Page 112 of A Literary Liaison
“Your Grace,” Thornton said with forced joviality, “I trust you’re not too disappointed by your narrow loss to the incomparable Miss Lovelace? A mere hundred and sixty-seven copies—so close to victory!”
Edgar turned to face the assembled crowd, and when he spoke, his cultured, aristocratic voice rang out clearly across the silent room. “I congratulate Miss Lovelace on her well-deserved victory. Her talent has always been extraordinary.”
The effect was immediate and electric. The crowd erupted in gasps of recognition as Edgar’s unmistakable voice confirmed his identity. Ladies grabbed their fans, gentlemen straightened in their chairs, and a buzz of shocked conversation filled the air.
“Good heavens, it truly is the duke!” exclaimed Lady Binbrook.
“The Duke of Lancaster, writing novels under a pseudonym!” whispered Lord Holland to his companion. “What is the world coming to?”
The words finally struck Elisha like thunder as the crowd’s recognition confirmed what she could barely comprehend. Mr. Steele—her literary rival, her intellectual equal, the man whose letters had challenged and inspired her for months—was Edgar.
Edgar. Her beloved Edgar had been deceiving her all along.
Pieces began falling into place with horrible clarity. How Mr. Steele’s confessions of heartbreak corresponded with her own heartache, the timing of Steele’s letters that matched Edgar’s presence in her life.
How could he have let her pour her heart out in letters to him while maintaining such an elaborate deception? How many times had she confided her feelings about Edgar to Mr. Steele, not knowing they were the same person?
Thornton seemed to relish the shock rippling through the assemblybefore continuing with renewed confidence. “But I’m afraid circumstances have changed somewhat, Your Grace. You see, your literary endeavors have proven to be merely the tip of a much larger iceberg.”
Edgar’s expression grew guarded, but he said nothing.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Thornton addressed the crowd, “the Duke of Lancaster is a man of many talents and many secrets. But perhaps his most interesting secret is his involvement with certain… reform movements that some might consider rather seditious in nature.”
The room fell silent as the implications of this accusation sank in. Elisha felt her heart stop beating as she realized what was happening. This wasn’t just about literary deception—Thornton was about to expose everything.
“Mr. Thornton,” Edgar’s voice carried a warning note that would have made lesser men step back.
But Thornton seemed energized by the danger, his eyes bright with malicious triumph. “You see, His Grace has been using his considerable wealth and influence to support radical causes, to undermine the very social order that elevated him to his position.”
Gasps and murmurs of shock rippled through the audience. Several lords near the front looked scandalized, while others seemed confused by this sudden turn from literary entertainment to political accusation.
“These are serious allegations,” Edgar said, his voice deadly quiet. “I hope you have evidence to support such claims.”
“Oh, I have evidence,” Thornton replied, clearly savoring his moment of power. “But more than that, I have witnesses. After all, Miss Lovelace here has been working alongside you, hasn’t she?”
Elisha felt the world tilt around her as every eye in the room turned to her. The secret she had guarded so carefully, the work that could see her imprisoned or worse, was being laid bare beforeLondon’s most influential people.
“That’s enough,” Edgar said sharply, stepping protectively in front of Elisha. “Miss von Linde has no involvement in any political activities. Your quarrel is with me alone.”
“How gallant,” Thornton sneered. “But I’m afraid the evidence suggests otherwise. Who do you think has been writing those detailed exposés of working conditions?”
The accusation hung in the air like poison. Elisha felt paralyzed by shock and fear, unable to speak or move as her carefully constructed world crumbled around her.
Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a clear voice rang out: “If you mean to prosecute His Grace or Miss Linde for his commitment to reform, then you must be prepared to do so against me as well.”
Charles Dickens stepped forward, his face set with determination. “For I, too, have penned such works. I, too, have used my pen to shine light on injustice and suffering.”
Before the crowd could fully process this declaration, William Wordsworth rose from his seat. “And I, gentlemen. My hand has crafted many a reform pamphlet.”
One by one, prominent authors began standing throughout the room. Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her husband Robert, declared, “We both stand guilty of such charges, if charges they be.”
Charlotte Brontë’s quiet voice carried clearly: “As do I.”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson joined them, his beard quivering with emotion. “Count me among their number.”
Within moments, the most celebrated literary minds in England were rising from their seats and making their way toward the stage. The sight was extraordinary—authors who had shaped the very soul of English literature, standing together in defiance of those who would silence them.
Elisha felt tears spring to her eyes as she watched these giants of literature risk everything for Edgar—and for her. And for what is right.The courage and solidarity of their gesture moved her beyond words.
