Page 11 of A Literary Liaison
Amelia’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. “I’d settle for any man who loves books as much as I do. Intelligence and integrity matter more than social standing.”
“You want marriage.”
A blush stained Amelia’s cheeks. “I want a family. Children of my own to love and protect.”
Something tight in Elisha’s chest loosened. “I want that too. Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible for women like us.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Perhaps because I have a talent for emasculating men?” Elisha grinned. “Remember Buck? That odious boy when we were thirteen?”
“Your first conquest!” Amelia’s eyes danced. “I was so smitten with him, the way he’d swagger around the boneyard.”
“You’d manufacture excuses to cross his path with alarming frequency.”
“Until I stumbled and he couldn’t be bothered to help me up. Just mumbled an apology and started to walk away.”
“The rage I felt!” Elisha clenched her fists in mock fury. “I marched over to help you while giving him the tongue-lashing of his life.”
“He said he’d act like a gentleman when I started acting like a lady.”
“So I introduced my boot to his bollocks!”
They dissolved into laughter, the sound echoing through the small office. When they finally caught their breath, Amelia reached for Elisha’s hand.
“Any man worthy of you would treasure that fierce loyalty, not fear it. Perhaps we haven’t found our matches because we refuse to settle for anything less than souls who understand our worth.”
“Then we wait together,” Elisha squeezed her friend’s fingers.
“Together,” Amelia agreed softly.
As evening shadows lengthened across the floor, Elisha picked up her quill. Mr. Steele thought her an iceberg? She’d show him the depth of her passion—carefully controlled, elegantly expressed, but unmistakably real. Let him try to dismiss her capacity for love after her next response.
*
Metropolitan Review, 19 February 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
I perceive that your rudimentary nature fails to comprehend my professionalism. How could you fathom the expansive perspective I gain from my lofty perch atop the iceberg while you languish in your modest basin below? My affections flow as richly and deeply as a cascading waterfall, a mighty river, or the vast ocean itself. Yet Ichoose to nourish my beloved quietly, preserving the sanctity of my sentiments, unwilling to sully them through casual discourse with a mere stranger.
Indeed, sir, such is the totality of my devotion that I dare not speak of my beloved to a man whose entire repertoire of thoughts might be contained within a humble chamber pot. For when I love, I love with the fullness of my being, leaving no room for half-measures or shallow sentiment.
Mr. Steele, if you have truly experienced a love of such exquisite perfection as you claim, I implore you to elucidate for myself and our esteemed readers the particulars of this consummate affection. Pray, enlighten us with the depth and breadth of this grand passion you purport to have known.
I remain your most eager critic,
E. Lovelace
“‘Chamber pot,’” Edgar read aloud, his voice dangerously quiet. “‘Entire repertoire of thoughts might be contained within a humble chamber pot’.”
In the underground chamber, Hereford looked up from sorting pamphlets, eyebrows raised. “Your mysterious critic has a delightfully sharp tongue.”
“She wants to know about my grand passion.” Edgar’s fingers tightened on the newspaper. “She dares to suggest I’m incapable of deep feeling while claiming her own love is too sacred to discuss.”
Edgar’s jaw tightened. “She claims to love with ‘the fullness of her being’ while suggesting I’m incapable of the same.”
“And are you? Incapable, I mean.”
