Neither was anything said about the night's doings when they breakfasted together on Wednesday morning, not leaving Mary's rooms.

Maria seemed an altered creature by daylight. Mary, determined to make her speak (and write the all-important letter), cancelled her own engagements and did not quit the house that whole day, devoting herself to her companion's service and amusement. It was no easy task. She faced a cold, withdrawn Mrs. Rushworth who barely uttered a word - would not sit down cards - did not care to read or take up any needlework - but paced the room all morning and sat by the window all through the afternoon, sunk deep in her melancholy reflections. No hint or stratagem succeeded in making her write to Edmund.

"But what," said Mary, driven to bluntness, "do you mean to do, if not to approach your family? You would not seek a new protector now - "

"How do you know that I would not?" The words were all defiance, but Mary did not believe her; there spoke the spoilt, sheltered Miss Bertram! - knowing not what she said, nor what such a life would be for her. Well, perhaps she would learn.

In the end, Mary had more success in persuading Mrs. Rushworth to dress for dinner. While reluctant at first, Maria knew as well as anyone what was due to her hosts; good breeding carried the point; she submitted to being dressed in one of Mrs. Fraser's gowns, and accompanied Mary downstairs.

Mary was never to forget that dinner. On entering the drawing-room, she was surprised and somewhat disconcerted to find that it was not to be a family evening, after all; no, for Lord Stornaway had invited several guests - including some of his most disreputable friends. As Admiral Crawford advanced to greet her, Mary maintained her composure; submitted to being called his "dearest niece" and chucked under the chin, as always; - but her thoughts leapt to a swift conclusion: their host had promised the company a close look at "the adultress" taking refuge in his home. Mrs. Rushworth was to be the evening's chief entertainment.

It was in no sanguine mood that she sat down to table, and by the time the ladies withdrew, Mary had progressed from being disconcerted to being most extremely vexed - chiefly owing to the suspicion that the Admiral might be seeking a new mistress. The pointedness of his attentions to Mrs. Rushworth was something that Mary could not like.

They proceeded up to the drawing-room - Lady Stornaway, Mrs. Fraser, Miss Crawford, Mrs. Rushworth, and two or three other ladies whose names are of no consequence to this narrative - and then it was not so very dreadful, after all; a vast deal of staring, a few blunders, a couple of questions bordering on impudence; but no one actually cut Mrs. Rushworth, who held up her head most admirably through it all. Mary's temper cooled as her spirits rose. All seemed tolerably well, until the gentlemen joined them.

Lord Stornaway paused for a quiet word to his wife, before turning to gather several gentlemen for cards; Lady Stornaway whispered something to her sister, then approached Mrs. Rushworth and, with many a coaxing smile, entreated her to play for the company. No objection could be raised. Mrs. Rushworth sat down to the piano-forte most amiably, while Mrs. Fraser continued sorting silks at the table, and Mary produced a few appropriate raptures in response to another lady's album. Everyone appeared to settle in for a delightful evening. Nothing could conceal, however, a certain pattern in the movements of the gentlemen; - one by one, they came up to the piano-forte and circled it at a measured pace, their eyes fixed boldly on the performer and their thoughts seemingly far from musical. As each gentleman withdrew, another would replace him, and their conference over the card-table was of a nature which the ladies surely could not have failed to censure, had they perceived it; but the ladies remained most charmingly and conveniently deaf to everything. Only Mrs. Rushworth, trapped at the piano-forte, was observed to change colour, and the observation merely added to the merriment of the whole party.

Since something of this sort was only to be expected, and it was mild enough, Mary kept her place and looked on. She looked on, coolly at first, then not coolly at all, until she could bear it no longer. When the Admiral moved very close to Mrs. Rushworth - hovering over her, leaning on the instrument - Mary found herself rising before she knew it, and offering her own music, "if Mrs. Rushworth would excuse her" - yes, Mrs. Rushworth admitted she was glad to rest; and Mary was aware of a grateful gaze following her as she went to the harp.

It was a very fine harp, lately ordered from Erard for Lady Stornaway; a pleasure to play, since Mary's own instrument remained with Mrs. Grant. Her fingers flew in the liveliest of Irish airs. She played on, secure in the consciousness of how well she looked, so gracefully posed, her arms appearing to advantage; at leisure to observe the next little conspiracy taking shape in nods and winks amongst the gentlemen, aided and abetted by Lady Stornaway and her sister. This time, it appeared, everyone else was to remain in place, and only Mrs. Rushworth was to move. She had taken a seat in a corner, and clearly hoped to be allowed to keep it; - but she was summoned almost immediately by one lady, then another, with a dozen fluttering pretexts to keep her in motion, all stopping just short of anything she might refuse without discourtesy: "if she would be so good as to take this thread to Mrs. Fraser" - and "would she kindly hold this candle a moment - a little higher, if it is no trouble" - and "could she turn this way a moment, and come to look at this delightful picture" - and so on, with every movement drawing increasingly audible commendations from the card-table.

Mrs. Rushworth walked, turned, and was looked at. Mary played, watched, and grew ever more angry as Maria's wretchedness increased. And when the Admiral stopped Maria as she passed by the card-table - when he touched her arm and whispered to her - the harp-music ended abruptly on a broken note: - Mary was there in three strides, just in time to catch half a remark about "my nephew" which had made Maria blush scarlet and turn away.

"You will excuse us, sir," said Mary, taking Maria's arm; then, after casting a glance over the rest of the company, she looked the Admiral straight in the eye and said: "The air in here agrees with neither of us. I fear we must wish you good night." And she swept out of the room, her heart racing, to lead Maria back upstairs.

When they returned to her rooms, Mary at first could not think of what to say. "I should apologise for our hosts - " But that would not do, when Maria stood so very still, as if beaten down by the consciousness and consequences of her ruined reputation. "You held up well, I thought - " And even that would not do; Maria had been magnificent in the drawing-room, supported only by her pride, but now she looked fragile and alone. "I am sorry that I took you down to them! And I cannot think of any apologies - it was abominably cruel to treat you so."

"Is this what you meant," said Maria, half-turning, "when you said I might seek a new protector?"

"No!" cried Mary, though indeed it might have been; but now, the notion of the Admiral and Maria - no, it was insupportable. She had thought that Maria must harden herself to such things, being what she was; but the catch, the catch! - Mary perceived that she herself could not bear to see, or even imagine, this woman subjected to such treatment.

It was then that Maria drew close to her and raised a hand to touch her cheek. "I forgot it all," said she, "last night, for those few minutes, I could forget it all!" Her long fingers brushed Mary's throat in a slow, deliberate caress. "Make me forget again," she whispered; - and then they were kissing again, stumbling into the bed-room and falling onto the bed in each other's arms, hardly knowing or caring where they fell; and this time there was candle-light and leisure for looking, and Mary would not be denied until she had removed all of Maria's garments, one by one, casting gown and stays and stockings all aside until Maria was stretched on the bed in all her fairness, clad only in her blushes and reaching out for yet another tender touch. She did not have long to wait.

Mary could not be wondered at for thinking of Henry as her hands explored Maria's figure; - only two days ago, this woman had shared his bed - and how he must have enjoyed all this proud abundance laid out before him! It would be something new, she thought, and quite diverting - to talk of Mrs. Rushworth with Henry, afterwards, perhaps to compare. - But now she murmured praise and fondness as her fingers traced every curve of satin-skin, delighting in each gasp and cry, giddy with her own pleasure in following her brother's path, all the way to - there, there: oh, Henry must have found it a snug little nest indeed, for all the trouble it brought him! These sounds Maria made now - had she sung as sweetly for him? Had she arched up from the pillows, wide-eyed and imperious, demanding more and now? And never a please, oh no, not from this haughty fool who had ruined herself and well-nigh ruined Henry; - well, then, she should wait and be teazed! Mary's hands moved again, inside and out, and in, and then she stopped, stopped until Maria was writhing, and then laughed at her, saying: "Well, it was the avenue leading to Sotherton - but now its Price is fallen." But when Maria would have pulled away in sudden anger, Mary said "forgive me" and replaced her fingers with her mouth; and then there were no more complaints, or intelligible words, from Mrs. Rushworth.

It was only afterwards, and suddenly - cutting up the languor of their rest - that Maria began to weep; none of Mary's soft words could stop her then, nor any attempts at distraction or reassurance, for "hush" and "rest" and "remember when?" only made her raise her head and say: "I have more to think of now." - And the tears continued unabated, great ugly sobs shaking her form until, a long while later, she stilled into sleep. Mary could only hold her and wonder at all this weeping, even as her own sensibilities reeled in an unfamiliar conflation of pity, sorrow, and desire.

The next two days passed in much the same manner. "Make me forget again," one would say; or, "Shall I make you forget?" the other would ask; and so they forgot themselves in each other, over and over again. Mrs. Rushworth may have thought of Mary's brother on occasion, and Miss Crawford did occasionally think of Mr. Edmund Bertram - how strongly his sister resembled him at times, or how very delightful it would be to have him kneeling before her like this; more often, however, she thought only of Maria and Maria thought only of her.

Mary was forced to go out for a few hours on Thursday morning, since certain calls simply could not be put off, but all her other engagements remained cancelled as she staid in her apartment. Neither of them dined downstairs again. When Mary came down, rarely, she was very cool to Lord and Lady Stornaway; although they failed to comprehend her displeasure, she greatly looked forward to leaving their house, and was glad to receive a note from her sister confirming that a new home would be ready to welcome her next week.

Upon the whole, Mary was happy; only puzzled to find herself increasingly disinclined to see Maria leave - not even if this should be the occasion for bringing Edmund to London, as her plans dictated. She found herself, at odd moments, searching and grasping for some impossible way to keep Maria at her side; wondering if she could beg a favour from Dr. Grant - no, there was no chance at all, there. But when she and Edmund were married, could he be persuaded to allow Maria to live with them? She continued, in the meanwhile, to press Maria to write to Edmund - and really thought she was making some progress; tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, Maria would write and he would come to them! Mary's spirits rose at the thought. It was too bad of her (though she could hardly regret it) to be so happy when Maria was so miserable; but Mary could not speak to Maria of her attachment to Mr. Edmund Bertram.

And Maria - poor Mrs. Rushworth - what was she thinking amidst all this? Each night for many weeks now, she had fallen asleep with only one wish in her heart: that she might somehow wake to find herself Miss Bertram again, with limitless prospects before her and all her choices yet unmade. Each morning, she woke to nightmares. There was no choice now; nothing for her to do but return to Mansfield Park. Henry Crawford did not love her - had never loved her, never. She had deceived herself, built mustard-seeds into mountains, building on "if he did so and so, he must" - only to see them collapse into dust, every one. But oh! the relief of never having to see James Rushworth again, or listen to him talk!

She did not know how to think of it, what to make of it - this strange attachment to Mary Crawford - but knew it could not last. She could not stay with Mary, the sister of Henry! Truths, too insistent and brutal to escape, would no longer allow her to deceive herself. The child growing within her would not allow it.

And so, when Mary went out on Thursday morning, Maria sat down at Mary's writing-desk and wrote to a person who loved to be of use; - the only person whom she could always be sure of being able to command; the only one wholly loyal to her, not to Sir Thomas or Mr. Rushworth or Mr. Crawford. She asked her to come at once.

It was early on Saturday evening, and the Stornaways were dining with the Frasers that night; Mary had gone to Lady Stornaway's apartment with the idea of borrowing some of her novels for Maria: stories which might divert her without reminding her of anything too painful. Flora was a great (if undiscerning) reader of novels, and Mary took her time considering, chusing, and discarding. - No, not that one; the hero's name was Henry. - Ah, these two novels "by a lady" would have been perfect, Mary had greatly enjoyed them herself, but no, they would not do: in one, the family's youngest daughter eloped with a rake; in the other, a natural daughter of a runaway wife was seduced and abandoned; - Mary wondered in some exasperation whether this particular Authoress was capable of writing a novel without referring to such matters. - In the end, she settled upon Mysteries of Udolpho (dear Mrs. Radcliffe, always so horrid and wholesome), and was just turning to go, when a maid-servant approached to inform her that a lady had called to see Mrs. Rushworth, and had been shown up to Mary's apartment, since Mrs. Rushworth would not come down.

The books were dropped and left; wondering, Mary hastened back to her rooms - to find there the very last person she had expected to see.

Mrs. Norris, looking thinner and ten years older, was embracing her niece with all her strength, calling her "my poor dear Maria" and exclaiming over her. The niece did not appear entirely displeased with the performance.

"My aunt is come to take me back to Mansfield," said Maria calmly.

"Oh yes, my dear! And you shall come to my little house first, of course, and I have brought your old gowns, just as you asked, so you may rest and be comfortable. And then I shall speak with my sister and Sir Thomas - dear Sir Thomas! - I know he must have seemed a little unreasonable of late, but when I have explained things to him, surely we shall see - "

Mary, still motionless in the doorway, looked at Maria. "But you were going to write to - to your brother Edmund - were you not?"

"You do not know him," replied Maria, "indeed, you do not know my brother, if you think such a thing could be done. He is a clergyman through and through! He would not speak for me to my father - never." She turned to Mrs. Norris, with a small cool smile. "So I have written to one who loves me - is that not so, ma'am? - and is always glad to attend me."

"I travelled post - at my own expense," said Mrs. Norris solemnly.

"There, do you see how she loves me? How useful she is?" Maria's arch smile seemed to invite Mary to share the joke, but her manner was quite serious. "Your pardon, now - I will change my gown - I shall be but a moment - " Before Mary could find words to speak to her again, Maria had disappeared into the dressing-room.

Left alone with Mrs. Norris, Mary disregarded her and sank into a chair, endeavouring to comprehend how everything could have changed like this, all at once. Mrs. Norris, for her part, was not inclined to indulge in chit-chat with Miss Crawford - the sister of that villain who had seduced and ruined her dearest Maria! - no, she might be only a poor widow, but she had her principles; - she would be polite to Miss Crawford only so far as a natural deference to twenty thousand pounds required, and not one jot more. But her artless pleasure would get the better of her, and she could not help observing how delightful it would be to have Maria home again - "quite like old times! - she hardly knew Mansfield any more, it was so sadly altered - why, there was another niece living on their charity! and dear Mrs. Yates was gone off with her husband, and Tom was always with Sir Thomas now - "

"And what of Mr. Edmund Bertram?" asked Mary. She had to ask.

"Edmund! Oh, Miss Crawford, you would not know him. So quiet, so distracted - indeed, he does nothing but walk in the park with Fanny Price, of all people, and what they have to talk about, while they sit under trees, I truly cannot imagine - "

But Mary was no longer listening. She surged to her feet and gazed at nothing, as one thought, one image - walking with Edmund, walking in the park! - rent her thoughts asunder in an instant. She froze, she doubted; and then she saw what she had never seen before; as if she had been putting a map of Europe together, and someone had come along and rearranged the pieces to show her a whole new world. Edmund and Fanny Price! Now memory played tyrant, showing her a hundred glimpses of what she had never understood at the time. Why, Miss Price had been in love with her cousin all along! Finally, Mary understood why Henry's offer was refused so insistently, for so long. No, he had never had a chance of succeeding with Miss Price! And Miss Price had turned out to be a better actress than any of them, in the end. Mary was forced to admit that she herself, in all her cleverness and confidence, had been completely taken in; - and now she saw what would be, and did not know how to bear it. Did Edmund know his happiness yet?

"And Fanny is quite useless now, good for nothing - bone-idle! Of course, this whole sad affair is entirely her fault! Why would she not accept - "

"Would you wait for me downstairs, dear aunt? I shall be down directly." Maria emerged from the dressing-room, in her own gown and pelisse. The three women stood quite still for a moment, exchanging glances; then Mrs. Norris nodded her farewells and hurried away.

Looking at Edmund's sister, perhaps for the very last time, Mary spoke the only thought in her aching, bewildered head: "Such collars have not been the fashion these two years, at least," she said, touching Maria's collar, resting her fingers against Maria's throat.

"I know," was the reply. Maria smiled, and smiled again when Mary tried to ask her not to leave. "I must," she said. Then she kissed Mary good-bye, and it was unlike any other kiss Mary had ever known; though she was not sure if she wanted it to never end or never to have begun.

And then Mrs. Rushworth parted from Miss Crawford, and accompanied her aunt to a nearby inn; and next morning they set out together for Northamptonshire.

Much later, Mary learnt that Maria never succeeded in coming closer to home than Mrs. Norris's spare room in the White House across the park. Sir Thomas was not to be persuaded, no matter what Mrs. Norris may have said in pleading her case. When Maria and Mrs. Norris removed together to a cottage in Shropshire, none of the family came to wave them farewell - not even Fanny Price, soon to become Mrs. Bertram.

Miss Crawford, however, took to spending part of every summer in Shropshire. Her brother never understood - but she did not explain, and he never asked.

-End-

A/N: Written for the Yuletide 2008 "obscure fandoms" fic exchange, in response to a request for Mary Crawford femslash. Includes slight allusions to Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray: Gaunt Square, Lord Steyne. The two novels "by a lady" are Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility.

Disclaimer: the world of Mansfield Park is Jane Austen's creation, not mine.