The morning after Mr. Harrington's visit, the house seemed filled with a purposeful bustle. The parlour doors stood open, servants hurried to and fro with lists and errands, and the girl's aunt sat at her writing desk, her pen scratching briskly across sheets of thick paper.
The girl, pale from a sleepless night, entered hesitantly, her heart still heavy from the letter she had sent. She paused at the threshold, watching as her aunt folded a page with a satisfied air.
"Come closer, child," the older woman said, not looking up. "I have news to share with you—news of consequence."
The girl obeyed, her steps faltering.
Her aunt set aside her pen and looked directly at her. "It is time to put an end to uncertainty. Your uncle and I have agreed with Mr. Harrington that the engagement shall be formally announced at the gathering we host a fortnight hence. Invitations are already being prepared. In two weeks, the world shall know you are promised to him."
The words struck her like a blow. Her breath caught, and the room seemed to sway. She gripped the back of a chair to steady herself.
"A fortnight?" she whispered, scarcely believing.
Her aunt's eyes narrowed. "Do not look so aghast. It is the natural course of events, and you ought to receive it with gratitude. Mr. Harrington has been patient; now he shall be rewarded. I will not endure more of this girlish hesitation. The matter is settled."
The girl bowed her head, unable to speak. Within her breast, despair surged, mingling with a frantic hope that her letter might reach him in time. Two weeks, she thought. Only two weeks remain before I am lost.
---
That very evening, in a small inn many miles away, her beloved received her desperate letter. The seal cracked beneath his trembling fingers, and as his eyes traced the words, a storm rose within him.
"They speak of an announcement. I am pressed beyond endurance. If you do not come, I shall be lost to you forever."
He crushed the paper in his fist, then smoothed it again, reading every line until the ink seemed etched into his very soul.
The time for caution was over. The hour for decision had struck. He summoned his servant, ordering his horse to be readied at dawn. His brother's reproaches echoed once more in his mind, but he silenced them with a single thought: She calls to me. How can I remain still?
As night deepened, he sat before the dying fire, his resolve hardening with every passing moment. In two weeks, her fate would be sealed. But in less than two weeks, he swore, he would be there to stand beside her.
---
Back at the house, the girl's days passed in a haze of dread. Her aunt busied herself with plans—the printing of invitations, the ordering of gowns, the arrangement of flowers—every detail carried out with brisk satisfaction.
The girl, meanwhile, went through her tasks like one in a dream. She sat at her embroidery frame but could not force her needle through the cloth. She walked in the garden but scarcely noticed the roses in bloom. Only the maid, loyal and anxious, saw the depth of her distress.
"Miss," the maid whispered one evening as she brushed out her mistress's hair, "courage. If he has received your letter, he will not fail you. He is a man of honour. He will come."
The girl closed her eyes, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. "He must," she murmured. "For without him, I am undone."
---
Meanwhile, Mr. Harrington visited more frequently, his attentions gentle but increasingly insistent. He spoke of their future, of the comfort he hoped to provide, of the life they might share. He placed the volume of poetry once more in her hands, urging her to read it with him.
"You will find many lines there, Miss, that speak of constancy," he said with a smile that sought her approval. "Constancy, after all, is the very essence of true affection."
She smiled faintly, but the words cut her deeply. Constancy? Her heart whispered of another's constancy, one proved not by patience in waiting but by passion in daring. Yet she dared not speak.
Her silence troubled Harrington. Though outwardly composed, he could not ignore the pallor of her cheeks, the evasiveness of her gaze. One evening, after she retired, he lingered with her aunt.
"Forgive me," he said gravely, "but I cannot help but feel she does not meet my suit with the warmth I might expect. Do you think her affections truly engaged?"
The aunt's face tightened. "Do not be misled, sir. She is timid—over-scrupulous, perhaps. But such delicacy will pass once the engagement is secured. It is nothing more than girlish reluctance."
Harrington nodded, though uneasily. Yet he did not withdraw.
---
As the days slipped by, the date of the gathering loomed ever nearer. The girl counted the hours with a mixture of fear and hope. Each morning she awoke with dread, each night she prayed fervently for deliverance.
And all the while, beyond her knowledge, her beloved drew closer. He travelled by day and by night, his thoughts fixed upon her. Every milestone, every village passed, brought him nearer to the moment of reckoning.
At last, standing upon a hilltop at sunset, he looked out across the fields toward the distant line of trees that marked her aunt's estate. His heart swelled with fierce determination.
"Hold fast, beloved," he whispered into the wind. "I am coming."