Kitty woke the next morning to find her mother at her bedside, beaming at her and shaking her shoulder gently.

"Good morning, my love," Mrs. Bennet said happily, seeing her daughter's eyes open. "I did not mind letting you rest, for I am sure you tossed and turned for hours last night. But it is quite late now, and I would not have you sleep the day away—your first day as an engaged woman!"

At the reminder, Kitty felt her stomach clench, though she did her best to ignore the feeling. Whatever was the matter with her?

"I thought we may go up to Milsom Street today," Mrs. Bennet continued, oblivious to her daughter's discomfort, "and choose a new gown for you. It will not be ready in time for Thursday, of course—"

"What is on Thursday?" Kitty interrupted.

"Why, the fancy-ball, my love! How silly you are; I can tell your Mr. Price has driven every other thought from your mind! If we order a gown today, as I was saying, it shall not be ready for Thursday, but surely for the next ball—and by then perhaps everything will be in order, and you and Mr. Price may announce your engagement; and shouldn't you like to have a new gown for such an occasion?"

"Of course," Kitty said absently, sitting up and glancing out the window. The day was gray and dreary, though dry. She turned back to find her mother watching her pensively; upon meeting her daughter's eyes, Mrs. Bennet gave a wide smile.

"Come then, child, and have some breakfast. Mary and I have already eaten, but there is plenty saved for you—muffins and toast and a bit of ham, and even some chocolate, my love, to celebrate the day. Come, come!"

Kitty climbed obediently out of bed, and, as her mother hurried downstairs again, dressed herself with far less attention than she usually afforded the task.

It was not that she felt sad, or even anxious. It was more that she was having a difficult time feeling anything at all. Her mind seemed to be full of fog, her thoughts just out of reach. She did not really want to go to Milsom Street, even to buy a new gown; but neither did she want to stay at home, nor go walking in the park, nor call upon Rosamond or any of her other friends. She wished to be left alone, to think for awhile, but she could not bring herself to concentrate upon anything. Was this how she was meant to feel, she thought vaguely; was this the ordinary feeling of a just-engaged woman? But there, at that word, 'engaged,' she felt the pang again. That was all she could feel: emptiness and confusion and, as her thoughts drifted to Mr. Price and his proposal, a dull stab of—worry, or unease, or distress, or something she could not name but that made her inhale sharply—

"Kitty?" Mary poked her head into the room. "Mamma is waiting. Are you unwell?"

"No," Kitty replied, affording her sister a very faint smile. "I am coming directly."

Her sister watched her for a moment, but Kitty said nothing else. Evidently satisfied, or else uninterested, Mary vanished around the doorframe and her footsteps receded down the hallway to the stairs. Kitty returned her gaze to the looking-glass.

"Stop being silly," she told herself sternly. "You are only suffering from nerves, and from too much happiness. Everything will be better soon. Once you see Alexander again, everything will be better."

She gave herself a determined grin, which was more akin to a grimace, for good measure, and went down to her breakfast.

"Have you told your sister of your good fortune?" Mrs. Bennet whispered eagerly, meeting Kitty in the breakfast-room. "She has not said anything to me, but I then I never can tell what she thinks."

"I have not told her," Kitty replied dully as she took her seat. "I do not think I shall tell her until it is more official—until we can announce it to everyone, you know. Otherwise I am afraid she will write to Papa, and Lizzie and Jane and everyone else."

Mrs. Bennet gave a laugh. "Well, but after all, your father must be informed, my dear. Let Mary write to him! She does take such delight in writing letters."

"Oh—but I would rather tell him myself," Kitty protested, looking up at her mother with wide eyes.

Mrs. Bennet acceded to her daughter's request with good grace. Indeed, she was willing to let Kitty have her own way in anything, so pleased was she to be the mother now of three married daughters, and one officially engaged. That Kitty seemed less ecstatic than herself did not worry her; she could well recall the dazed feeling of awakening to the knowledge that one's entire life was going to change, and that the object which had been sought for so long (that is, a doting husband with a fine income and a handsome figure) had at last been attained. Mrs. Bennet's own long-ago happiness at receiving an agreeable proposal had manifested itself in happy tears and exclamations of delight; Jane, too, had wept joyfully, and declared that it was all too much; Lizzie had been quite unable to suppress her smiles; and Lydia, returning to Longbourn as a married woman, had giggled and smirked plentifully. Kitty's happiness, Mrs. Bennet was certain, was only taking another route of expression: that of wistful sighs and thoughtful glances which, she knew, were only hiding a dancing heart. It was more the sort of thing she might have expected from Mary, but then, one could never tell with these young girls who read so many novels.

Kitty ate quickly, for she found that she was not really very hungry, though she did enjoy her cup of chocolate; and they set out from Henry Street not long after, a party of mixed attitudes: for though Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain her glee, Kitty remained languid and preoccupied and Mary (who had been ordered to come along, after her mother had discovered that she had brought only two ball-gowns to Bath, in spite of there being a ball at least once per week at the Assembly Rooms, what had she been thinking!) was disgruntled at being denied her usual morning at Hart House.

"You practice there far too much," Mrs. Bennet snapped, when her daughter complained; "you will make the Harts quite sick of you. Let Robert see you next at the ball, where you will look very ravishing; that will remind him what he is about."

She had indeed grown very impatient that Robert Hart had not yet proposed; to have one daughter well on the path to matrimony only served to remind her that the other was loitering behind. Mary, not wishing for an argument, was silent, but did not bother to curb her sulkiness.

Kitty roused herself a little when they came into the first shop, for indeed she loved shopping for clothes; even buying new ribbons from the little shop in Meryton had always been a source of delight. She was happy to point out patterns and fabrics which pleased her, and to turn up her nose at those that did not. But every so often the thought would creep up in the back of her mind—Perhaps I will wear this in London someday—and though it was a thought which had thrilled her before today, now she found herself biting her lip and wrinkling her brow whenever it raised its head.

Mrs. Bennet's mind appeared to drift, though more happily, in the same direction. "Is this not lovely, with the embroidery all down the front?" she exclaimed over one bolt of silk. "I daresay it would look very well upon the floor of Almack's!" She winked at Kitty, who smiled faintly.

Mary frowned. "We are not going to Almack's," she said.

"Of course not, my love. It was only wishful thinking." Mrs. Bennet winked at Kitty again. Kitty wished she would not do so.

"Well I for one have no desire to ever dance at Almack's," Mary returned bad-naturedly, examining a checked cotton. "The Assembly Rooms are bad enough."

Her mother ignored her, but Kitty, leaning over her sister's shoulder, declared Mary's chosen fabric to be the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

Their day of shopping was rather longer than either of the Bennet sisters would have liked, and the afternoon grew leaden as the hours went by, until, having placed their final orders, the ladies emerged from the last shop to find themselves met by a thunderous sky and a splatter of very cold raindrops.

"How disagreeable!" Mrs. Bennet cried, for she had forgotten to bring the umbrella. "We shall have to take a chair—" But there were none to be found; those that rushed by were already occupied, and nobody seemed to have any intention of stopping. Around them, people were ducking hurriedly into shops and doorways. The patter of raindrops on the cobblestones grew louder as the downpour thickened. "Well, come along, girls!" Mrs. Bennet ordered, taking each of her daughters by an arm and steering them along the street to a tea-shop. "We cannot walk home in this!"

The tea room was crowded, for it seemed many other people had had the same idea. Mrs. Bennet surveyed the interior of the shop critically, but could not find anyone of their acquaintance; and so the ladies arranged themselves about a very small table near the door, removing their wet wrappings and draping them over the backs of their chairs.

"What a dreary day," Kitty sighed. She had the seat by the window, and was watching the rain slide down the glass panes.

"Outwardly, perhaps," Mary replied brusquely, for she was tired and bored and now wet and cold, "but you cannot be so dissatisfied as all that, Kitty, for we have spent the morning and part of the afternoon in pursuit of frivolous pleasures—is that not your preferred pastime?"

"Lord! How unkind you are to me, Mary, when I did not say anything bad," Kitty said, a little hurt. "Do you see how unkind she is to me, Mamma?"

"Do hold your tongue, Mary," Mrs. Bennet ordered.

Mary was somewhat abashed, for really Kitty had not said anything very disagreeable, and she looked down at the table.

"I hope it will be bright again tomorrow," Kitty said wistfully. "This weather makes me feel very out-of-sorts."

Nobody had anything to add to this remark, and they sat in a damp silence for a moment or two, before the serving-girl brought their tea and scones. They ate quietly, until Kitty, glancing out the window again, spotted a familiar figure.

"Mary!" she said, without the giggle which would have ordinarily accompanied the statement; "Mary, Robert Hart is coming."

Mary's focus had been upon her tea, but she looked up interestedly; Mrs. Bennet gave a gasp of horror.

"He is not!" she hissed, leaning over to look out of the window. "He must not! Oh, Mary, and you with your hair so wet and loose, and your dress full of mud. Is he coming in here, Kitty?"

"I think so," Kitty said, through a mouthful of scone, "he has just come from a doorway on the other side of the road, and is looking over here. Shall I wave to him? He can probably see me, through the window."

"No, my love," her mother insisted, "for we are not prepared to meet him—look only at the state of your sister's hair!"

Mary, who did not think she looked so very terrible—only a wetter version of her usual self—scowled.

"I think he has seen me," Kitty reported, "or at least he wishes for a dry place to go, for he is crossing the road. Yes—here he comes."

And indeed the door opened then and Robert Hart stepped in.

"Well, there is nothing for it," Mrs. Bennet muttered, "we must make of this what we might. Mr. Hart!" she exclaimed, turning to greet him warmly. "What a charming surprise! Will you join us?"

He did so gratefully, removing his wet coat as he took the seat between the two sisters.

"Have you been caught in this shower as well?" he asked the ladies. "I did not think it would rain when I set out this morning."

"Then you thought the gray skies an empty threat?" Mary asked tartly, but she was smiling at him.

"I confess I did; perhaps it was hubris on my part." He smiled at her in return.

"But what brings you to this part of town, sir?" Mrs. Bennet asked pleasantly, satisfied with this show of amiability between the two of them. "Mary has given me to understand that you work in your father's practice most days."

"And so I do. I was called to see a patient across the road here."

"How unfortunate. I do hope nothing is very wrong.—We have been shopping," Mrs. Bennet reported, "for new ball-gowns, which we might wear at the fancy-ball—not this week's, of course, but next Thursday."

"I shall look forward to seeing them then."

"Yes, indeed you must," Mrs. Bennet answered coyly, giving him a knowing smile, "for Mary in particular has found something very lovely—a beautiful pale muslin that will have beads all along the bodice—I shall not bore you with the details, for I understand that gentlemen really care very little for descriptions of finery; but I am sure you will find it especially charming."

Mary sighed. Robert gave her a small private smile, which Mrs. Bennet unfortunately caught.

"Indeed, sir," that lady went on prettily, warming to her theme, "however unattractive Mary looks now, you must, once you have seen her in her new gown, only think of how she looks then, and that must be the picture of her which you carry along with you, forever."

"Mamma!" Mary exclaimed, reddening.

"I do not think Miss Bennet so very unattractive just now," Robert answered honestly, "only a little damp."

Kitty, who had been silent, heard this with a startling pang; for though she knew very well that Alexander Price, in Robert's place, would have said something far more elegant—would have assured Mrs. Bennet that he thought her daughter the most striking of beauties under any circumstances, or that he could not imagine her looking more charming than at this very moment, or something similar—she could not help finding Robert's sincerity rather sweet and, if she was honest with herself, perhaps preferable to a graceful compliment. She frowned into her tea.

"Are your sisters looking forward to Thursday's ball?" Mrs. Bennet asked.

"Very much; Juliet, in particular, is still young enough to delight in all these sorts of events. It is only her first year 'out.'"

"She is a sweet girl," Mrs. Bennet declared, happy to offer whatever praise she could to the family of her intended son-in-law. "She is such a pretty creature, and has an exceedingly good nature. We are all very fond of her. She is sure to marry well."

"That may be, but my family and I hope it will be some years yet before that is a consideration. My father, in particular, hopes to delay the event for as long as possible; she is the youngest, you know, and he still thinks her a little child."

"I understand. Mr. Bennet and I feel quite the same about Mary and Kitty—but, of course, such things cannot be put off forever. Sooner or later, our daughters must all marry and make homes of their own, and Mr. Bennet and I shall have nothing to do but visit them." She patted Kitty's hand fondly. "And for us, you know, that day is coming ever closer; the girls are not children anymore. Mary, in particular, is quite old enough to be married. Quite old enough," she repeated, giving Robert a rather critical stare, which he pretended not to notice. "I am sure she would not like to be living at Longbourn forever, after all of her sisters have married and set up housekeeping. Would you, my dear?"

"I like Longbourn," was Mary's defensive reply.

"Of course you do, child, but you would not like to live there forever. I am sure you would not."

"I would not," Kitty interjected. "I want to live in London after I am married; or perhaps here in Bath, but I would prefer London. Of course I will come visit Longbourn very often—very often," she said again, rather sadly, for suddenly the prospect of living in London seemed more frightening than exciting, and there was a lump in her throat.

"And we should be glad to see you, my love, and have you stay with us for as long as you might. It would be much better than having Lydia so far away in the North."

"I would never want to live in London," Mary sniffed. "I think it a most coarse, dirty place, quite without redeeming qualities."

"Have you ever been?" Robert asked, with a little grin.

"I have been once, to visit my aunt and uncle in Cheapside."

"Oh, Mary, that was when we were children," Kitty said disgustedly. "We were too young to enjoy it properly. It would not be the same if we were to go now; we could stand up at balls and go to parties, and dine out, and visit the shops."

"I fear you will never convince your sister of London's worth, if you talk to her of balls and parties," Robert warned her teasingly.

"I suppose not—but there are bookshops as well, and that sort of thing. Where do you want to live, Mr. Hart, after you are married?"

"Here in Bath, I suppose," Mrs. Bennet broke in. "Why should anyone wish to live anyplace else? Particularly a physician, for it is so fashionable to be ill here; and with your family so close, I am sure you could not do better."

"In fact I begin to think that one Dr. Hart can handle Bath quite adequately," Robert replied. "I might like to go somewhere new—a little village in the country, perhaps, where my work is not limited to the treatment of gout and nervous head-aches."

"You do not want to live in the country," Kitty protested, with great conviction. "It is boring, and there is no society to be had, and nothing to ever talk about. After living in Bath your whole life, you would find it most horribly dull."

"I am sure you are right; but there, perhaps, I might do some real good."

His voice was quiet, and Kitty was for a moment quite irritated, for it was a very morally admirable sort of response and, she thought with another little frown, probably not at all the sort of thing Alexander would have said. When had Robert Hart become so sanctimonious? It was no wonder Mary liked him so well, for she was as priggish as anyone.

Mary was, in fact, currently engaged in liking Robert very well, for precisely this reason, and she gave him a warm smile over the top of her teacup.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet said, growing anxious, for Mary's hair was drying in a most unflattering frizz across her forehead and it would not do for Robert to look at her that way for too long, "I think the rain has stopped. Does it not seem so, Kitty?"

"It has," Kitty said, from her place by the window.

"Then we ought to hurry home, before it starts again—I do not like the look of those clouds. No, no, do not get up, Mr. Hart; sit and finish your tea! Give our compliments to your good father, and to your sisters and your brother; we shall look forward to seeing you all at the ball on Thursday."

"Thank you, and I shall look forward to seeing you." He stood despite Mrs. Bennet's admonishment, as the ladies tucked their shawls securely about them.

"And even though we will not have our new gowns yet, we shall nonetheless take care to look very elegant, so that you will not think of us forever with muddied hems and damp hair," Mrs. Bennet added. "Come along, girls."

"Goodbye, Mr. Hart," the sisters chorused, curtsying and receiving a bow in return. Kitty, the last to go out the door, gave him a very curt nod, still annoyed with him for reasons she did not (or would not) pause to examine.

"Are you not glad we came up to Milsom Street today, Mary?" she heard Mrs. Bennet ask. "Though it is a shame he could not have seen you at better advantage."

Mary did not respond, but turned to look back over her shoulder at the tea-shop where Robert still sat and, catching Kitty's eye, gave her sister a smile. This only served to push Kitty deeper into her funk, and she looked away, lips twisting; for it was rare that Mary looked so content, and though Kitty knew she should not begrudge her sister any happiness, she could not help feeling a little—well—jealous.

How stupid I am, she thought crossly. How can I be jealous of Mary or anybody, when I am the one who is engaged? And Alexander is really more handsome than Robert, and more charming as well; and he would never give up London for some drab little village.

Yet for some reason, this was but cold comfort. She shook her head to clear it, and hastened her steps to catch up with the others.

Kitty's ill humor faded as the day went on, but she remained enmeshed in the fog that had surrounded her ever since Mr. Price's proposal. She found herself shamefully glad that her betrothed was unable to dine with them, and that she would not see him until the ball; for whatever reason, she half-dreaded being left alone with him, and being obliged to endure his tender conversation (which she had been used to think a marvelous privilege, rather than a chore). This thought filled her with a very sick cold feeling which she tried to ignore, but her sleep that night was troubled, and she awoke on Wednesday morning with a head-ache.

"You look very poorly," Mary commented, when Kitty came down to breakfast.

"I am well," Kitty replied shortly.

"You do not look well. Does she not look poorly, Mamma?"

"You are rather pale, my love," Mrs. Bennet agreed, examining Kitty's wan features. "I hope you are not ill; I hope you have not caught a chill."

Kitty only pushed some food about her plate. She found she did not have much appetite; her heart was pounding too much to eat, though she did not know why she should be so anxious. She took a deep breath.

"I am going to Hart House to practice," Mary said, rather hesitantly, "and I am sure Dr. Hart would not object to seeing you, very briefly, when he has a moment in between patients. Or Robert could see you, if his father is too busy. Should you like to go with me?"

But the thought of watching Robert and Mary smile at each other over her aching head was repugnant.

"Then you must rest today," Mrs Bennet said decisively. "I fear you may have caught a chill from the rain yesterday; that would be a dreadful thing. I am sure you could not bear to miss the ball tomorrow. You must rest all day today, and not stir from this house. I will have a fire built in the sitting-room, or you may go back to your bed, if you like."

Kitty submitted, for she was too tired to do otherwise, and directly after breakfast she settled herself in the sitting-room with a few of Mary's books at her elbow (novels bought with Rosamond's guidance, of course; no matter how ill she was, Kitty could never be induced to read sermons), though presently she did not feel like reading them. She was staring into the fire when Mary came in, buttoning her spencer.

"I hope you feel better," she offered awkwardly.

"Thank you."

Mary stood there for a moment more, shifting uncomfortably on her feet.

"Katherine," she said, finally, not quite meeting her sister's eyes, "I am aware that our tempers are not particularly well-suited, and our interests are quite divergent; and I am aware that you find me as prosy as I find you silly and shallow; but I hope you know that I—I also love you."

Kitty started and looked up at her. It was the first time, at least in recent memory, that Mary had ever said she loved her, without being prompted by well-meaning aunts or elder sisters impatient to end a squabble.

"Thank you," she said, at last. "I love you."

"And I hope you know," Mary went on, her face very red, for this was not the sort of thing in which she had any sort of practice, "that if something is causing you distress, I would not mind listening, if you would like to tell me about it."

And indeed Kitty suddenly wished nothing more than to tell Mary everything, if only for the sake of giving voice to all the things that hovered just out of her mental reach. She swallowed hard. Her heart was still pounding and her stomach was full of flutters. She wondered if this was how her mother felt during one of her nervous attacks.

"It is, after all," Mary continued, "the happy duty of the elder sister to provide guidance as well as solace, and to conduct her younger sisters through the world, affording them all of her protection and her knowledge."

At this, Kitty's heart sank. "Guidance as well as solace" was precisely what she had feared from Mary, for it would inevitably take the form of a lecture, which would only serve to make her cross and angry (as Mary's lectures always did), and provoke her into doing something spiteful. Besides which, she thought, what knowledge could Mary have of secret engagements? For all her reading and all her morality, Mary was no better-versed in the nuances of Society, or Feelings, or Attachments, or anything else, than Kitty herself. She could give no advice that would be truly useful; all she had to offer were platitudes and intonations of moral and social correctness. But Kitty quelled these thoughts; they were uncharitable of her, when Mary was trying so hard to be kind and sisterly.

"I never—I never bothered, much, with Lydia," Mary was saying, "but I ought to have tried harder to show her what was right, and keep her from exposing herself to the dangers of the world. I ought to have paid her greater attention, and loved her better in spite of her faults. I should not like for you to be as unhappy as she is if such a fate is within my power to prevent. Whatever is wrong, Kitty, I would have you tell me, so that I can help you."

Kitty met her sister's eyes again and attempted a smile. "There is nothing wrong," she said quietly. "I slept ill last night; that is all."

Mary watched her for another long moment, but Kitty's smile did not waver.

"All right," she said at last, "well, then, I will go. Do feel better."

Kitty nodded, and smiled, and sent her love to their friends, and Mary—with one last long look—disappeared.

"Perhaps she is merely suffering from a chill," Rosamond suggested, an hour later, as she and Mary sat in the drawing room at Hart House. "She seemed perfectly cheerful when I saw her on Saturday; and you were caught in the rain yesterday."

Mary shook her head. She had attempted to practice, but had been unable to concentrate on the music, and had somewhat sheepishly asked Rosamond if they might talk a little instead.

"Kitty is rarely ill," she replied, "and besides, her only symptom is a want of spirits, which has affected her these two days past. I am sure there is some other force at work here, which is causing her some great distress; but she will say nothing to me."

"Does your mother share your concern?"

"No," Mary said, rather bitterly; "Mamma only worries that she may not feel well for the ball tomorrow. But my mother, however affectionate, is not the most astute of creatures: she sees only what pleases her. She still believes that Robert plans to propose to me, and she holds that Kitty is only a little fatigued, and will be better if she rests for a day. I am sure the thought of any deeper trouble has not crossed her mind."

They sat in a considering silence for a long moment.

"It is only," Mary burst out, in a sudden flash of frustration, "that I want to help. I always want to help. Everyone seems to think that I give speeches and lectures to seem clever, but that is not it. I say things because I think they will educate and uplift, and perhaps provide some sort of guidance; I want to be of use. But nobody ever listens to me! Mamma does not listen; my sisters certainly do not listen; even Papa thinks I am as silly as the others, if not so noisy."

Rosamond said nothing, but regarded her friend sympathetically.

"People listen to you," Mary bit out. "Your brothers and sisters, even your father: they all respect your judgment, even when they do not agree with you. Your sister looks upon you almost as a mother, and mine looks upon you as—as a sister." She swallowed, but went on. "You are free to dispense advice as you please, and very often people take it, and are happier for it. I do not understand why I cannot do the same."

"You can," Rosamond said gently.

"No, I cannot, or Kitty would not lie to me so, and my father would not think me a fool."

There was another long moment of silence. Rosamond, biting her lip, seemed to be debating something within herself; at last, she answered:

"If I may, Mary, I might suggest that you allow yourself to speak more often."

"I am always speaking," Mary grumbled, her frustration wearing itself out.

"I do not mean it in that way. I mean—well—perhaps Kitty might find greater value in what you think is right, rather than what Mr. Fordyce thinks proper behavior for a young lady. Do you see what I mean?"

Mary frowned at her.

"It is all very well," Rosamond pressed on, gaining strength, "to read books of morality and philosophy, and to seek guidance and inspiration from those works. The worst fool in the world is one who does not read—but—almost as bad is a fool who adopts every convincingly written word as ideology. I hope I do not speak out of turn," she added demurely, as Mary gaped, wounded. "I know how much interest and pleasure you derive from your reading, and such is only to be celebrated. But surely, Mary, you have drawn your own conclusions from these works; surely you have your private disagreements with them; surely you have, at least once, wished (however quietly) that Mr. Fordyce would keep his stuffy opinions to himself, for he is not a young woman, and never has been, and cannot have much authority to dictate sermons to us."

"I do not only read Fordyce," Mary protested, rather weakly.

"Of course not. But do you see what I mean? You did not hesitate to pick at all the little oddities of The Italian; you might learn to do the same with your moralists and philosophers.—And where Kitty is concerned," she went on, "you might remember that to each of us, the little agonies of our lives, however universal, seem remarkably private; and thus there is small comfort in being read lines that are meant to apply to everyone."

It was perhaps the longest speech Mary had ever heard from her usually tranquil friend, and certainly the closest thing Rosamond had ever offered to a direct criticism.

"For what are such books written, if not to guide us?" she demanded stiffly, still reeling from Rosamond's unexpected candor.

"That is easy enough to answer," was her friend's placid response. "They are written to express a particular viewpoint; every book is. The writers think themselves authorized to present their own ideas of education, behavior, propriety and moral sense. Yet the fact that these books are not novels, does not make them infallible. They ought to be taken with a grain of salt, like anything else."

"But—"

"You know what it is to treat people well," Rosamond said, more firmly. "I would posit that you do not need anyone to tell you—not now that you are already so well-educated, at any rate," she added, rather teasingly.

Mary sat back in her chair and considered this for a long moment. She had long prized herself on her ability to be completely honest within her own mind, and thus, though she bristled a little at some of Rosamond's phrasing (for, after all, her friend had come very close to calling her a fool), and at the idea of following the advice of a young lady she had not so very long ago dismissed as quite emptyheaded, she could not deny that Rosamond's words had a ring of sense to them. She wondered how long, exactly, Rosamond had been waiting to say this to her; something in the young lady's posture, the set of her features, the weight of her gaze, suggested that it was not a spontaneous lecture.

"And so what do you suggest I do?" she asked faintly.

Rosamond gave her a smile. "Do not worry so much about guiding your sister," she offered. "Only listen to her, and put aside the opinions you have read in favor of your own."

Mary bit her lip. But—

"Kitty will not even tell me what is wrong," she said finally. "It is all very well to discuss how I ought to help her, how I ought to try and speak with her, but the fact remains that she will not allow me to do so. She will continue to smile and shake her head despite anything I say to her. I know my sister; she is exceedingly stubborn."

"Is she?" Rosamond answered, with a hint of irony.

"Yes," Mary insisted. "And if she does not wish to speak with me, then she cannot be induced."

"I am sorry."

"But," Mary said, the idea suddenly striking her, "perhaps you might try and speak with her, and at least discover what is troubling her."

Rosamond was shaking her head. "We have already tried that," she replied, "and it did not work well."

"But this is not a case of trying to persuade her," Mary said, "for of course that was unsuccessful, given my sister's temperament and the strength of her attachment to Mr. Price." She frowned at the memory. "This is only speaking honestly with her. You are her particular friend; of course she will be open with you. She was prepared to take you into her confidence from the first hour of your meeting. Please, Rosamond," she urged, seeing that young lady still look doubtful. "We must not abandon Katherine to the depths of sorrow and confusion, or allow her to commit some rash act which she will regret forever. Your duty, one who loves her, is to offer her your kind ear and help her to shoulder whatever burden is presently creating such distress. Think only how greatly you would despair, if you were to lose her friendship forever, due to a reluctance to interfere."

Rosamond laughed a little. "Perhaps you ought to take up writing," she teased, "or perhaps you ought to join Theo and practice law; I never knew you to possess such a gift for rhetoric!"

"Then you will speak with her?"

"I will; but I do not think I will try at the ball tomorrow, for a ballroom is not the place for shared confidence. I shall call on Friday, and perhaps she and I might go walking."

Mary thanked her, though a little sadly; for she would much rather have spoken to Kitty herself, than coerced Rosamond into doing so on her behalf. Had Lydia been in Bath, she knew, Kitty would not have hesitated to divulge any and all secrets with her; even Lizzie or Jane would have been greatly preferred to Mary as a confidante. She gave a little sigh and looked down at her hands.

"Should you like to practice some more now," Rosamond asked gently, "or should you like to talk a little longer?"

Mary elected to return to the pianoforte, her mind somewhat eased, and Rosamond took up a book, and within a few minutes Juliet came into the room with her writing-table. But the peaceful scene was interrupted, before very long, by the maid's announcement that Lord Adlam had come to call. The gentleman entered (the first time, Mary thought, that she had ever seen him outside of a ballroom) and greeted the young ladies with all of the proper civility and grace—even remembering Miss Bennet's name, despite their very brief acquaintance; but Mary guessed, by the hastily-smothered giggle of the younger Miss Hart, and by the light blush of the elder, and by the way the gentleman's gaze seemed entirely fixed upon Rosamond's smile, that her company was not especially desired, and she made her excuses.

"How foolish they are," Juliet whispered, taking Mary's arm as they left together (for despite her youth, Juliet was quite astute), "he has been in love with her for ages, and now she with him, and yet they behave quite as if there were nothing particular between them."

"You think she is in love with him, then?" Mary said, taking care to keep her voice low.

"Oh, to be sure!—Though she will not say so. Anne and I have very long talks about it, for we like to discuss marriages and things more than the others. My brothers say it is very dull of us, and Papa thinks it silly, but we enjoy it. And so far we have been correct, every time."

"Indeed?" Mary said, a little amused in spite of herself, as she buttoned her spencer.

"Yes: we knew that Mr. Burke and Miss Smith were going to be engaged, and we knew about Mr. Wolfe and Miss James, and we are quite sure about Captain Finch and Miss Dalton. And so we know what we mean when we talk about Rose and Lord Adlam, and about R—oh!" Here she stopped suddenly, and looked very embarrassed, and glanced away.

Guessing the reason for the girl's discomposure, Mary gave her a small smile, and said only "So long as you do not succumb to the evils of malicious gossip, I believe there are far worse habits in which you and Mrs. Hart might indulge."

Juliet smiled and agreed, relieved, and the two young ladies curtsied to one another as Mary took her leave.

The evening passed quietly at Henry Street. Kitty had slept a little during the day, to her mother's great satisfaction, and so was feeling a little better; but she was still distracted and oddly fretful, and gave only very brief responses to any questions asked of her, and would not be drawn into any conversation. Mrs. Bennet, still convinced that Kitty was only dizzy with the bliss of her long-looked for engagement, did not concern herself any further with the matter; her daughter was feeling well enough to dance at the Upper Rooms, after all, and that had been her primary source of worry.

Mary, on the other hand, watched her sister anxiously, and hoped that the power of Rosamond's encouraging smile and kind manner would be enough to restore Kitty to her natural self.

For her part, Kitty was more confused than she had been before. Despite having been granted an entire day at home, largely alone, with nothing to do but think—something which did not happen often, for Kitty was the sort of young lady who likes to be active and busy—she had failed to come to any significant conclusions as to the source of her present malaise. She had arrived at the somewhat distressing realization that the thought of seeing Alexander tomorrow filled her with a nameless dismay and a bubbling feeling of—vexation, or distaste, or what, she could not say; she was a little afraid of being left alone with him; but the thought of losing him filled her with the same dismay. She did not want to see him, but she did not want to be apart from him. Her heart leapt at the thought of being married, of having a wedding and being called "Mrs. Price" forevermore, and moving through the glittering ballrooms and lush dining-rooms of London—but at the thought of sitting alone with him in an apartment somewhere (however finely furnished) made her stomach clench. She did not feel for him, now, the same camaraderie and esteem which was so apparent in the relations between her elder sisters and their husbands, and she wondered if she ever had. But then she remembered the blue of his eyes, the curve of his smile, the strength of his arm as they walked together, and melted once again.

Her mind, then, was reeling with conflict and doubt. She could not seem to come to any consensus within herself, and as a result she could not begin to think of what action—if any—ought to be taken. Her fears were so sudden, coming so unexpectedly upon the heels of that "consummation devoutly to be wished," the proposal for which she had looked since August. It did not seem quite fair, somehow: she had passed all of this time so desperately in love with Alexander, so glad of his attention and his appreciative of his charms, and yet now that their bond was official (and soon to be made more so), she immediately found herself doubting him, and annoyed with him, and a little afraid of him. Why was it that getting what she wanted only served to make her unhappy?

Surely, she told herself, it was natural for a young lady, about to be married, to wrestle with doubt and anxiety; but then, was it natural for the thought of one's beloved to fill one with dread half of the time, and with tenderness the other half? She did not know. She wished Lizzie were there, or Jane, or even Lydia, so that they might reassure her. Had Lizzie always loved Mr. Darcy—had Jane never questioned her choice in agreeing to marry Mr. Bingley—had Lydia never regretted running away from Brighton with Mr. Wickham? She thought of asking her mother; but Mrs. Bennet had been so delighted with the news of Kitty's engagement, that she feared watching her mother's face fall upon hearing of her misgivings.

She had mulled all of this over in her mind throughout the day, over and over, and did so again now as she was undressing for bed; and it seemed just as much a Gordian knot, unwilling to be cut.

Lying back in her bed, closing her eyes, Kitty breathed deeply and attempted to think of something else—or, more preferably, to think of nothing at all. Little by little, as she listened to the peaceful sound of Mary turning pages and focused upon the warm dark behind her eyelids, her mind began to empty. Before very much longer, all that were left were impressions of things she had seen and heard:

The darkness of Alexander's expression as she spoke of his sister;

The private little smile between Mary and Robert as they sat in the tea-shop;

Mrs. Bennet's noisy exclamations of delight at Kitty's good fortune;

Alexander's large blue eyes fixed upon her across a ballroom, and the purpose in his stride as he came to ask her to dance;

The shared laughter of Rosamond and Mr. Finch as they walked upon the Broad Quay bridge;

And, as Mr. Finch was already in her mind, she heard his voice in her ear: "It does seem as though it ought to be simple."

This last gave her a sharp twinge in her chest and her eyes flew open. The room was bathed in candlelight, though Mary looked to be dozing, her book upon her lap and her head lolling to one side on her pillow.

With a little sigh, Kitty sat up and leaned over to blow out the candle. Having done so, she pulled her knees up to her chest and tucked her arms about them like a child. Looking out the window, Kitty could see squares of light in windows and doorways up and down Henry Street, and across Manvers Street towards the river, though her view was blocked by the buildings around her; but she imagined the lights continuing across the river, and then out of Bath and into the villages beyond, little pinpricks of light growing fainter and further between, on and on into the east, until at last they began to grow closer again, and brighter, and larger; and suddenly she was looking right into London, watching the ladies and gentlemen in their finery as they strolled from houses to ballrooms to concerts and even to the Palace for a private party, grand carriages clattering noisily against the cobblestones, music pouring out of every open door, laughter ringing out too loud and false and everyone talking at once.

She opened her eyes again and found that she had fallen back against her pillow. Sliding the rest of the way down and tucking her blankets around herself, Kitty gave herself a little shake.

"Well," she muttered, in delayed response to the absent Mr. Finch, "I am afraid you do not know what you are saying, sir; and perhaps this is due to your never having been engaged before, and not knowing at all what it is like."

But this was not comforting.

She dreamed that night of a crowded ballroom, which the self within her dream told her was Almack's; but to her mind, it looked almost exactly like the Assembly Rooms.