Chapter 23 #2
“Eleanor,” she whispered. “She’s still...her reputation will be ruined, is that right?”
Richard’s mouth twisted. “I fear she’ll be caught in the storm.”
Kitty lowered her eyes. “I always liked her.”
“I know,” Jane said softly.
There was a long silence.
Kitty stared down at her hands. “I don’t wish this upon her,” she said, surprised to find the words rising unbidden. “Or him. Whatever he’s done. However cruel he’s been. I don’t want this for him.”
“No,” Jane said. “Because you love him.”
Kitty didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Her eyes moved back to the window. The rain had not stopped. It only fell harder now, drumming ceaselessly on the glass.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” she whispered. “The love. It won’t go away.”
Richard looked at her, and this time there was no pity in his expression—only understanding.
“You don’t have to do anything with it,” he said. “Let it pass through you. Let it run its course. Some things do not vanish. They only quiet.”
Kitty’s throat tightened again. She nodded once.
Then Jane rose, brushing her skirts smooth. “Come talk to us, Kitty. Just for a little while. We won’t speak of anything unpleasant.”
But Kitty shook her head gently. “In a moment. I only need—”
A knock interrupted her.
Could it be...?
A servant entered the room, bowed, and held out a silver tray.
“A letter for Miss McGowan.”
Kitty frowned faintly and stepped forward. The envelope was pale blue and bore a seal she recognized immediately.
Marina.
She felt the breath leave her lungs.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
The servant bowed again and retreated. Jane glanced at her with concern.
“Will you read it here?”
Kitty hesitated, fingers tightening around the letter. Then she shook her head.
“No. I think I shall go upstairs.”
They did not protest.
She carried the letter up to her room like it weighed far more than parchment. The moment the door shut behind her, she leaned against it, clutching the envelope with both hands.
She wasn’t sure why she was afraid to open it. Perhaps because part of her still wanted to believe that Marina hadn’t meant harm. That it had been a misunderstanding. That, at least someone—anyone—had not intended to betray her.
Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
My dearest Kitty,
I hardly know where to begin.
I have stared at this page for what must be hours. What words can I write that will not seem like excuses? How can I explain what I did without sounding like a fool—or worse, a traitor?
But I owe you the truth. So here it is.
When Cynthia Henley wrote to me last month, she said she was your confidante.
That you were on the verge of an unwanted marriage, and that you were too proud to admit your distress.
She said she had only your best interest at heart and that it was urgent we act quickly and discreetly, to intervene before it was too late.
I believed her.
Kitty, I am ashamed to say it. But I did. She spoke with such certainty. Such urgency. I truly thought I was helping you.
It was only after I learned of the scandal that followed that I realized what I had done. How easily I had been manipulated.
I made up a story about your time in Venice, so that I could help break you free from an engagement I thought you did not want. I believed—God help me—I believed she wanted to protect you. And I handed her the very knife she used to cut you down.
There is no forgiveness I deserve. But I beg your mercy all the same.
I was foolish. And I was wrong.
Yours in deepest regret,
Marina
Kitty read the letter once. Then again. The words blurred on the second reading, not from confusion—but from the sting behind her eyes.
She sat down slowly at her vanity and let the paper fall to her lap.
So that was it.
Not malice. Not deliberate sabotage. Just a string of misguided choices, tied together by misplaced trust.
She had always known Cynthia was capable of cruelty.
Marina had been her friend. Her companion. And though Cynthia had twisted that bond into a weapon, Kitty could not summon anger when she thought of Marina. Only a quiet, aching sort of gratitude.
Her mind drifted—unbidden—to that night in Venice. The laughter. The salt-heavy air. The endless, golden possibility of the future. She smiled, faintly, despite herself.
It had all seemed so distant then—love, the possibility of truly belonging to someone. She had wished for it with the desperation of a girl standing on the edge of the world, asking the stars to hear her.
And now...
Kitty glanced at her reflection in the mirror—the same face, but not the same girl. She looked older, yes. Changed. But not lonelier. Not hollow.
Because she had found it. The kind of love that uprooted a life, that rewrote futures, that burned too brightly to be denied. The kind of love her father had once crossed oceans to forget.
Her throat tightened, but it was not sorrow that filled her chest. It was wonder.
She folded the letter carefully and slid it into the drawer beside her hairbrush, a reverence in the act. She would not write back today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But someday. When her heart was ready to remember what had happened without mourning it.
And in the quiet, with the rain falling steadily against the windowpanes and the fire still burning somewhere below, Kitty finally let herself cry.