The house was restless with a new kind of energy. Servants whispered in corridors, polishing silver that rarely left its cupboard, and the parlour was suddenly filled with talk of visitors and arrangements. The girl sensed the change at once, though none spoke of it plainly. She felt it in her aunt's unusually brisk movements, in her uncle's grave nods, in the way her every step seemed followed by eyes eager for her compliance.
At breakfast, her aunt set down her teacup with deliberate precision. "Mr. Harrington will call again this evening," she said, her tone smooth, almost triumphant. "Your uncle and I feel it time matters should advance beyond polite preliminaries. A connection must not linger too long in ambiguity. Reputation demands decisiveness."
The girl's spoon trembled against her bowl. "Advance?" she echoed faintly.
Her aunt's lips curved into a thin smile. "Yes, child. He has shown you nothing but constancy. It is expected that you acknowledge his attentions with gratitude. We shall soon make his suit known publicly. A formal announcement will be proper."
The words fell like a sentence. The girl lowered her eyes, her pulse hammering in her ears. So soon. So cruelly soon.
---
That afternoon, when she was at last alone with her maid, she could contain her anguish no longer. She clutched her companion's hand, her voice breaking.
"They mean to bind me to him—publicly, irrevocably. What shall I do? If once it is spoken, all hope is gone."
The maid's eyes softened, though fear shadowed her face. "Courage, miss. Do not despair. Did he not promise you he would act? Trust him. He is not one to break his word."
"But the days slip away," the girl whispered, tears rising. "What if he delays too long? What if courage fails him at the hour I need it most?"
The maid pressed her hand gently. "Then let us hope courage will not fail. Hope is all that remains, but it may yet prove stronger than despair."
---
Miles away, he bent once more over her last letter, its ink faded at the edges from repeated reading. Her words were desperate, imploring—Act before I am bound beyond escape.
He paced the floor, restless, every nerve alight with urgency. The time for hesitation was gone. His brother's warnings still echoed—scandal, ruin, dishonour—but those dangers paled beside the vision of her forced into Harrington's grasp.
At last, his mind formed a plan, reckless yet irresistible. He would go to her again—not in secrecy, not as a thief stealing moments from the night, but boldly, openly. He would face her aunt, face Harrington, face the world itself if need be. He would declare the truth of their attachment and claim her as his own.
Yet even as he shaped the daring resolve, he knew the peril. Society would not look kindly upon such defiance; whispers could destroy reputations as surely as fire consumed tinder. Still, he clenched his fists, his jaw set. Better ruin with her than honour without her.
---
That evening, Mr. Harrington arrived punctually, his attire immaculate, his manner serious. He was received with warmth by her aunt and uncle, who spoke with him in tones of approval that scarcely concealed their eagerness.
The girl sat silently, her face pale, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She heard little of their conversation, for her mind reeled with dread. She scarcely dared lift her eyes, for each glance at Harrington seemed to tighten the chains about her.
At last, her aunt spoke with deliberate clarity. "Mr. Harrington, my niece and I have spoken often of your constancy. It seems to me the time has come to place matters on a proper footing. Do you not agree?"
Harrington inclined his head gravely. "Indeed, madam. It has been my earnest hope to secure Miss's hand. I should be honoured to make my intentions known formally."
The girl's heart stopped. She felt the walls closing in, every breath a struggle. Her aunt's gaze turned toward her, expectant, commanding.
"Well, child?" she demanded softly, though her tone carried the weight of an order. "You have heard Mr. Harrington. It is time you spoke your mind with gratitude."
---
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. The girl's lips parted, but no words came. Her eyes flickered toward the door, as though praying it might open, that some miracle might yet intervene.
But the door remained closed.
At last, with a tremor in her voice, she whispered, "Aunt, I beg you, do not press me so. I am not prepared—"
Her aunt's expression hardened. "Not prepared? Nonsense. You have delayed long enough. Mr. Harrington has shown patience. It is time you repaid it."
The girl's hands gripped her chair until her knuckles whitened. Desperation rose within her like a tide. She longed to cry out, to confess the truth of her heart, yet fear of her aunt's wrath held her tongue. She remained silent, her refusal unspoken yet undeniable in the anguish of her eyes.
Mr. Harrington observed her closely. His face betrayed a flicker of unease, though he said nothing.
---
That night, long after the house had quieted, she took up her pen once more. Her candle cast trembling shadows on the page as she wrote with fevered urgency:
"They speak of an announcement. I am pressed beyond endurance. If you do not come, I shall be lost to you forever. My heart is yours—only yours—but they will not relent. Beloved, save me."
She sealed the letter with shaking hands and placed it in the maid's care. And as the candle guttered out, she lay upon her bed, her tears soaking the pillow, her spirit torn between despair and the faint, desperate hope that he would come before all was undone.