Page 8 of A Literary Liaison
“Thank you, but no,” he said. “I’ll be attending to my duties as proprietor starting tomorrow. Perhaps you could do me the favor then.”
“Yes, of course,” Amelia said.
Mr. Thornton looked around the office, his eyes pausing on the stacks of boxes lining every wall. “I was wondering if there might be a room available for my use?”
Amelia’s face lit up. “As a matter of fact, we’ve just cleared out the old storage room. It’s quite spacious and has lovely windows overlooking the street.”
Thornton looked pleased. “Excellent! That sounds perfect. But I must ask, what became of all the items that were stored there?”
With a slightly sheepish smile, Amelia gestured to the numerous boxes in their office. “We’ve temporarily relocated them here.”
“Ah, I am sorry to have caused this clutter,” he said.
“We don’t mind. Do we, Elisha?”
“It isn’t ideal, but you are the proprietor…”
Thornton chuckled, looking directly at her with his piercing eyes. “I admire your candor, Miss Linde. And your resourcefulness, Amelia.” He bowed politely. “Well, ladies, I look forward to working with you both. Until tomorrow, then.”
As Mr. Thornton took his leave, Elisha and Amelia exchanged glances, trepidation in their eyes.
“Well,” Amelia ventured, her tone carefully neutral, “my brother seems quite taken with you.”
Elisha snorted delicately as she gathered the used teacups. “Your brother seems quite taken with the notion of turning his gazette into a profitable venture, which is perfectly sensible.”
“Oh, come now, Elisha. He gazed at you with such admiration—”
“He admires the promise of increased subscriptions,” Elisha corrected, though her cheeks colored slightly. “A man like your brother, who has worked so diligently to elevate his station, would hardly seek a match with someone of my background. No, he would wish for a wife with connections to theton, someone who can open doors that would otherwise remain firmly closed to him.”
Amelia’s brow furrowed. “You do him an injustice. Steven values intelligence and capability far more than social standing.”
“Perhaps,” Elisha conceded, shuffling papers on her desk to avoid her friend’s knowing look. “But I have observed enough ambitious men to recognize one when I see him. Your brother is determined to claim his place among London’s elite. A wife from the workhouse would hardly advance that aim.”
“And yet here you are, dining with lords and ladies, critiquing the novels of the most renowned authors…”
“That’s different. My connection to their world extends only as far as the printed page.”
Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but Elisha held up a hand. “Now, shall we return to these submissions? They won’t review themselves, you know.”
But even as she spoke, Elisha’s gaze drifted to Steele’s letter still lying crumpled on her desk. The man’s audacity in questioning her capacity for love had struck deeper than she cared to admit. What did he know of love? What did any of them know of the careful walls she’d built around her heart, or the reasons she’d chosen the safety of literary criticism over the dangerous vulnerability of genuine emotion?
She picked up her quill, already composing her response in her mind. Mr. Steele wanted to know about love? Very well. She would give him a lesson in the subject he wouldn’t soon forget.
Parries and Thrusts
Metropolitan Review, 5 February 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
How wonderful that you believe yourself to have loved ardently. However, upon careful examination of the rather shallow emotional depths plumbed in your literary offering, I am obliged to inform you, with no small measure of regret, your claim may be somewhat erroneous.
I beseech you not to be disheartened by my assessment, for I am certain you are not to blame. Since I have your attention, I believe it to be my duty to rectify your misconception that every soul possesses the faculty for ardent affection. I assure you, sir, that your passion shall pale to mine. It is my sincere hope that an acceptance of this reality may serve to ameliorate any undue suffering you may encounter in matters of the heart.
I remain your most humble critic,
E. Lovelace
“Your passion shall pale to mine.” The words slammed into Edgar’s chest, making his hand tighten around theMetropolitan Reviewuntil the paper crackled, threatening to tear.
