Page 110 of A Literary Liaison
“My Heart’s True North,” Thornton announced, “tells the tale of a shipping merchant’s son who discovers his life’s passion in a brilliant young woman working as a governess. Through her expertise in astronomy and mathematics, she opens his eyes to new ways of viewing both the stars above and the Society around them. Yet when her revolutionary theories about celestial navigation promise to transform the shipping industry—his family’s livelihood—he must choose between protecting his inheritance and supporting the woman who has charted a new course for his heart.”
Elisha found herself genuinely intrigued by the story. Mr. Steele had crafted something that sounded both romantic and intellectuallycompelling.
Thornton’s gaze swept the crowd before he continued. “The Duke’s Follypresents a compelling narrative of love, pride, and regret. It chronicles the tale of a duke who, pressured by societal expectations, forsakes his true love—a woman of common birth—and announces his betrothal to a more ‘suitable’ match. Only after months of increasing misery does he realize his grave error and break his engagement. However, when he returns to claim his true love, he finds she has already promised herself to another—a man who recognized her worth from the start. The story explores the price of pride, the weight of duty, and the bittersweet reality that sometimes love’s timing can be as crucial as love itself.”
A hushed silence fell over the room as both summaries concluded. Around her, Elisha heard polite murmurs of interest, though she doubted anyone could see the deeper significance in her story.
“Both sound thoroughly engaging,” murmured Lady Pemberton to her companion.
“Indeed,” came the reply. “Such imagination these authors possess.”
“But before we announce our victor,” Thornton said, his voice cutting through the murmurs, “we have another prize to award. The recipient of our literacy contest—a prize of five hundred pounds sterling for demonstrating the greatest understanding of both novels—is…” He paused dramatically, clearly savoring the moment. “Master Jonathan Rochford!”
The crowd turned as one to see not the expected scion of nobility, but a thin boy of perhaps sixteen years. His clothes were clean but threadbare, his shock of unruly hair and wide eyes speaking of poverty and hope in equal measure. He made his way to the stage with hesitant steps, clearly overwhelmed by the attention.
“Congratulations, Master Rochford,” Thornton said warmly as the boy accepted his prize envelope with trembling hands. “Your answersto our questions about the novels were truly exceptional. Pray tell, how did you prepare for this contest?”
Jonathan’s voice shook as he replied, “If it please you, sir, I… I couldn’t afford the books. But I listened to the actors reading them aloud in Hyde Park every day. I memorized as much as I could, sir.”
Elisha felt tears spring to her eyes at the boy’s simple dignity and obvious intelligence. Around her, the assembled crowd had fallen silent, struck by the stark reminder that literature, and perhaps literacy, were not a privilege enjoyed by all.
“Your dedication is truly commendable, young man,” Thornton said, and his emotion seemed genuine. With sudden decisiveness, he offered the two handsomely bound volumes in his hands to the boy. “In addition to your well-earned prize money, I should like you to have these—the very novels you studied so diligently. May they be the first of many in what I hope will be a lifelong love of literature.”
As Jonathan’s eyes filled with gratitude, scattered applause began. It swelled quickly, filling the hall with thunderous approval. Elisha found herself clapping enthusiastically, moved by both the boy’s determination and Thornton’s unexpected kindness. Thornton then said something to Jonathan Rochford, and the boy bowed repeatedly to him before he left the stage.
When the applause finally died down, Thornton cleared his throat and withdrew a ledger from his coat pocket. “And now, esteemed guests, we come to the moment you have all been waiting for. The revelation of the winner of this unprecedented literary wager.”
Elisha’s mouth went dry. In mere moments, she would learn whether Miss Lovelace or Mr. Steele had emerged victorious. She looked around the audience, wondering if Mr. Steele was among them, but was quickly distracted by Thornton’s voice.
“I shall now reveal the monthly sales figures for both works,” Thornton announced, adjusting his spectacles with theatrical precision. “Commencing from their publication in October.”
The room fell silent save for the rustle of silk and the distant sounds of New Year’s revelry from the streets beyond.
“For the month of October:My Heart’s True Northby Mr. Steele sold 2,332 copies, whileThe Duke’s Follyby Miss Lovelace sold 2,592 copies.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Elisha felt a flutter of hope despite her anxiety. She was ahead, if only slightly.
“In November,” Thornton continued with deliberate pacing, “Mr. Steele achieved 3,405 copies sold, while Miss Lovelace reached 3,234.”
Gasps and whispers filled the air as the lead changed hands. The numbers were remarkably close—closer than anyone could have predicted.
“And finally, in December—Mr. Steele sold 4,234 copies while Miss Lovelace sold 4,312.”
The tension in the room was almost unbearable. Elisha watched as several audience members began calculating frantically, their lips moving silently as they worked out the totals. Her own mind raced through the arithmetic, scarcely daring to hope.
“The final totals, ladies and gentlemen,” Thornton announced, his voice ringing with authority, “are as follows: Mr. Steele’sMy Heart’s True Northhas sold a total of 9,971 copies while Miss Lovelace’sThe Duke’s Follyhas sold… 10,138 copies.”
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then the room erupted in a cacophony of gasps, exclamations, and applause. Elisha felt the world tilt around her as the reality sank in—she had won. Miss Lovelace had defeated Mr. Steele by the narrowest of margins.
“Therefore,” Thornton’s voice rose above the growing tumult, “by a margin of merely one hundred and sixty-seven copies—the victor of this unprecedented literary duel is Miss Lovelace!”
The applause was thunderous, but Elisha barely heard it over the roaring in her ears. She had won—but Edgar wasn’t here to see it. Neither was Mr. Steele as far as she was aware. After months ofanticipation, after all their literary sparring and passionate exchanges of letters, he was absent for the moment of truth.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Thornton called out, gesturing toward where she sat frozen in disbelief, “may I present our victor, the incomparable Miss Lovelace!”
The moment had come. Three months of maintaining her secret identity, three months of social climbing and careful performance, had led to this instant. As the crowd’s attention focused on her with laser intensity, Elisha rose from her seat on trembling legs.
Then chaos erupted. Gasps of astonishment mingled with exclamations of “Miss von Linde!” and “Can it be?” Some faces showed delighted surprise, others shock, and a few—those who had been privy to the duchess’ careful campaign—wore knowing smiles of satisfaction.
