Page 55 of A Literary Liaison
Edgar watched his mother’s grip tighten on his arm. “Your father believed he was acting in your best interests, in the family’s best interests.”
“I trusted him at the time,” Edgar said bitterly, rising to pace before the fireplace. “Now I know we were too concerned with scandal, with maintaining our precious position in Society.”
Silence fell between them, broken only by the steady ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece and Edgar’s measured footsteps on the carpet. Finally, his mother spoke, her voice gentle but probing. “Is this why you’ve been so directionless these past years? Why you’ve neglected your duties in the House of Lords?”
Edgar nodded, unable to meet his mother’s searching gaze. “Every time I considered taking my responsibilities seriously, I was reminded of the cost of those responsibilities. Of what I sacrificed—what Lucia sacrificed—so that the so-called social betters could enjoy their status quo.”
“Oh, my dear,” the duchess sighed, her voice thick with what Edgar recognized as understanding. “I had no idea you were still carrying such a burden.” She leaned forward, her voice taking on a firmer tone. “Perhaps it’s time to become the man she believed you to be. It’s not too late, Edgar.”
As the afternoon light began to fade, casting long shadows across the drawing room, Edgar felt a glimmer of hope stir in his chest for the first time in years. He straightened his posture as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Indeed, it is high time I assumed my rightful place in the House of Lords, but not because of Lucia.”
He met his mother’s gaze, his nerves prickling with trepidation. “There is another who has captured my heart, a lady who is bereft oftitle or fortune. Orphaned in her tender years, she has risen above her circumstances with a grace that humbles and inspires me.” His voice softened, taking on a worshipful quality. “Try as I might to banish her from my thoughts, to shield myself from repeating past mistakes, I find that life without her seems a pale and joyless affair.”
Edgar watched his mother sit very still, her keen eyes never leaving his face as he continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I implore you, Mother. Tell me I am at liberty to love her, that I need not sacrifice yet another woman to societal expectations. I beseech your counsel, for I find myself in dire need of her presence, and yet I am at a loss as to how to proceed.”
The ticking of the mantel clock seemed to echo the rapid beating of Edgar’s heart as he awaited his mother’s response. Each second stretched like an eternity, pregnant with the weight of generations of tradition and expectation.
The duchess remained silent for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if seeing him truly for the first time in years. When she spoke, her voice carried both gentleness and authority. “My dear boy, your words move me deeply. It gladdens my heart to see you so impassioned, so full of life once more.” She paused, and Edgar could see her choosing her next words with care. “However, we must tread carefully in matters of the heart, especially when they intersect with matters of duty and station.”
Edgar’s face fell, but his mother held up a hand to forestall his despair. “I do not say no, Edgar. But neither can I give you my blessing without further consideration. Your marriage, should it come to pass, would impact not only you but our entire family. Your sisters’ prospects, our standing in Society, our fortune—all could be affected.”
She leaned forward, taking his hand in hers. The afternoon light caught the ancestral rings on her fingers, symbols of the very tradition they discussed. “We must meet this lady, Edgar. Your brothers, sisters, and I. We must assess her character, her suitability not just as yourwife, but as a future Duchess of Lancaster. It is a heavy burden, and not one to be undertaken lightly.”
Hope warred with apprehension in Edgar’s chest as he nodded. “I understand, Mother. And I thank you for not dismissing the notion outright.”
Edgar watched his mother’s expression grow grave. “There is another matter we must consider, my dear. It pains me to speak of it, but you must be aware. There are those in Society who would seek to use such a match against us. In the most extreme cases, they might even attempt to have you declared…” she hesitated, the word clearly distasteful to her, “…insane.”
Edgar recoiled, shock evident on his face. The word seemed to echo in the suddenly too-small room. “Insane? Surely not!”
His mother nodded solemnly, her face shadowed by the fading light. “It has happened before, to nobles who have made matches deemed too far beneath their station. While rare, it is not unheard of.”
Edgar’s jaw clenched, anger flashing in his eyes as he processed this new threat. He felt his mother pat his hand soothingly. “Do not do anything hasty until we have a plan. Our family must present a united front, and your chosen lady must be beyond reproach in her conduct and character.”
She straightened, her voice taking on a more optimistic tone. “Now, tell me about this woman who has so thoroughly captured your heart. What is her name? How did you meet?”
As Edgar began to speak of Elisha, his heart lit with joy. He watched his mother dab at her eyes with her handkerchief, hope blooming clearly in their depths.
*
Sunlight streamed throughthe tall windows of the London Fencing and Athletics Club, casting long shadows across the polishedwooden floors. The air hummed with the distinctive song of steel meeting steel, punctuated by the measured footfalls of fencers advancing and retreating along the piste. The scents of leather and polish mingled with the subtle musk of exertion, creating an atmosphere both refined and vital.
Elisha stood at the edge of the practice area, the letter from Mr. Steele crumpling in her white-knuckled grip. Her usual composure had cracked, allowing a glimpse of the passion she typically kept carefully contained. The morning light caught the copper highlights in her carefully pinned hair, and she could feel the heat in her green eyes as she re-read the offensive missive.
Metropolitan Review, 10 June 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I’ve read your critique of Zanoni in your so-called esteemed gazette. You praise the author’s “masterful interweaving of mystical elements with human emotion,” yet in the same breath, you decry the plot as “overly convenient.” Make up your mind, madam! Or is consistency too much to ask of a critic who clearly prefers tearing down the works of better writers to creating anything of substance herself?
Your eloquent argument belies a heart as cold as a Siberian winter. Your clinical dissection of prose and laughable assertions on the human condition reveal your ivory tower isolation.
I humbly propose that we raise the stakes of our challenge to display our literary merits before Society. Let us arrange a grand literary salon at which our respective works shall be presented for discerning judgment. Select passages may be performed by the finest theatrical talents, ensuring accessibility to those of modest means. All participants would then engage in scholarly discourse regarding the relative merits of each tale, with a handsome prize purse to be awarded to the most eloquent of opinions. Such an event would not only elevate the literary arts but provide entertainment of the highest caliber for all of London Society.
I do wish you would put your money where your overactive quill is or admit defeat and spare us your highbrow pontificating. Prove you’re more than a sharp tongue and bitter heart, or retreat to your shadowy perch like a coward.
Your exasperated servant,
Aengus Steele
