Page 48 of A Literary Liaison
Elisha looked up, curiosity overriding her exhaustion. “Of course, Mr. Thornton. What is it?”
He paused, and she watched him gather his thoughts. “We’ve both risen from humble beginnings,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “We understand, in a way many of our peers cannot, the struggles of those less fortunate. The importance of hard work, of perseverance in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.”
Elisha nodded, memories of her own hardships rising unbidden. The long nights in the workhouse, the constant gnaw of hunger, the desperation to escape a life of poverty. She saw something inThornton’s eyes that suggested he carried similar memories.
“I’ve watched you these past months,” Thornton continued. “Your dedication to theMetropolitan Review, your passion for giving voice to the voiceless. It’s… admirable. More than that, it’s inspired me to reconsider my own goals, my own potential to affect change.”
He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “I believe that together, we could do so much more. Expand the publication’s reach beyond London, push for meaningful reforms in Parliament, use our combined experiences and resources to make a real difference in the lives of those who’ve suffered as we once did.”
Elisha felt her heart quicken at his words. This was a side of Thornton she’d never seen before, one that spoke to her deepest desires to create change in the world.
He paused, taking a deep breath. “Miss Linde—Elisha—it would be my honor to court you properly.”
Elisha sat stunned, her mind whirling with the implications of his words. Thornton’s proposal was pragmatic, yes, but it was also oddly romantic in its own way. He was offering her not just security, but a chance to fulfill her deepest ambitions.
“Mr. Thornton, I…” she began, her voice wavering with emotion. “I’m truly flattered. Your words and your vision speak to everything I’ve ever dreamed of achieving. But I’m not sure what to say.”
She watched understanding fill his eyes. “Of course. This is not a decision to be made lightly. Perhaps you can give me your answer when you’re ready.”
Elisha nodded, grateful for the time given. “That is much appreciated, Mr. Thornton.”
“Please, do me the honor of using my Christian name.”
She smiled shyly. “Thank you, Steven.”
“Whatever you decide, Elisha, know that my respect for you, my admiration for your work, remains unchanged.”
With that, he bid her good morning, leaving Elisha alone with herthoughts and the heavy weight of his proposal.
As the sounds of London awakening filtered through the windows, she considered her future. Steven offered stability, shared purpose, and the means to impact the world they lived in. It was everything she’d ever thought she wanted.
Yet unbidden, her thoughts drifted to Edgar, to stolen kisses, to the passion that had flared between them. Her heart ached with confusion and longing.
Later that evening, alone in her attic room, Elisha found herself holding another letter from Mr. Steele. The familiar script seemed different somehow, more hurried, less confident.
3 June 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your eloquent words on love have left me in a state of profound contemplation. Your certainty has sparked within me a maelstrom of questions and doubts.
How does one truly identify love? Have you loved so wholly before, or are you falling in love now? Your conviction makes me question my own capacity for such emotion.
You write of courage in risking pain for joy. How does one summon such bravery? Are the physical manifestations you describe—the fire in the heart, the tears in the eyes—reliable indicators of love?
I feel adrift, Miss Lovelace, in an ocean of uncertainty. Your words have shown me the shoreline, but I find myself unable to navigate the treacherous waters between. Am I a coward for hesitating, for questioning, for seeking absolute certainty before acting?
Forgive this display of weakness. Your insights have stripped away my defenses, leaving me exposed. I await your response with equal eagerness and apprehension.
Your servant with deepest regard,
Aengus Steele
The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the attic room as Elisha reclined in her narrow bed, the coarse linen of her shift a stark contrast to the fine paper of Steele’s letter. Her brow furrowed as she read, her eyes widening with each vulnerable confession.
Elisha sat up, drawing her knees to her chest, the letter trembling slightly in her grasp. This was not the Steele she knew, or thought she knew. Gone was the bravado, the witty repartee, the confident assertions. In their place, she found a man laid bare, his doubts and fears spilled across the page like ink from an overturned bottle.
“How extraordinary,” she murmured, her fingers tracing his name on paper.
