Page 10 of A Literary Liaison
“You’ll attend?”
“I will. Though I make no promises about my behavior.”
“I’ll ask Lady Faulkner if she knows Miss Lovelace. Just try not to be discovered in a compromising position.”
“I’ll be as colorless as dishwater.”
As Hereford departed, Edgar returned to his desk. Miss Lovelace wanted to know about passion? Very well. He would tear open old wounds if necessary to show her what real love looked like—and perhaps, in the process, discover if his heart was truly as dead as he’d believed.
*
Metropolitan Review, 12 February 1840
My Most Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I confess, your most recent retort elicited a surge of exhilaration within my breast. However, this sentiment proved ephemeral, for I quickly recalled that the tip of an iceberg cannot be set aflame no matter how fervently one believes in its possibility.
You, Miss Lovelace, possess the constitution of such an iceberg. You may affect a delicate and radiant demeanor, but the credit for such luminosity belongs solely to the sun. You remain an expansive mass of ice, immovable even as life flourishes all around you.
While you may have deemed me a shallow spring, consider thatthe relentless assault of life upon my riverbed has inevitably led to a broadening and deepening of my channel. My love, my passion, now possess the potential to stir the very soul.
If this fundamental truth has thus far eluded your comprehension, I can only surmise that you have yet to be truly sculpted by the transformative power of love. For this lamentable circumstance, I find myself filled with profound sympathy.
I remain your most humble and sympathetic servant,
A. Steele
The letter shook in Elisha’s hands as she read it a second time.An iceberg.The audacity—the sheer, breathtaking arrogance—of this man to suggest she was cold, untouched, incapable of passion.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. He had no idea. No idea of the fire that burned beneath her careful composure, or the reasons she’d learned to bank those flames.
“Another missive from your devoted correspondent?” Amelia looked up from her desk, quill poised.
“He calls me an iceberg.” Elisha’s voice emerged steadier than she felt. “Suggests I’ve never been ‘sculpted by love’s transformative power’.”
Amelia winced. “Rather presumptuous of him.”
“What troubles me isn’t his presumption—it’s that he’s unknowingly struck a nerve.” Elisha sank into the chair opposite her friend, the letter still clutched in her fingers. “To claim I’ve never loved…”
“You’re thinking of Mark.”
The name affected her still. Elisha closed her eyes, remembering. “Do you know, I was sixteen when I realized what it meant to be seen—truly seen—by another person?”
Amelia set down her quill, attention fully focused.
“Mark had a way of appearing whenever the stones grew too heavy for me to carry. Never making a show of it, never expecting gratitude. Just… there.” Elisha’s voice grew soft. “I didn’t understand it was love at first. It crept up like dawn—gradual, then suddenly overwhelming.”
“You never told me about him.”
Heat bloomed in Elisha’s cheeks. “He was my first kiss. Behind the laundry shed. I thought my heart might explode from my chest.” She laughed, but the sound held old pain.
“What happened to him?”
“He’s done well for himself. He is a foreman at a factory not too far from here.” She smiled wryly. “He’s married now with three children.” Elisha’s fingers traced the edge of Steele’s letter. “Perhaps that’s why this rankles so. Mr. Steele assumes my heart is untouched simply because I don’t parade my feelings for public consumption.”
They sat in comfortable silence until Amelia spoke wistfully. “Do you ever wonder why we haven’t attracted eligible suitors? Are professional women so frightening to men?”
“More likely we’re too occupied with this enterprise to notice them noticing us.” Elisha stretched, working out the kinks in her back. “Perhaps we should attend lectures where intellectual gentlemen congregate.”
