The fortnight promised by her aunt dwindled swiftly, and each day seemed to carry the girl closer to a precipice from which she could not turn back. The household thrummed with preparations: invitations dispatched, musicians engaged, gowns chosen and altered. The air of festivity was thick and inescapable, though to her it was a funeral march in disguise.
The parlour filled daily with callers offering their congratulations in advance, for whispers of the intended announcement had already spread. Every word of praise, every smile of approval, pierced her like a blade. She answered politely, as duty demanded, but her heart shrank within her.
At her embroidery frame, her aunt sat like a general overseeing victory. "All is proceeding precisely as it ought," she said with satisfaction. "You have been most fortunate, child. Few young ladies are offered so honourable and advantageous a match."
The girl's lips trembled, but she forced a quiet "Yes, Aunt," while in her soul a cry of protest rang out. Fortunate? If fortune it is, why does it feel so like ruin?
---
Mr. Harrington's visits grew more frequent still. He spoke gently, with patience, yet with a growing expectation that she would meet him halfway. His eyes, once calm, now lingered with a faint perplexity whenever her responses fell short of warmth.
One afternoon he walked with her through the rose garden. The air was sweet, the blossoms heavy with summer fragrance, yet she felt no joy in their beauty. Harrington plucked a flower and offered it to her.
"It is a symbol," he said with a small smile. "A fragile thing, dependent upon care. So too is affection. But when tended rightly, it may endure."
She accepted the rose with trembling fingers, its thorns pricking her skin. She murmured thanks, but her voice was faint, her eyes downcast. Harrington looked at her long, his brows knitting slightly, yet he said nothing more.
When she returned to the house, her aunt's approving gaze followed her. "You see, child," the elder woman said, "what gentleness he shows you. Do not dishonour such constancy."
The girl could not reply. That night, when alone, she pressed the rose to her lips, not for Harrington's sake but for the memory of another's hands, another's words.
---
Far away, her beloved pressed onward. His journey was not swift, for the roads were long and the weather uncertain. Yet nothing could check his resolve. By day he rode hard, his eyes fixed upon the horizon; by night he sought lodging in small inns, where he lay wakeful, her letter against his heart.
In lonely hours he replayed the image of her face, pale and sorrowful, as she must now endure her aunt's tyranny. His anger burned at the thought of Harrington, unwitting though he might be, standing between them. No more delay, he told himself. No more secrecy. I will speak, though the world condemn me for it.
Each mile brought him nearer, and with every mile his determination grew. The thought of scandal, of disapproval, of disgrace, receded before the fiercer truth: that without her, his life was barren.
---
At the house, the days shortened into a count of hours. The girl marked them silently, as one condemned marks the steps to the gallows. The maid alone shared her knowledge of the letter sent, the plea entrusted to fate. Each evening she would whisper, "Perhaps tomorrow he will come."
Yet tomorrow came, and went, and still he did not appear. The girl's heart faltered. What if the letter miscarried? What if courage has failed him? What if I am abandoned?
Her aunt, meanwhile, watched with satisfaction as gowns were laid out, jewels polished, and menus decided. "Everything shall be perfect," she declared. "Society will envy our good fortune. I expect you to carry yourself with dignity befitting your station, child. No tears, no foolish hesitation. Do you understand me?"
The girl inclined her head, her lips pressed tight, though despair clawed at her. She dared not defy openly, yet within her she whispered the name of her beloved like a prayer: Come, come before all is lost.
---
Mr. Harrington, though outwardly calm, could no longer conceal a quiet disquiet. He sensed in her something withheld, some shadow between them. One evening, he lingered after the others had retired, speaking privately with her aunt.
"Forgive me," he said gravely, "but I cannot escape the impression that she is… reluctant. She accepts my attentions, yes, but her heart seems distant. I would not wish to impose where affection does not answer."
Her aunt stiffened, her face stern. "Nonsense. You mistake timidity for reluctance. She has been brought up with a delicate sense of duty, perhaps too delicate. But once the announcement is made, such scruples will vanish. You must have patience, sir."
Harrington bowed, though not wholly convinced. Still, his sense of honour bound him: having declared his suit, he could not retreat without dishonouring them both.
---
At last the eve of the gathering arrived. The house glowed with lamplight, the air thrummed with expectation. Servants moved busily, rehearsing their tasks. Guests were to arrive on the morrow; the announcement would be made, the bond sealed in public view.
The girl sat in her chamber that night, her gown for the morrow spread upon the bed, its silken folds gleaming. She stared at it with hollow eyes.
"Miss," whispered the maid, kneeling beside her, "despair not yet. There is still time."
The girl shook her head, her voice barely audible. "Time? Only hours remain. If he does not come by tomorrow, all is finished."
She buried her face in her hands, while beyond the walls of the estate, beneath the same stars, a lone rider pressed onward through the night, spurred by love and desperation. His journey was nearly at its end.