Page 62 of A Literary Liaison
The Duke of Lancaster stood in conversation with several Members of Parliament, his commanding presence drawing eyes even in this gathering of powerful men. His evening attire, impeccably tailored, emphasized the athletic build that spoke of regular fencing and riding rather than the soft indolence of many nobles. But it was his expression that caught and held her attention—intense, focused.
For a moment, their eyes met across the crowded room. The jolt of recognition, of connection, nearly caused her to stumble. The past weeks of silence stretched between them like an uncrossable chasm.
“Miss Linde?” Steven’s voice brought her back to the present. He was watching her with concern but also calculation. “Shall we make our way to Lord Holland? I believe he’s about to address the gathering about the latest reform proposals.”
Elisha straightened her spine, grateful for the years of practice masking her emotions. “Of course, Mr. Thornton. Lead the way.”
As they moved through the crowd, she could feel Edgar’s gaze following their progress. The weight of it pressed against her shoulders like a physical touch, reminding her of all that remained unsaid between them. But there were more immediate concerns demanding her attention. The Reform Club might present itself as a genteel gathering place for politicians, but tonight it was a battlefield. And shehad her own war to wage.
The gathered Members of Parliament arranged themselves in a loose semicircle as Lord Holland took his position before the fireplace. The flames cast dramatic shadows across his aristocratic features as he cleared his throat. The rustle of silk and whisper of feet on carpet faded to expectant silence.
“Gentlemen—and ladies,” he added with a perfunctory nod toward the feminine portion of his audience, “we gather at a crucial moment in our nation’s history. The clamor for reform grows louder by the day. The Chartists march in our streets. The Factory Question divides our Parliament. Even now, children as young as nine labor in our mills.”
Elisha’s hand tightened on her notebook as she recorded his words. The careful political dance was beginning—acknowledge the problems, but heaven forbid they move too quickly to solve them. She noted how several of the Conservative Members of Parliament shifted uncomfortably at the mention of child labor. Many owned factories themselves.
“Lord Holland speaks eloquently of reform,” Steven murmured beside her, his voice pitched for her ears alone, “yet his own textile mills in Lancashire are notorious for their conditions. Fascinating, is it not, how men can compartmentalize their consciences?”
Before she could respond, Lord Breckenridge’s voice cut through the murmuring crowd. “And what would you have us do? Give in to every radical demand? Universal suffrage? Annual parliaments? The mob would have us tear down every institution that makes England great!”
“Is it not greatness we seek for all our citizens?” The Duke of Lancaster’s voice rang out, clear and commanding. Elisha’s heart leaped traitorously at the sound. “What glory is there in prosperity built on the broken backs of children?”
A charged silence fell over the gathering. Edgar had broken thecareful choreography of political discourse. His words were too direct, too honest for these gilded halls.
“Your Grace,” Lord Wellington interjected smoothly, “surely you understand the delicate balance we must maintain. Too rapid change could destabilize the very fabric of society.”
“And too little change may tear that fabric apart,” Elisha found herself saying. The words escaped before she could catch them back. Heads turned, some faces registering surprise, others disapproval at her intervention.
Edgar’s eyes met hers across the room, a flash of pride and something deeper warming their depths. For a moment, the rest of the gathering seemed to fade away, leaving only their shared understanding of what was truly at stake.
Steven’s hand at her elbow brought reality crashing back. “Miss Linde,” he said, his tone carrying both warning and support, “perhaps you’d like to share your observations from your recent investigations into the factory conditions? I believe your firsthand account might illuminate our discussion.”
She recognized his gambit for what it was—a masterful redirect that both legitimized her presence and served his own ends. The Reform Club might be a male domain, but Steven Thornton’s protégée would be granted a hearing.
Drawing herself up, Elisha addressed the gathering. Her voice, though softer than the men’s, carried clearly in the attentive silence. “Gentlemen, when we speak of reform, we speak not of abstract principles but of human lives. I have walked through the mills of Manchester and Bradford. I have seen children whose growth is stunted from long hours bent over machines, whose lungs are choked with cotton dust.”
As she spoke, she was acutely aware of Edgar’s presence, of how he had positioned himself to better hear her words. His support was almost physical, like a warm current in the otherwise cool political waters.
“Your Grace,” she said, turning to address him directly, her heartthundering beneath her composed exterior. “In light of recent discussions on social reform, particularly regarding the accessibility of education for the lower classes, I wonder if you might comment on the importance of… shall we say, maintaining open channels of communication between different strata of society?”
The double meaning hung in the air between them. Around them, the gathered politicians might hear a discussion of class relations, but Edgar’s slight stiffening told her he understood her true question.
His response, when it came, was equally layered. “Indeed, Miss Linde. Open communication is vital for any meaningful reform. However, one must also consider the complexities and potential consequences of bridging certain gaps in society. Sometimes, discretion and careful consideration of all parties involved is necessary before reopening certain channels.”
“And how long,” she pressed, her voice steady despite her racing pulse, “might such careful consideration take before action is deemed appropriate?”
The tension in the room was palpable now, though few understood its true source. Edgar’s fingers tightened on his glass, his knuckles white with strain. Before he could respond, Steven smoothly intervened.
“An excellent point for further discussion,” he said, his voice carrying just the right note of scholarly interest. “Perhaps we might explore these questions over refreshments? I believe the gentlemen would benefit from a moment to gather their thoughts on such weighty matters.”
As the crowd began to disperse, breaking into smaller groups around the refreshment tables, Elisha found herself caught in Edgar’s intense gaze. In his eyes, she read answers to questions she hadn’t dared voice aloud. The political reform they discussed was vital, yes, but there were other barriers, other reforms that touched them more personally.
The evening air carried the first hints of summer as Steven led Elisha into the Reform Club’s private gardens. Gas lamps cast pools of gentle light along the gravel paths, while the scent of night-blooming jasmine provided a sweet counterpoint to the tobacco-laden atmosphere they’d left behind. Above them, a quarter moon hung like a silent witness to their conversation.
“You exceeded all expectations this evening,” Steven said, his voice carrying both pride and calculation. “Lord Melbourne himself commented on your eloquence. Even Wellington, old war horse that he is, seemed impressed.”
Elisha walked beside him, acutely aware of the proper distance between them—close enough for a conversation, far enough to maintain decorum. The gravel crunched softly beneath their feet, a rhythmic accompaniment to their measured pace.
“They were merely being polite,” she demurred, though her mind was still in the grand hall, still caught in Edgar’s intense gaze. “I doubt my words will sway their votes when the Factory Bill comes before Parliament.”
