Page 81 of A Literary Liaison
His expression softened with understanding and something that might have been regret. “I wish we could, my darling. Truly. But the longer we wait, the more difficult it becomes. I don’t quite trust Thornton to accept his defeat quietly. I don’t wish to give him a chance to sabotage our relationship. Better to face my family and thetonon our terms than to let circumstances force our hand.”
She leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his certainty even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Very well,” she whispered finally, the words catching in her throat. “I shall accompany you to Kent.”
The smile that transformed his face was radiant as sunrise. He kissed her then, deep and thorough, tasting of tea and promises and the salt of her own tears. When they broke apart, both breathing unsteadily, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You won’t regret this, Elisha. I swear it.”
As they began to plan their departure, Edgar spoke of his siblings with obvious affection—Edmund’s scholarly pursuits, Edwin’s lack of aspirations, Eva’s passionate advocacy for reform, young Essie’s romantic dreams. For a woman who had grown up without family, his stories painted a picture of warmth and belonging that was both tantalizing and terrifying.
“They’ll adore you,” he assured her as they moved upstairs topack. “Though I warn you, Eva in particular will likely interrogate you about your views on social reform. She’s been following the reform pamphlets with great interest.”
Elisha’s step faltered on the stairs. “She’s been reading them?”
“Avidly. Mother despairs of ever finding her a suitable husband when she insists on discussing workhouse conditions over tea.” Edgar’s chuckle held both pride and exasperation. “I believe you two will find much common ground.”
The thought of finding an intellectual equal among Edgar’s family both thrilled and terrified her. It would be wonderful to discuss her passion openly, but it also meant walking even closer to the edge of discovery.
*
Hours later, thecarriage wheels crunched through frost-rimmed gravel, each turn bringing Elisha closer to the moment she’d both yearned for and dreaded. Through the window, Lancaster Hall emerged from the morning mist like something from a fairy tale—first its slate-gray turrets, then the weathered stone facade with its dozen gleaming windows that seemed to watch her approach with ancient eyes.
The closer they drew, the more her courage faltered. The estate was vast beyond anything she’d imagined, stretching across rolling parkland where deer grazed beneath ancient oaks. Gardeners moved like distant figures across manicured lawns, tending to dormant flower beds and clipped topiaries that spoke of centuries of careful cultivation.
“Breathe,” Edgar murmured beside her, his gloved hand covering hers where it gripped the seat. “They’re only people, after all.”
People who could destroy everything with a single word of disapproval, she thought, though she managed a tremulous smile. “People who happen to be your family, Your Grace. The most powerful familyin Kent, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Powerful, perhaps, but not heartless. They’ll see what I see in you, Elisha. How could they not?”
The carriage rounded the final curve, and Elisha felt like she couldn’t breathe. Up close, Lancaster Hall was even more magnificent—and intimidating. Ancient stones rose in Gothic splendor, ivy climbing the walls like grasping fingers, while carved griffins stood sentinel at the broad steps leading to massive oak doors. The morning sun had burned away the mist, revealing the full scope of wealth and history that surrounded them.
As the carriage halted, a liveried footman appeared to open the door. Edgar alighted first, his movements graceful and assured, every inch the duke on his own land. When he turned to offer his hand, Elisha grasped it perhaps too tightly, willing strength from his touch as she stepped down onto gravel that crunched beneath her boots with startling loudness.
She caught herself smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her best traveling dress, painfully aware of how the morning light would reveal every sign of careful mending, every place where skilled needlework had extended the garment’s life.
On the steps stood three figures that could only be Edgar’s family. The woman in the center commanded immediate attention—tall and elegant with silver-threaded dark hair and posture that spoke of generations of breeding. The Duchess of Lancaster, unmistakably, flanked by two younger women who shared Edgar’s distinctive blue eyes. The sisters practically vibrated with barely contained excitement, but it was the duchess who held Elisha’s attention, her face a masterpiece of careful neutrality while her sharp gaze cataloged every detail of their guest’s appearance.
“Mother,” Edgar said warmly, guiding Elisha forward with a gentle hand at the small of her back. “May I present Miss Elisha Linde.”
Elisha sank into her deepest curtsy, grateful for years of carefulobservation that had taught her the proper forms.
“Miss Linde,” the duchess said, her voice rich and cool as aged wine. “Welcome to Lancaster Hall.” She extended her hand with regal grace, and Elisha rose to accept it, noting the weight of the rings adorning those elegant fingers—any one of which probably cost more than everything she had ever owned. “We have been most eager to make your acquaintance.”
“Your Grace,” Elisha managed, proud that her voice remained steady despite the thundering of her heart. “I am deeply honored by your welcome.” She turned to the sisters, who had edged closer like eager children barely restrained by propriety. “Ladies, the pleasure is entirely mine.”
“Oh, do say you’ll tell us everything about London,” the elder sister burst out, earning a swift, reproving glance from her mother. “We’ve been positively dying to hear about all the excitement. I’m Essie, and this is Eva.”
“Essence,” the duchess corrected with gentle firmness, using the girl’s full name like a subtle rap across the knuckles. “Perhaps we might allow Miss Linde to step inside before beginning an interrogation?”
Eva, the younger sister, shot Elisha a sympathetic look that held surprising intelligence. “You must forgive us, Miss Linde. We’ve had nothing but Edgar’s letters to sustain our curiosity, and he’s been terribly stingy with details.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Elisha said, finding herself beginning to relax fractionally at the sisters’ obvious warmth. “I’m delighted to meet you both.”
Then the great doors of Lancaster Hall groaned open with the weight of centuries, revealing a soaring entrance hall where portraits of long-dead Lancasters gazed down from gilded frames. Elisha’s throat constricted as she stepped inside, feeling the weight of those painted eyes upon her. These were Edgar’s ancestors, their noble faceswatching as she—the nameless workhouse child—dared to enter their hallowed domain.
The click of the duchess’ heels on polished marble echoed through the vast space as she led them toward what she called “the morning room”—though its proportions rivaled those of entire houses Elisha had known. Footmen materialized to open doors and relieve them of outer garments, their trained gazes carefully averted yet somehow taking in every detail.
