Mary's wedding was at the end of those two weeks, and Mrs. Bennet had conscripted Kitty to attend her sister as bridesmaid. Kitty was not much interested in the post, but her mother insisted, and she did not have the energy to argue.

Accordingly, one crisp morning, Kitty found herself out of her room and dressed in her best gown, attending Mary as she pledged herself to Mr. Frederick Warde. She looked happier than Kitty had ever seen her. To be quite honest, Kitty had wondered at her sister before, for not appearing to care much about the approaching wedding or about the man she planned to marry. But there was none of that now—Mary had never smiled more or looked more content. Really, today, she was as beautiful as any of her sisters. And Kitty tried very hard not to hate her for her happiness.

But she couldn't stop herself from thinking. It could have been her. Rather than a glowing Mr. Warde standing before the altar, it would be Mr. Knott, probably quoting along under his breath with the minister as he read the service. He would be smiling at her the way Mr. Warde was smiling at Mary—the kind of smile that said, "This is the most thrilling thing that I have ever done" and seemed to belong to his lady alone.

Had Mary and he talked about what they planned to do with their house together? Was he looking forward to evenings spent reading aloud to her? Mr. Knott would have read her novels, if she wished it; Mr. Warde would probably just read Fordyce and extracts from the duller parts of the Bible. Of course, Mr. Knott would read the Bible to her also. But Kitty would have loved it, because he would have chosen only the more interesting parts to read to her. And he would practice giving his sermons to her, and she would love to hear it. They would visit parishioners together just as they'd visited Pemberley's tenants, and he would pray with them as Kitty set their homes in order for them…

Kitty had to inhale deeply and tried to focus on her sister. It could never happen! She would never be as happy as Mary—she would never stand before the altar and say those words—Mr. Knott would marry someone else and read to her in the evenings—

Kitty couldn't help it. The tears would flow, and with them great gasps and shudders for fear of the void her life would become. Bride and groom stopped to stare at her. So did everyone else. But she could not help herself and she could not stop. It was not fair! Mr. Johns had ruined everything for her, and she had just let him. And for that she would pay with a lifetime of loneliness and frustration! And this aching jealousy toward every other woman who was fortunate enough to marry.

Mr. Bennet appeared beside her, and whispered loudly, "Kitty! What is the matter with you?"

She tried to control herself but she couldn't—she couldn't breathe. Her father grabbed her elbow and pulled her out of the church.

The moment she was outside she leaned against the church wall and screamed her grief into the air.

"For heaven's sake, Catherine, will you hush? Let me get you back to the house and you may lose your mind all you wish without disturbing everyone else." He grabbed her arm again and dragged her away, albeit more gently than his words suggested he wanted to. He took her back to the house and sent her inside. "Keep out of the way of the wedding breakfast if you haven't found a way to calm yourself by then," he said, and left.

Kitty would not have needed his instructions for that. She fled to her bedroom and allowed herself a good long cry, screaming at herself, and Mr. Johns, and her own hateful foolishness. Why had she gone outside the shop? Why had she not just remained where she was safe? Why did he have to be there? Why did she have to speak to him, instead of turning right around and marching back inside as soon as she saw him?

The loss of Mr. Knott would torment her forever. She would be better served trying to forget her own name than to forget him. This was her punishment for her behavior with Mr. Johns, and not even her father could have devised a more fitting one.

She had nearly calmed herself by the time the others arrived for the breakfast, but she had no intention of joining them. She was sure that they would not wish to see her, and the last thing she wanted was to go down to join them and pretend that nothing had happened, or that everything was all right. She had not at all expected to see a furious, red-faced Mary standing at her door.

"How could you?" she snarled.

Kitty sniffed. "I'm sorry," she said. She thought, Do I even remember how to say anything else?

"You're sorry? Don't you think 'sorry' rings a little hollow after all this? Mr. Warde is dreadfully offended by your behavior, and I am completely lost as to what to tell him. What should I say, Kitty? That my sister, so far from having forgotten her silly attempt at flirtation with him, is still stupid enough to want him for herself, instead of wishing us well at our wedding?"

"What? You cannot be serious. I want nothing to do with Mr. Warde! You are welcome to him, and I wish you both very happy."

"Oh? It certainly didn't seem that way. When you started sobbing and screaming when he said 'I take thee, Mary' it appeared rather different! How else am I to understand it?"

"I wasn't crying over him! I am only miserable because I met someone else—at Pemberley—and I love him, and I want to marry him, and I never will. He hates me. Is that not a good reason to cry? To see my sister so happy and know that I will never have any part in that happiness, in a marriage of my own?"

"It may be good reason to mourn," Mary said, her tone not much softened, "but it is no good reason to make a spectacle of yourself at my wedding. I am sure that no one will talk of anything else for weeks! What a beginning to our marriage! Why do you have to make everything about you? Life is not one of your novels, Kitty. It isn't romantic to cry for your lost lover at your sister's wedding; it's just rude, and embarrassing."

"Well, at least you had a wedding," Kitty said. "I never shall."

"I am sure it is your own fault if you do not." She turned and stormed out of the room.

The truth of that final blow hit Kitty harder than she could bear, but she had no tears left. All that she could do was sit on her bed and clutch at her stomach, as though it would help. But nothing could stop the agonizing ache that threatened to overtake her entirely. She felt as though she simply could not go on living—that she would drown in her own regret.

"I can't do this," she whispered. "I have to do something to keep me distracted or I will die—or go mad—and I don't know which I would prefer."