AN: Obviously, this is also about Nigel Cunningham, just like the previous letter, but after. Just so sad...

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Dearest Nigel,

I can't believe it. I can't. How? How could this happen?

You can't be gone.

Did you even get my email? Were you on your way back to me when this awful thing happened? How am I even supposed to know? I can't even cry with anyone, I can't even mourn you publicly, because no one knew about us.

Your funeral's going to be in two days, and the most I can hope for is to be tending the grounds somewhere nearby and to maybe watch as they lower your precious body into the ground.

Oh god, Nigel, what am I supposed to do?

Remember how I used to wait by the sycamore in the summers, when it was warm at night? And you'd come running, calling as you came? Really softly? "Sometimes Katharine? Are you there? Where's my Sometimes Katharine?" You sounded crazy, you know that? Then you'd sweep me up in your arms and swing me around, and I'd see the tree spinning above my head.

Nigel, I'm going to die without you.

I can hardly see the paper as I write this.

I typed the other letter on my laptop, because it was an email, but this is an actual letter. I'm writing it with the beautiful pen you bought for me when you were on tour in Switzerland, the Mont Blanc, do you remember? You had your initials and mine engraved on it, with a tiny heart? I'm going to find a way, dearest Nigel, for this letter to be with you when they lay you to rest the day after tomorrow, I swear it--

Apparently it was some stupid, stupid, careless driver who took you from me, Nigel. You were on your way to see Heath Spencer in Abu Dhabi when it happened. You were always so happy with those boys. I never begrudged you a moment you spent with them, I want you to know that. But now, now that you're gone, I can't believe I was so stupid as to insist we keep us a secret for all these years. We could've been together, we could've been happy.

And I wish with all my heart that we hadn't used any protection the last time we were together, so that there would at least be a possibility that you'd left a tiny part of you inside me, so that I'd have the hope of having your child growing in my belly, Nigel.

Instead, I have nothing, no one to console me, no one I can even confide in; who would even believe me? Who would believe that Nigel Cunningham, Baron or Marquis or Earl or whatever you were, related to the queen, one of the most famous, wealthy and sought after young men in the world, was in love with the gardener's granddaughter, and that it was only kept secret by her wish?

Honestly, it's too Jane Austen to be believed.

Good bye, Nigel, my beloved.

Always, your

Katharine