Kitty kept herself to her room, and would speak to no one. Her father summoned her to his library at least once a day, but she could not bear to go. She insisted that they deflect curious visitors with vague answers, and so she remained "in poor health" and "indisposed" to everyone, and not even Mrs. Bennet knew much better. She knew only that Kitty was not leaving her room; that this was her decision and that Mr. Bennet was not inclined to argue it; and that she expected to remain there indefinitely. This, of course, did not please Mrs. Bennet in the slightest, but as neither Kitty nor Mr. Bennet were willing to say more, she had little choice but to keep pressing them both in the vain expectation of information.

Since her arrival home, Kitty had been failing to compose the letter of thanks to Elizabeth which custom made essential and which circumstances made abhorrent. She had started this letter at least a dozen times, and was again staring at her paper, but so far she could only think of saying what she had already said and rejected.

Thank you for inviting me to Pemberley. I'm so sorry I made such a mess of it.

No.

I enjoyed my stay very much, for the most part.

Definitely not.

I was glad for the opportunity to meet

She couldn't even finish that one.

I hope that I left everyone in good health. Please express my apologies for not being able to take my leave in person—though of course you have done so already, I am sure—but I should very much like to say to Mr. Knott especially

She threw down her pen in frustration. He was the problem. If Mr. Knott weren't lurking at the corners of every sentence she wrote, the letter would be written and in Elizabeth's hands by this point. The problem of course was that she wanted desperately to know how he was doing. Had she driven him to despair? Was he all right? Did he ever ask after her? Was—had he moved on to some other young lady?

For, of course, he would. It was not a matter of whether or not it would happen, only of when the news would reach Kitty and break her again. She tried to steel herself against it, by believing that he had moved on already, that he really had been in love with Georgiana all that time and meant to propose to her after all. But she could not fool herself, and she wanted more than anything to know what he was doing.

She did not dare to hope that he had forgiven her, but she wished she could be certain that he didn't hate her. In her better moments she reminded herself that he was a clergyman and therefore bound to uphold such holy practices as forgiveness. In her worst moments she believed that he hated her so much that he would go out of his way to warn every person he ever met against her, taking the shards of her shattered respectability and flinging them into the dirt.

Thank you for the hospitality you showed to our father and to me while we stayed there. I know that we were a trial to you but you were always gracious with us.

That may have been true, but she could hardly send it.

She looked up at Georgiana's letter, the one Elizabeth had pressed into her hand as they departed Pemberley. It sat, pristine, on top of her writing desk, though she did not know why she kept it there. She had not read it, nor even opened it. She wasn't sure that she could. It must contain either pity and sympathy, or blame, and she did not think that she had the stomach for either one. But she could not help thinking that Georgiana had seen Mr. Knott—he had been the one to find her and tell her what Kitty had done. If she had something to say that would give Kitty some idea of his state of mind… She would never say it, and Kitty knew that. But the possibility still existed, right up until she opened the letter and proved that it did not, and so she was terrified to touch it.

The door opened, and Mrs. Bennet walked in with arms full of "little things" for Kitty to do. Even when all others were barred from entry, Mrs. Bennet felt it her duty to encroach upon Kitty's privacy as much as possible, and Kitty hardly knew how to dissuade her, so she bore it. Kitty shoved her poor excuse for a letter under her prayer-book and stood up.

"Kitty, my dear! I heard from Hill that you sent your breakfast back untouched. Are you sure that you do not wish us to send for the apothecary?"

Kitty sighed. "Yes Mama. I was not very hungry."

"Well, you must not make a habit of it, for once you are feeling well enough to join society again, you will have to look your best! I can tell you, every person I know is dying to know whether you are all right. And you really do look as though you were quite healthy, if you would only eat more."

"I eat enough to keep me from being hungry, Mama, but I do so little in my room that I do not require much." She did not say, again, that she had no intention of ever rejoining society.

"Well, if you are certain…"

"Yes, Mama." To change the subject, she gestured to the work in her mother's arms. "What have you brought me today?" If it was anything like the past week and a half, it was more things to make, mend, or decorate for Mary's wedding. Mr. Warde had, apparently, some distant relative or other who had died and left him just enough money that he felt it was possible to support her sister adequately, and so their nuptials were proceeding without further delay. The banns had been read once already, and Kitty thought her mother quite as full of pride on that occasion as she had been for either Jane or Lizzy's marriage.

As Mrs. Bennet explained what she wanted done with each article she'd brought, Kitty's mind drifted in and out of attentiveness, always drawn away by the thought of Mr. Knott. The more she resolved never to think of him again, the more surely he would remain in her thoughts, and keeping her attention elsewhere for any length of time was proving difficult. Kitty wondered often whether she was likely to spend the rest of her life thinking of him, wondering how he did, and who he loved. Perhaps after a few years, she might persuade Lizzy to tell her where he had ended up. But of course, in order to keep that correspondence going, she was going to have to finish writing that letter! She shot a dark look toward her writing desk.

"…And so I thought you and I might sit and work for a little while together and have a chat," Mrs. Bennet concluded. Kitty realized with a guilty start that she'd missed most of what she was supposed to be doing.

"Just tell me what you want me to do first," she said, hoping it would be clear from context what she was supposed to do with whatever her mother handed her. Thankfully, it was a nightgown that needed mending.

"It must be so difficult on you not to know anything that your friends are doing; not even to see them! You have been at home two weeks and the most of any person you have seen is at church."

Kitty smiled. "I have seen you every day, Mama, and Mary and Papa most days." She was not thrilled by that arrangement, but it was true.

"Yes but your family counts for nothing! I was talking to Mrs. Lucas yesterday and she said that Maria met the most charming gentleman at a picnic held by the Bells last Monday, and she is very hopeful of its becoming a match, if she can find out how to get them in company together again. Can you imagine, even Maria Lucas! I had not thought you would be the last to marry, Kitty." This was said, as it always was, reproachfully.

"Nor had I, Mama, but I suppose I cannot help it if no gentleman wishes to propose to me."

"No, poor dear." She reached forward and patted Kitty's hand. "But I am sure someone will be along some day; though not if you insist on remaining here forever! Can you not receive at least a few close friends? It has been two weeks; people are beginning to talk."

"I cannot, Mama." Kitty cringed inwardly. She hated this part of the conversation, and it had been coming more and more frequently, lately.

"I wish you would tell me why not, for your father never will."

"I am not well, Mama."

"You say that, but nothing about you seems the least bit unwell! Except that you do not eat as much as you used to." Mrs. Bennet sighed and shook her head. "There was a time, you know, when you girls used to tell me what was going on in your lives. Lord knows, I have precious little else to concern myself with, and why should I not know the nearest concerns of my own daughters?"

Kitty shook her head. She did not know whether telling her mother would have ended in sympathy or condemnation, but she did not imagine that she could withstand either. Her mother's emotions were too violent for the quiet, desperate ache that pervaded her life at the moment. "I'm sorry, Mama," she whispered. It was all she could think to say. "Sorry" usually was all she could think to say to anybody. It was starting to sound like nonsense even to her ears.

Mrs. Bennet could, and did, wax eloquent on the matter of her waning intimacy with her daughters, but she left eventually, like she always did. Kitty put aside her work as soon as she was alone again, and returned to the letter. This time, she told herself firmly, she would stay in her chair until it was written, and if it took her until the breakfast-tray was sent up tomorrow, so be it.

She crossed out as many sentences as she left in, but she saw it through, and managed to mention Mr. Knott only once. If Elizabeth was willing to understand, she would send word. If she was not, Kitty would endeavor to forget about him. Again.

She glanced at Georgiana's letter. Might it mention him?

If Elizabeth never answered her, it would be her only information about him, perhaps ever. Could she bear that?

Kitty snatched up the letter and broke the seal, but before she could read anything more than her own name, there was a knock at the door.

"Excuse me, Miss Kitty, but you have a letter." In Hill's outstretched hand was another letter, addressed in Miss Darcy's elegant writing.