fanny and to reassure her. She didn't push Fanny to reveal anything she didn't want to; she didn't talk if Fanny didn't want it.

The change in her was so remarkable that Fanny was almost worried that Mary was faking sincerity. One day, she managed to build up the courage to ask her about it.

"I do not wish to lose you again," Mary replied. "I have learned my lesson most thoroughly; it is better to be patient with you than not to."

Fanny was aware that Mary had always shown a great kindness towards her that she hadn't always mimicked in her behaviour to other people, but she was taken back by this new attitude.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, "but I worry that you are suppressing some part of yourself for my sake; please, do not think to put my preferences over your own."

Mary stared at her in shock for a moment. Then she broke into a smile. "Why, Fanny, you are far too good for me. You are rarely - if ever - given the treatment that you deserve, but when I endeavour to amend that, you protest in fear that I am harming myself!" She leaned in closer. "My dearest Fanny, you deserve the world, and - cannot you understand? - I am aiming to do everything in my power to give it to you."

Fanny coloured deeply. "I would not know what to do with the world," she said.

"Oh? Then I shall be a friend, a better friend than I was before; perhaps that shall be something that you will know what to do with."

The growing peace between them was shattered one day by the arrival of a letter from Edmund. It was the one he had written when he had been upset and disappointed at Mary's conduct, and which he had sent off before stopping to think; his account of Mary's behaviour shocked Fanny just as they had shocked Edmund. Mary, unsuspecting, arrived at the house at her usual time, only to find Fanny sitting silently at the table. She turned accusing eyes towards Mary; the letter she had been reading sat in front of her, and Mary got enough of a look at it to recognise Edmund's handwriting. Somehow, in all of the time that they had been together, she hadn't found the right moment to admit to her bad behaviour in London. Now it seemed likely that Edmund had beaten her to it. She motioned at Fanny to step outside, away from the bustle of the Price household, where she could hopefully explain herself more easily.

"You lied to me!" Fanny burst out almost as soon as she had stepped out of the house. "You told me that you could not stand your friends in London - but this letter informs me that you were perfectly happy with them, being as irresponsible as you possibly could!

Mary tried to be calm in the face of Fanny's anger. "I was intending to tell you," she said sincerely. "But it always seemed like the wrong time."

Fanny looked like she was about to cry. "Why could you not have admitted it for yourself? Why did you do all that Edmund has recounted in the first place?"

Mary shifted uncomfortably. It seemed like nothing less than the truth would work here. Very well; she had vowed to be a better friend, and so she must make some attempt at it. "I was…I was trying to smother my guilt. Of course that does not excuse my actions, but my conduct in London is certainly not something that I ever intend to repeat."

She held her breath for the moment that Fanny took to consider.

"Do you really promise not to act in such a way again?" Fanny turned hope filled eyes upon Mary. She really did want to forgive her.

"I promise with all my heart." Mary smiled. "I am truly fortunate to have a friend so eager to pardon me for my transgressions, but regardless, I have learned my lesson."

That was the end of it. The momentary breach between them was healed, and Mary's honesty, late as it had come, had perhaps even quickened Fanny's recovery from the much larger injury that Mary had caused her.

Henry was impatient by nature, more so than his sister. There was only so much of Fanny's continued shyness around him, of her marked preference for Mary, that he could handle. Seven days had passed into his stay - more than he had intended at the start of his visit, but he had been waiting in a vain for a good opportunity to tell Fanny of his good deeds - when he took a sudden decision to make for London. His frustration at Fanny's reticence was further increased when, having offered to return Mary to her friends, she refused on the grounds that she would be "dreadfully missed by Fanny."

So it was, angry and embarrassed at Fanny's repeated and pointed avoidance of him, that he arrived in London. He had business of some sort there; that was his excuse, anyway. In reality, his main motivation had been to nurse his pride in a place where he was sure to be loved.

Henry didn't mean to meet Mrs Rushworth in London; in fact, she hadn't even entered his head, and it was only by chance, many weeks into his stay, that he had stumbled across her. But when he met her it was as though all the reforms he had attempted of his character in order to impress Fanny were gone. Here was a woman, a very attractive woman, who could not have been more clearly interested in him - something which greatly flattered his vanity. At the sight of him her husband was almost forgotten.

No one apart from Henry could perhaps fully explain why he made the choice he did. Perhaps it was the thrill of a challenge that he had never tried before; perhaps he wanted to get back at Fanny in some way for her disinterest and his subsequent humiliation.

Nevertheless, very soon something happened to grab the attention of even those living far away from London.

Fanny's father had hardly begun to relate the event as it had appeared in the newspaper when she gave a cry of surprise and had to sit down. It was too early in the morning for Mary to have yet stopped by, but Fanny felt a sudden need for her support. As soon as she had breakfasted, she hurried to her lodgings.

"Eloped?" Mary exclaimed. She lacked some of Fanny's surprise; she knew what sort of man her brother was, how easily he was tempted by a pretty face, and she was all too aware of Maria's attraction towards him. Still, she had been sure of his love of Fanny, and had believed that if anyone could improve Henry then it would be his soulmate.

Fanny nodded. She was shaking, barely able to speak for fear of bursting into tears.

Mary looked at her in concern. "Come, Fanny, this cannot all be from the elopement; please, tell me what else is the matter."

Fanny didn't answer; she only thrust a letter into Mary's hand. It was dated weeks ago - far too long ago for it just to have arrived. It must have been read long ago, and the contents concealed from Mary for some reason which she could only guess at.

It was from Lady Bertram; her concern was striking, given her usual apathy towards her children, and seemed to bleed through the page.

Tom was ill. Dangerously so; a terrible accident of some sort. This on its own Fanny could have perhaps borne; coupled with Maria's elopement, it threatened to overwhelm her.

Mary accompanied her home. When they reached it, another letter was pushed into her hands, this time from her cousin, full of apologies for not being able to come to Portsmouth himself. Edmund almost begged for Fanny to return - they needed her, she was sorely missed, she could support them all. For the moment, Fanny couldn't even support herself. She barely waited to finish reading the letter before she collapsed into a chair, sobbing.

Mary didn't know what to do. She had no real experience in comforting people.

"Since his brother's illness now seems so bad that he cannot be spared to come for you, I shall write directly to inform Edmund that I shall take you back to Mansfield Park."

Fanny looked up at her, her face stained with tears. "Oh, no, no," she moaned. "They shall all blame you, as Mr Crawford's sister, for what has happened - and I could not bear that."

"Fanny," Mary said, sounding far calmer than she felt, "if this had happened earlier, a few months ago perhaps, then I would have blamed you for Henry's elopement, because you did not accept his proposal. But I have come to realise that that would be unfair; there is no one to blame for his actions but himself, nothing caused it except his own folly."

Fanny was not comforted. "Regardless of how much you are to blame, you may still be disliked and mistreated. I could not, would not, expose you to that."

Mary knelt down and gently took Fanny's hands, which were scrunched tightly in her lap. "If I am not there, who is to say that they will not be so unjust as to blame you? Fanny, there was a time where I would have left you alone at this point, for my own comfort, but I flatter myself that I am a better person than that now."

Fanny hesitated.

"Do you wish me to come with you?"

She nodded mutely. More than anything else in the world I want you to come, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out.

"Then there is no question of my coming or not." Mary reached up and wiped a tear from Fanny's eyes. "Do not cry, dearest; if I gain nothing else from my visit, it will at least frustrate Sir Thomas Bertram to no end."

That drew a laugh from Fanny. "So that is your only motivation, Mary? There is no love for me involved?"

Mary planted a kiss on her cheek. "Not one bit."

Fanny looked at Mary, kneeling in front of her, and a sudden overwhelming love came over her. Watching Mary gazing at her as she now did, she could almost believe that the feeling was mutual. Almost without thinking, she began to move her face closer to Mary's, her hands to cup Mary's head. Mary didn't resist, and a momentary burst of courage surged through Fanny -

-a knock at the door. Her courage was gone, the moment shattered by Susan, come to see whether Fanny was alright, since she had been with Mary since very early, and of course the news this morning must have been very shocking indeed. It seemed a return to reality for Fanny; she looked embarrassed at the thought of what she had been about to do. She stammered a short apology for taking up so much of Mary's time. Mary replied, saying it was no trouble, and she promised to bring a carriage round to the Price household the next morning.

Once Mary had returned to her own lodgings she sat down to write a short note, which she addressed to Edmund.

Do not trouble yourself by sending a carriage - I shall return Fanny myself.

-Mary