Page 82 of A Literary Liaison
“I trust you had a pleasant journey?” the duchess inquired as they settled around an elegant table positioned near tall windows that overlooked frost-touched gardens stretching to distant hills.
“Very pleasant, Your Grace,” Elisha replied, accepting a cup of tea served on china so fine she could see the shadow of her fingers through it when she lifted it to her lips. “The countryside is quite beautiful at this time of year.”
“Indeed,” the duchess agreed, studying Elisha over the rim of her own cup with the practiced assessment of a woman accustomed to evaluating potential threats to her family’s well-being. “Though I imagine it’s quite different from London.”
Different as a hovel from a palace, Elisha thought, but she smiled politely. “Refreshingly so. The air alone is enough to make one feel quite transformed.”
Eva leaned forward, her eyes bright with intelligence that reminded Elisha startlingly of Edgar. “Speaking of transformation, Miss Linde, I’ve been reading the most fascinating articles about conditions in London’s workhouses. They’ve been appearing in several papers, and the author’s perspective seems… unusually well-informed.”
Elisha’s teacup rattled against its saucer before she could steady her trembling hand. From the corner of her eye, she saw Edgar stiffen almost imperceptibly, though his expression remained pleasantly neutral. The duchess’ eyebrow arched a fraction, and Elisha realized with sinking dread that nothing—absolutely nothing—escaped thiswoman’s notice.
“Eva, my dear,” the duchess said with deceptive mildness, “perhaps we might save such weighty topics for a more appropriate time?”
But Eva, with all the passionate determination of an intelligent young woman testing the boundaries of acceptable discourse, pressed on. “But Mother, didn’t you yourself say that these articles showed remarkable insight? That they demonstrated an understanding of social conditions that could only come from—”
“More tea, Miss Linde?” Edgar interrupted smoothly, reaching for the delicate pot with steady hands.
Elisha met his eyes briefly, drawing courage from the warmth and confidence she found there. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, then turned to Eva with what she hoped was a composed smile. “I would be very interested in hearing your thoughts on those articles, Miss Eva. Perhaps during our visit, we might discuss them in greater detail?”
It wasn’t quite a confession, nor quite a denial, but something carefully balanced between the two. The duchess’ sharp glance was not lost on her, and she felt rather than saw the older woman’s mental calculations. This was dangerous ground indeed, but Eva’s obvious passion for social reform offered an unexpected bridge.
“I should like that very much,” Eva said, her face lighting with genuine pleasure. “It’s so rare to find someone willing to discuss such matters seriously.”
“Eva reads everything she can find on the subject,” Essie added with fond exasperation. “Mother despairs of ever finding her a husband when she insists on lecturing gentlemen about working conditions over dinner.”
“Knowledge is never wasted,” Elisha said quietly, “regardless of one’s station or prospects. The ability to think clearly about the world’s problems is a gift that should be cultivated, not discouraged.”
Something shifted in the duchess’ expression—a subtle softening that might have been approval. “An interesting perspective, MissLinde. I confess myself curious about your own background. Edgar has been rather… economical… with details.”
Here it was—the moment Elisha had dreaded. The truth would damn her, but lies would be worse if discovered. She chose her words with infinite care.
“I was fortunate to receive an education despite humble beginnings, Your Grace. Perhaps that perspective allows me to see certain social issues with… clarity.”
It was truth, carefully pruned of its most damaging branches. The duchess inclined her head slightly, accepting the response while clearly filing it away for future consideration.
The conversation moved to safer topics—the weather, local news, plans for the estate’s winter months. Elisha found herself gradually relaxing as the sisters’ warmth and Edgar’s steady presence surrounded her like armor against her fears.
*
That evening, afteran elaborate dinner that showcased the full magnificence of Lancaster hospitality, the family gathered in a drawing room that could have housed a dozen families in comfort. Elisha, her nerves finally beginning to settle after successfully navigating the formal meal, found herself drawn into the easy banter of Edgar’s siblings.
“I propose a game,” Edmund announced, appearing suddenly with the mischievous grin that marked him unmistakably as Edgar’s brother despite his scholarly appearance. “Something to truly test our wit and mettle.”
Eva clapped her hands in delight. “Charades! It will be perfectly entertaining with fresh participants. I cannot recall the last time Edgar condescended to play parlor games with mere mortals.”
“He has always claimed to be either too dignified or too occupiedwith ducal responsibilities,” Edwin added with the particular relish younger brothers reserved for embarrassing their elders.
“Shall we divide into teams?” the duchess suggested, her earlier reserve giving way to maternal fondness as she watched her children’s enthusiasm.
“Perhaps,” Edgar proposed with exaggerated gallantry, “we might pair the ladies with us gentlemen. Elisha, would you do me the honor of being my partner?”
“I should be delighted, Your Grace,” Elisha replied with delight.
As the game commenced, Elisha found herself pleasantly surprised by how easily she fell into the rhythm of aristocratic entertainment. Years of careful observation had taught her to read subtle cues and social signals, skills that translated beautifully to charades. She and Edgar worked together with an intuitive understanding that drew admiring comments from his siblings, their success built on the deep knowledge of each other gained through their intimate conversations.
During Edmund’s turn, he struggled valiantly to convey his assigned word, his gestures growing increasingly frustrated and desperate. Elisha watched with growing sympathy as the scholarly young man windmilled his arms with growing exasperation.
“Lord Edmund,” she said at last, her tone light, “if your intention is to recreate the great windmill battle of Don Quixote, I must say you’ve succeeded admirably.”
