The days following Mr. Harrington's first visit unfolded like the tightening of a vice. He returned again and again, always punctual, always proper, his manner unfailingly courteous. He brought small tokens of his regard: a book of verse, a sprig of late-blooming roses from his garden, a promise of carriage rides when the weather permitted. To her aunt and uncle, he seemed the very image of propriety, a man of standing and gravity, a suitor fit to restore honour and stability.
To her, he was a shadow pressed upon her life, an unwelcome presence she could neither avoid nor repel.
She played her part with dutiful composure. She sat where her aunt bade her sit, answered questions with politeness, accepted compliments with lowered eyes. Yet her heart was elsewhere, and her silence—though courteous—began to betray her.
Mr. Harrington, though not a man of passion, was not entirely blind. He observed her restraint, her careful answers, the way her gaze seemed fixed beyond the room, as though she were listening for a sound that never came.
One afternoon, as they walked the garden path under her aunt's supervision, he paused beside a row of autumn roses. "You are quiet, Miss," he remarked gently. "Do I weary you with my conversation?"
She forced a smile. "Not at all, sir."
"And yet," he continued, studying her face, "your eyes do not meet mine. Forgive me, but it seems to me your thoughts wander elsewhere. Am I mistaken?"
Her breath caught. For one dreadful moment she thought he had guessed, that her heart's secret had somehow betrayed itself in the tremor of her voice or the flush of her cheek. She recovered quickly, lowering her gaze. "I am merely unaccustomed to such attention, sir. My aunt has schooled me to silence."
He nodded, though his expression betrayed unease. He did not press her further, but from that moment she felt his scrutiny more keenly, as though he sought to unravel the mystery of her reserve.
---
That evening, her aunt confronted her directly.
"You are ungracious," the older woman declared, her eyes hard as steel. "Mr. Harrington offers you every courtesy, yet you sit as though carved from stone. Do you mean to throw away the one chance left to you?"
The girl's lips parted, but no words came.
Her aunt pressed on, her voice sharp and cold. "Do not think your silence conceals your folly. I know well what occupies your mind. But hear me, child: such fancies cannot last. They are dangerous, and they will ruin you. I will not see our name dragged through scandal for the sake of a girl's whim."
Her eyes burned with tears she dared not shed. "Aunt," she whispered at last, "I do not love him."
"Love!" Her aunt's voice cut like a blade. "What has love to do with duty? Love is a tale for children. Marriage is a contract, a safeguard, a necessity. You will learn affection in time, as countless women have before you. You will thank me one day, though you curse me now."
She bowed her head in silence, her spirit burning even as her body submitted. But in her heart she cried: I will never thank you. My love is not folly. It is the only truth I know.
---
Meanwhile, across the miles, he too felt the tightening of fate's snare. The maid had delivered her latest letter, written in a hand so small it could scarcely be read, every word squeezed into secrecy.
"They press me with a suitor. I endure because of you. If they force me, know that I go unwilling. My heart is yours, unalterable."
He read it by lantern-light, the paper trembling in his hand. Fury surged through him—fury at her aunt's cruelty, at a society that prized reputation above love, at his own helplessness. Yet beneath the anger was a rising determination. He could not, he would not, stand idle while another man sought to claim her hand.
That night, restless and sleepless, he walked the fields beneath a starless sky. His brother's words echoed in his mind—warnings of ruin, of folly, of duty betrayed. Yet louder still was the echo of her vow, the ink of her promise that she was his.
And in the stillness of that night, he resolved upon a dangerous thought: that he must act, not merely write. The letters had sustained them, but letters alone would not protect her from being bartered into a loveless future. He must find a way—reckless though it might be—to reclaim her.
---
The next afternoon, Mr. Harrington returned once more. He brought with him a small box, finely carved, which he presented with a courteous bow.
"A token, Miss," he said, placing it in her hands. "Not an imposition, I hope, but merely a sign of esteem."
Her aunt beamed, clearly gratified. Her uncle nodded approval.
She opened the box with trembling fingers. Within lay a simple bracelet of gold, modest yet undeniable in its meaning.
Her heart constricted. She forced a smile, murmured her thanks, but her hands trembled so violently she nearly dropped it. Mr. Harrington's eyes lingered upon her, troubled by the sorrow he glimpsed beneath her composure.
"Do I displease you so greatly?" he asked quietly, so that her aunt and uncle could not hear.
Her throat tightened. She could not answer.
He regarded her for a long moment, his brows drawn. "Forgive me," he said at last, his tone subdued. "I would not cause you grief. Yet I cannot help but feel there is some barrier I do not understand."
She looked away, blinking back tears, her silence more eloquent than any words.
---
That night, she wrote once more in secret, her candle burning low.
"They bring gifts now, tokens of a bond I cannot accept. I smile as they demand, but my heart weeps. He suspects my reluctance, yet still they press him upon me. Beloved, I cannot endure much longer. Act, if you can—act before they bind me beyond escape."
Her words trembled on the page, a desperate plea carried across the silence of miles.
And as the maid carried it away at dawn, the girl pressed her hands together in prayer. For she knew time was slipping fast, and soon, perhaps too soon, her fate might be sealed by hands not her own.