sometimes I just want sibling fluff
I don't remember if I ever posted these - I think I intended them as the beginning of a longer fic (lol), but it turns out to be one of my favourite things.
title: remains of attachment
verse: canon-compliant (the longer fic segued into a more elaborate P&P verse, but was also canon-compliant)
"You mean to say, you will not fall in love."
Mary looked into Edmund Bertram's tranquil blue eyes, and for one wild moment, almost decided to marry him. "Oh, no!" she cried, then blushed, glancing away. "I am in love."
"I-er-" He consulted the script. "Are in love! And with the Count?"
"I wish . . ." She wished any number of things, all of them the silly, nonsensical stuff of tragedies.
She hated tragedy.
It was poor Mr Rushworth who saved her-Mr Rushworth, desperately practising his two-and-forty speeches with Miss Price, as far from the image of a rakish count as could be imagined. Mary laughed.
"I beg your pardon, Mr Bertram; I am a terribly whimsical creature, you know. Now, where were we? Ah, of course. -I wish I was, because he would, perhaps, love me again."
"Who is there who would not?" exclaimed Edmund, with such feeling as to really persuade her that, except for the trifling obstacle of his ordination, he was now in her power. The thought was enough to make her almost forget all her other vexations. Thank heavens for Messrs Bertram and Yates, and their determination to act-she had never been happier . . .
When it was all over, she said to her brother, "Henry, in the future do keep me from younger sons. I am quite out of patience with them."
They exchanged a single understanding look, then laughed together. Mr and Miss Crawford of Everingham, not good enough for a country clergyman and his penniless cousin. How amusing! how perfectly laughable! What a diverting story it would make, if only someone would believe it!
#
Several years later, Mr Crawford marched into his sister's parlour, flung himself on a chair, and examined the ceiling. "Mary," he said, "I require your opinion-nay, your approval."
"Are you feverish?"
"No, but you will undoubtedly believe I am, when I tell you about my present scheme."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You are having one of your virtuous fits, aren't you? My dear Henry, you can hardly look to me as an example."
"I have been thinking of settling at Everingham," said he, "not for the hunting, but really settling, for perhaps three or four months out of the year. You must come with me, Mary; we shall find you some prim old tabby of a companion, and it will all be very respectable."
Mary's fingers froze on the harp-strings. In the year eight, her brother had been far too caught up in his own carefree existence to oblige her in this, and though he was less wild now, the very idea seemed preposterous. "I! I, accompany you to Everingham!-why-Henry-Henry, you cannot possibly be serious."
"Of course I am. You must come and do the honours of the house. I know you dislike the country, but this place is so small and confined, surely you would prefer to preside over your own home? Even if not-think, Mary, of me. Do it for my sake." He cast her the same beseeching look she remembered from their childhood escapades.
"I cannot understand you, Henry," she told him. "Why do you wish to go? You never have before-your agent cannot possibly have grown any less incompetent-I thought perhaps an assignation with some neighbour, but you would not want me for that."
"Indeed not," he said, chuckling. "No, nothing so simple. It is only-there is nothing to do here, or rather, nothing worth doing. I am in urgent need of a diversion, a serious one. Then I thought of you, subject to the whims of an apoplectic clergyman. I always hated the idea, you know."
Mary smiled. "Yes," she said affectionately, "I know."
"Then the solution came to me-Everingham, of course! We shall brave the countryside again. Do you think you can bear it?"
"If you promise to transport my harp and protect me from younger sons, I can bear anything."
He laughed outright. "Consider it done."
title: remains of attachment
verse: canon-compliant (the longer fic segued into a more elaborate P&P verse, but was also canon-compliant)
"You mean to say, you will not fall in love."
Mary looked into Edmund Bertram's tranquil blue eyes, and for one wild moment, almost decided to marry him. "Oh, no!" she cried, then blushed, glancing away. "I am in love."
"I-er-" He consulted the script. "Are in love! And with the Count?"
"I wish . . ." She wished any number of things, all of them the silly, nonsensical stuff of tragedies.
She hated tragedy.
It was poor Mr Rushworth who saved her-Mr Rushworth, desperately practising his two-and-forty speeches with Miss Price, as far from the image of a rakish count as could be imagined. Mary laughed.
"I beg your pardon, Mr Bertram; I am a terribly whimsical creature, you know. Now, where were we? Ah, of course. -I wish I was, because he would, perhaps, love me again."
"Who is there who would not?" exclaimed Edmund, with such feeling as to really persuade her that, except for the trifling obstacle of his ordination, he was now in her power. The thought was enough to make her almost forget all her other vexations. Thank heavens for Messrs Bertram and Yates, and their determination to act-she had never been happier . . .
When it was all over, she said to her brother, "Henry, in the future do keep me from younger sons. I am quite out of patience with them."
They exchanged a single understanding look, then laughed together. Mr and Miss Crawford of Everingham, not good enough for a country clergyman and his penniless cousin. How amusing! how perfectly laughable! What a diverting story it would make, if only someone would believe it!
#
Several years later, Mr Crawford marched into his sister's parlour, flung himself on a chair, and examined the ceiling. "Mary," he said, "I require your opinion-nay, your approval."
"Are you feverish?"
"No, but you will undoubtedly believe I am, when I tell you about my present scheme."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You are having one of your virtuous fits, aren't you? My dear Henry, you can hardly look to me as an example."
"I have been thinking of settling at Everingham," said he, "not for the hunting, but really settling, for perhaps three or four months out of the year. You must come with me, Mary; we shall find you some prim old tabby of a companion, and it will all be very respectable."
Mary's fingers froze on the harp-strings. In the year eight, her brother had been far too caught up in his own carefree existence to oblige her in this, and though he was less wild now, the very idea seemed preposterous. "I! I, accompany you to Everingham!-why-Henry-Henry, you cannot possibly be serious."
"Of course I am. You must come and do the honours of the house. I know you dislike the country, but this place is so small and confined, surely you would prefer to preside over your own home? Even if not-think, Mary, of me. Do it for my sake." He cast her the same beseeching look she remembered from their childhood escapades.
"I cannot understand you, Henry," she told him. "Why do you wish to go? You never have before-your agent cannot possibly have grown any less incompetent-I thought perhaps an assignation with some neighbour, but you would not want me for that."
"Indeed not," he said, chuckling. "No, nothing so simple. It is only-there is nothing to do here, or rather, nothing worth doing. I am in urgent need of a diversion, a serious one. Then I thought of you, subject to the whims of an apoplectic clergyman. I always hated the idea, you know."
Mary smiled. "Yes," she said affectionately, "I know."
"Then the solution came to me-Everingham, of course! We shall brave the countryside again. Do you think you can bear it?"
"If you promise to transport my harp and protect me from younger sons, I can bear anything."
He laughed outright. "Consider it done."