If whispers and closed doors were barbs, the aunt's next blow was a hammer. For weeks she had laboured in secret, her pen never still, her anger never softened. Now her schemes moved beyond rumour into action, and the lovers felt the ground shift beneath their feet.
One morning, as the girl sat by the hearth mending her gown, a heavy knock shook the cottage door. Her beloved rose, his brow furrowed, and opened it to admit a stern-faced man bearing a sealed letter. He offered no greeting, no civility, only the folded document.
"By order of Lady Ashbourne," he said, naming her aunt with cold formality, "you are required to vacate these lodgings within a fortnight. The property belongs to her estate, and she withdraws permission for your occupancy."
The words struck like thunder. The girl's needle slipped from her fingers, her face paling as her beloved read the notice aloud. They had believed the cottage to be a refuge, humble though it was; now even this roof was to be stripped away.
The messenger departed without another word, leaving silence more terrible than his presence. At last the girl found her voice, broken and trembling. "She will not cease until we are utterly undone."
He gathered her into his arms, his jaw set. "Then let her rage. She may take the roof from over our heads, but she shall not take the love within our hearts. If need be, we shall sleep beneath the stars rather than bow to her tyranny."
---
Yet the notice was but the beginning. Soon creditors came knocking, claiming debts long forgotten or newly conjured. Shopkeepers refused them service, fearing the aunt's displeasure. Even the small tasks by which he had earned their daily bread began to vanish, one by one, as men who once offered him work withdrew with awkward excuses.
It was as though an invisible hand pressed upon them from every side, narrowing their world until even necessity became scarce. Hunger, once a shadow at the edge, now drew nearer, its presence felt in each carefully measured meal, in each long walk to stretch what little bread they could afford.
The girl bore it bravely. She stitched until her eyes ached, she swept and tended the cottage as though it were still a grand estate, and she smiled whenever his spirit faltered. But he saw the shadows beneath her eyes, the weariness in her step, and his heart burned with shame.
---
One evening, when the cupboard lay nearly bare, he rose suddenly from his chair.
"I cannot endure this idleness," he cried. "To watch you suffer, to see you want for so much—I will not. If no one in this county will employ me, then I shall go elsewhere. London, perhaps—there must be work to be had there."
She caught his arm, fear in her gaze. "And leave me alone? No, do not speak it. If we must endure hardship, let us endure it together. I could bear hunger, but not your absence."
His resolve softened at her plea, yet still his spirit wrestled with its pride. "But what am I, if I cannot provide for you? What man am I, if I stand helpless while you mend and starve beside me?"
She pressed her hands to his face, her eyes shining with tears. "You are the man I chose. Not for wealth, not for ease, but for love. If you give me that, I want for nothing more."
Her words struck him silent, her courage shaming his despair. He drew her close, and in that embrace they found again the strength to endure another day.
---
Meanwhile, Harrington watched from the shadows, torn between his vow of withdrawal and his heart's refusal to abandon her. He heard whispers of her plight, he saw her name blackened, and he burned with indignation. Yet every attempt to aid them risked rejection, for her beloved's pride was fierce, his independence untameable.
Still, Harrington resolved that he would act where he might without discovery. Quietly he pressed merchants to temper their harshness, quietly he spoke to those who would listen of her integrity and virtue. It was a losing battle against the aunt's greater power, but it was all he could do—and it gave him the bitter comfort of serving, though unseen.
---
The aunt, however, took grim satisfaction in their decline. "Let them see," she said to her confidante, "how swiftly love fades when tested by want. Let them taste hunger, let them feel the chill of a roofless night, and they shall come crawling back—or perish. Either will prove me right."
But in her bitterness, she misjudged. For though the lovers' bodies weakened, their spirits grew stronger. Each deprivation bound them closer; each trial revealed a depth of courage neither had known they possessed.
One night, as the fire burned low and they huddled together beneath a single blanket, the girl whispered, "Do you think she will succeed? Do you think she will destroy us?"
He kissed her hair, his voice fierce. "Never. She may strip us of bread, of shelter, of all the world's favour—but she cannot strip us of love. And so long as we have that, we remain unbroken."
And in that moment, though the cottage trembled beneath the weight of schemes, though the morrow promised further hardship, their hearts beat steady and strong, defying the storm that raged against them.