A/N: I know I shouldn't be posting a new story when I haven't finished the others yet – but I couldn't resist. I just had to get this one out there.

I love, love, love Austen gender-swap fanfic. But I'm not great at the whole modern version thing (definitely can't compete with the awesome ones here), and I like the idea of a Regency gender-swap even more (you have to work harder to preserve the character dynamic when the societal roles for males and females were so fixed) – but I'm too lazy to do the whole novel, so instead I'll just do the ending.

This fic was born from my musings on how Edmund from Mansfield Park is a little like Emma in how blind he is about his own feelings (some might argue that he wasn't in love with Fanny the whole time, but I like to think he was – otherwise I'd really dislike him) – hence the nods to MP. After all, it's not like a clueless "Edmund" is anything new to us, right? ;-)

So that you can imagine the main characters, here are some pictures (delete spaces in URL):

http: / i170 .photobucket .com /albums /u251 /niyer09 /dade14 .jpg (imagine in waistcoat and cravat)

http: / i170 .photobucket .com /albums /u251 /niyer09 /romoladarkhair .jpg (imagine in Regency dress with her Emma hairstyle)

Would love to hear what you think, as always!

Edmund

'From family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her and watched over her from a girl, with [...] an anxiety for her doing right which no other creature had at all shared.

In spite of all her faults she knew she was dear to him; might she not say very dear?

[However], when the suggestions of hope […] presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might not think herself unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not.

She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope.'

- "Emma", pg. 330

Chapter One

Edmund had been a fool. Worse: a confounded idiot who had stubbornly insisted on blinding himself to his own feelings for months – nay, years! And now due to his own shortsightedness he was to lose her forever.

How could he have failed to see it? He had always prided himself on his quickness and his ability to perceive things which others did not notice – and although the events of the past year had been enough to shake his faith in his own judgment, he still could not believe he had missed this.

After all, he had known her all her life, and she had always been his dearest friend. They had grown up together, she perhaps faster than him although he was a few years her senior – in their relationship she had always been the sensible one, the one to guide him, to check him when his impulsive behaviour threatened to lead to undesirable consequences for himself and others around him.

Often – too often – he had not heeded her words, instead purposely acting against her cautions with the laughing reply that he was older than her and knew well enough what he was about, thank you very much. Almost invariably he would find his way back to her, licking his wounds, and it was a mark of her character that she never lorded it over him that she had been right. He loved that about her.

In fact, he loved everything about her, even the things that exasperated him. He loved that she was genuinely kind to everyone around her; that she insisted on taking an active role in helping her father run Donwell Abbey, even if others thought it was not a suitable pursuit for a lady; that she always had time to spare for his mother and humoured all her foibles with a good-natured cheerfulness which nobody else could equal; that she was his friend, had remained steadfastly and loyally his friend over the years, despite all his shortcomings. In his perversity he had simultaneously rebelled against her advice and longed for her approval while she had been exasperated by him but at the same time anxious for him to do right.

Perhaps their friendship had been unusual, dysfunctional, even – but he could not imagine his life without her. In fact without her his life would have a void which nothing and nobody else could fill. What would he do if he did not have her always around him, visiting Hartfield at all hours as if ever willing to change her home for theirs? What would he do if their camaraderie, their teasing banter, their conversations light and serious alike were to come to an end because of her imminent departure? How could he bear such a loss?

He had felt physically sick at the thought when Henry had first told him of his intentions towards her, and although at first he had tried to fool himself into thinking it was his brotherly concern for her future that had provoked such a reaction, he could not blind himself for long with that, for everything in him cried out that he was not Georgiana Knightley's brother.

Why was it so much worse for Henry to be in love with her instead of Maria? And why was the evil so dreadfully increased by his having some hope of a return? It had darted through him with the speed of an arrow that nobody must marry her but himself!

Too late now – all too late. She had gone to visit her sister in London, and Henry had set off to follow her and find an opportunity to propose. He had no hope that Henry's suit would fail. For some time now he had observed for himself the growing friendship – or attraction, or whatever it was – between them, even if he had deceived himself as to its true import. He had even approved of their friendship at the time, thinking that it would have the good effects of drawing one out of his shell and forcing the other to revise her initially negative opinion of him.

If it were not for him, Henry would never even have met Georgiana. And now he was going to take her away from him, and his misery was – if possible – deepened by the reflection, always at the back of his mind that it had been all his own doing.

If he could have seen then what it would have led to, what would he not have done differently? For one thing he would not have dissuaded Henry from Maria Roberts as he had done; for another he would not have wasted so much time fancying himself in love with Fanny Churchill; for yet another, he might have spent his time in attempting to woo her, trying to change her long-standing, friendly regard for him into something more.

He thought – oh very well, hoped – that it might not even have been very difficult. His brother had managed it with her sister, after all. And he had always declared that he would never marry – perhaps out of sheer amusement that he loved her enough to become a hypocrite, she might have accepted him.

'Edmund, dear, are you sure you should not come away from that window? You might catch a chill.'

He immediately rose from his position in the window seat where he had been gazing out listlessly through the rain which had been pouring relentlessly for the past three days as if to reflect his own emotions. 'Of course, Mama,' he said, coming to sit beside her. He sighed heavily. 'I was just thinking of Georgiana,' he said quietly, and then started to realise he had spoken aloud.

Thankfully the connection seemed quite natural to his mother. 'Indeed,' she sighed. 'If the weather is so dreadful here, it must be infinitely worse for the poor child in London. I do so wish she had not taken it into her head to go.'

You and me both, Mama, he thought glumly, but said nothing.