Page 63 of A Literary Liaison
Steven stopped beneath a towering oak, its ancient branches casting dappled shadows in the lamplight. “You underestimate your influence, Miss Linde.” His eyes, when they met hers, held an intensity that made her pulse quicken with unease. “But then, perhaps that is part of your charm.”
He paused, seeming to choose his next words with care. “I feel compelled to speak frankly. Your exchange with the Duke of Lancaster did not go unnoticed.”
Elisha’s heart stuttered, but years of practicing composure kept her face serene. “His Grace seems to be a vocal supporter of reform. His opinion carries weight in the House of Lords.”
“Indeed.” Steven’s voice took on a gentle, almost paternal tone that set her nerves on edge. “But I fear you may be misinterpreting his interest. The duke, while undoubtedly charming, has quite thereputation in certain circles. His frequent visits to establishments of questionable repute are well documented.”
The words struck her core, each one carefully aimed. Elisha lifted her chin, grateful for the dim light that hid her expression. “I fail to see how His Grace’s personal conduct relates to his political positions.”
“Don’t you?” Steven stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the expensive cologne he wore. “A man of his station… his dalliances with women of lower birth are legendary. But they never last, Elisha. They can’t. The very society he claims to want to reform wouldn’t allow it.”
“Mr. Thornton—” she began, but he pressed on.
“I say this not to pain you, but to protect you. These past months, working together, I’ve come to…” he paused, emotion seeming to overcome him. “I’ve come to care deeply for your welfare.”
The statement hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Elisha’s mind raced. Was this leading where she feared it might?
“Your concern is appreciated,” she said carefully, “but I assure you, my interest in the duke is purely professional. His views on reform are relevant to our publication, nothing more.”
Steven’s smile held a touch of sadness. “If only that were true.” He reached for her hand, his touch gentle but insistent. “Elisha, surely you must know how I—”
A sudden burst of laughter from nearby interrupted whatever he had been about to say. A group of gentlemen had spilled out into the garden, their voices carrying clearly in the night air. Among them, Elisha recognized Lord Breckenridge’s distinctive drawl.
“Lancaster’s gone soft,” he was saying. “All this talk of reform… and did you see how he watched that reporter? Mark my words, she’ll be his latest conquest, poor thing. Though I must say, Thornton’s found himself quite a pretty pen-pusher…”
Steven’s hand tightened on hers, whether in anger at the crude remarks or possessiveness, she couldn’t tell. But the moment hadshattered, leaving only the cool night air and the bitter taste of reality.
“We should return,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “The evening grows late.”
As they made their way back toward the club, Elisha’s mind whirled with conflicting thoughts. Steven’s warnings, the men’s crude gossip, Edgar’s intense gazes—all of it painted a picture she wasn’t sure she wanted to see clearly. Was she being naive? Had she mistaken political passion for something more personal? And Steven’s almost-confession was another complication she wasn’t prepared to face.
Yet through it all, one thought persisted. She had seen something in Edgar’s eyes tonight, something that went beyond mere politics or passing fancy. The question was, did she dare trust it? Or was Steven right—were some gaps in society too wide to bridge, no matter how much the heart might wish otherwise?
The gas lamps seemed to flicker in sympathy with her uncertainty as they rejoined the gathering, each one a small beacon in the growing darkness. Tomorrow she would need to write about the evening’s political discourse, to parse meaning from the careful dance of power and reform. But tonight, her heart and mind were engaged in a different kind of analysis altogether.
Crushing Bones
Metropolitan Review, 1 July 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
Your latest missive provided a moment of levity amid my productive writing. Your attempts at wit amuse me until pity overtakes. Do continue trying, sir.
Your concern for my emotional recognition is misplaced. A critic illuminates, not weeps. A surgeon doesn’t cry over incisions yet retains compassion. Don’t strain your limited imagination; take my word for it.
As for your comments on the complexities of the human heart, it is precisely because I comprehend the intricacies of human nature that I am able to discern the difference between authentic emotion and overemotional sentimentality in prose.
From shucking oysters at the age of five, picking oakum, crushing bones, to finally breaking stones when I was older, I have encountered many emotions firsthand and witnessed the suffering of many other downtrodden souls. I doubt you have made your I-shall-donate-1000 pounds-sterling-for-my-amusement wealth by crushing bones, have you, Mr. Steele? Your temper tantrum over lukewarm tea does not suffice, sir.
Your ever composed adversary,
E. Lovelace
Edgar sat at his desk, Elisha’s letter in his hands. His eyes scanned the words again and again, a mix of emotions playing across his face.
At first, a smile tugged at his lips, appreciating Elisha’s sharp wit and clever retorts. But as he read on, his expression grew more serious, even pained. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as the weight of her words sank in. He had known of her humble beginnings, but to read her stark description of the trials she had faced… it shamed him deeply.
“Crushing bones,” he murmured, shaking his head. The contrast between her experiences and his privileged upbringing had never been so apparent.
