Kitty accepted the letter with a trembling hand. A second one! And she hadn't read the first! She stared at the new letter for a few moments, but realized she had better start at the beginning. So she took up the first one and began to read.

Dear K—

Haven't much time. Sorry so short. But don't despair.

I know how you feel. I wished never to speak to or see anyone after W. You likely feel similar.

I do not believe you are beyond hope or repair. I know how persuasive a man can be even if you know what he is asking is wrong.

He is at fault. You can only move forward, and do not allow him to defeat you. Mr. J will only become more bitter and miserable but that won't be your fate.

E tells me you are leaving now. Write to me as soon as you can.

Love,

Georgie

Kitty folded the letter back up with tears in her eyes. She had repaid her friends' unflagging support and affection by ignoring her and casting her aside! She started back to her writing desk to add something to Georgiana to her letter, but the thought of the second letter stopped her short. She had not written back, as Georgiana had requested, and it had been over two weeks since she'd departed. It was as likely as anything that this second letter was only to say that as she had received no response, she must believe that Kitty did not wish for her friendship, and she would end the acquaintance. Kitty nearly dove for the second letter. It must not say any such thing. It could not!

Dear Kitty,

I begin to suspect that your father has forbidden you to correspond with me, and though the idea pains me, I can imagine that he is overly upset right now with anything or anyone connected to Pemberley. I hope for your sake that I am mistaken, and that you have only been unable to write because you have been busy elsewhere.

Now that I have more leisure, I can tell you more of what is going on here. I am sorry if any of what I have to report might pain you, but Elizabeth and I both feel that it would be best that you know now, lest you receive other, less accurate information. Miss Pratt has left us. In fact, she departed the same morning you did. It seems that she has gone to stay with—of all people—Mrs. Johns! Now we know what she was doing in Lambton all those mornings!

Before you think too ill of her, let me ease your mind. She did not, as far as we can tell, know of Mr. Johns's intent toward you, if she even saw him that morning. However, I believe that her meeting with his wife was what provided him with the time he needed to slip away and find you. Given what we know of Camilla Johns, I find it difficult to believe that she would knowingly assist him in seducing another young woman. Her extreme jealousy toward you cannot have abated so quickly. Miss Pratt has said nothing of the matter, and I do not believe that she thought of you at all. Her only thought was of her old friend, and the society she found with her.

She did not say that was her reason for leaving of course, but I think I know better. I cannot say that I am sorry to see her go. I have learned that a person with whom one used to be intimate when one was seven is not therefore a good candidate for intimacy when one is seventeen. And, after all, what have children of seven to do with intimacy, anyway?

My cousin has also been called away, and as Mr. Knott has left us as well, we are quite unexpectedly bereft of all our company at once. But I suspect I know which part of that communication will interest you most.

Mr. Knott has, indeed, gone back to London, though I do not know precisely why. I can gather, from things my brother has said, that he did offer the vicarage to Mr. Knott, although there is some point about the particulars of the arrangement that I do not quite understand from the veiled conversations I have heard.

All I know is that he has not yet accepted it, and that my brother has agreed to hold it for him for the time being, until whatever conditions exist can be met.

I wish I could tell you more, but I know nothing further of him. He missed you terribly, I believe. Does that give you peace or pain? I wish I knew whether such news hurt you or not.

The letter went on about other things but Kitty could not bring herself to read them yet. So, Mr. Knott was gone—entirely gone from Pemberley, and possibly never to return, if he could not meet Mr. Darcy's conditions! She realized then how foolish she had been to expect that he would remain there always, or at least always close enough to the family that she might get news of him. This could easily be the last she would ever hear of him. He was gone to London… and there to stay for ever, as far as she might ever know.

She set the letter onto her writing desk, all thoughts of replying having quite vanished, and went over to her window to stare out at the garden. She hardly knew what she saw. All she knew, all she could think, was that she would probably never know what became of him. She was strangely numb to this, but it was the kind of numbness that reached out to every other sensation and dulled them all.

One sensation, however, soon began to burrow its way out of the numbness: worry. Why had he not accepted that living? It was a good living, she knew—and seeking it was his reason for coming to Pemberley in the first place. Had he decided that he could not live so near the place where he had met her? Had something else come up related to his mother's demise? Had his father fallen ill as well?

There were too many questions and too few answers, and Kitty would never know the rest. Yet if she had not been such a fool, she might now be entitled to know his nearest concerns! She would be able to write him and encourage him. She would, perhaps, even have been able to go with him, or at least follow him there. And it was never to be.

Little induced Kitty to leave her room in the following two weeks. She posted her reply to Georgiana without really knowing what it said. She was sure she did not hide her desire for news of Mr. Knott very well, and she could only hope that her friend would forgive her preoccupation.

To find ways to pass the tedious days, she tried all manner of distractions. She discovered that she was incapable of drawing; she had no ear for music, and less for languages. The usual accomplishments with which women occupied their time held no interest for her—even those she had formerly enjoyed. It did not help, she supposed, that she could focus for about ten minutes on anything before thoughts of what she had lost intruded and she could no longer think of anything else. She was beginning to be persuaded that her entire life would be lived in misery and regret. It was no more than she deserved, she was sure, but she refused to give in. If she was going to live alone, she was going to have to find a way to do so without so much misery. She took to reading every book she could find. Losing herself in someone else's world, however dry and boring it might be, was preferable to dwelling in her own. This had the somewhat curious consequence of sending her to her father's library more often than she had ever entered it before, but he did not say much to her when she was there, and she said nothing to him.

The only other thing that could distract her from her misery was the daily visit from her mother. These visits were not exactly pleasant, but they gave Kitty something to think of besides her own ruined life, and almost always gave her some piece of work to do for the rest of the day. She tried, as she worked, to occupy herself with thoughts of what Mary would be doing while she used or wore whatever Kitty was mending or making. It was, at least, a different kind of pain. But watching Mary prepare for her wedding to Mr. Warde was unbearable. Kitty longed for the day when it was all over, and she could hide in her room in peace.