Page 64 of A Literary Liaison
Edgar set the letter down on the desk, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He had started this correspondence for pride and monetary gain. But now, faced with the reality of Elisha’s life and the depth of her character, he felt foolish and small.
“What have I done?” he whispered to the empty room. The dual identity he had created now felt like a trap of his own making. How could he continue goading and insulting her, knowing the pain and struggle she had endured?
Edgar stood, pacing the room as he grappled with his conflicting emotions. Pride in Elisha’s strength and resilience warred with shame at his own actions. Admiration for her clashed with fear of losing her once the truth came to light.
Finally, he returned to the desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. He had to respond as Steele and persist in his plan. Eventually, he would find a way to reveal the truth and hope that Elisha could forgive him.
With a heavy heart and a trembling hand, Edgar began to write:
Metropolitan Review, 3 July 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your account of childhood labor provides fascinating insight into your critical disposition. One might say you’ve gone from crushing bones to crushing spirits, though I confess your particular brand of brutalitypossesses a certain charm. How fortunate that your early experiences with oyster shucking prepared you so thoroughly for prizing open the shells of literary works to expose their true value.
I shall not bore you with tales of my own upbringing as you’ve already painted such a vivid picture of my supposedly pampered existence. I will point out that experiencing hardship is not the sole path to understanding human nature. Some of us achieve insight through observation and contemplation rather than manual labor.
Your assertion that a critic need not weep to illuminate rings hollow. Would you apply the same logic to authors? Must they remain emotionally detached to create work of merit? I suspect not. Yet you demand this curious double standard of critics.
As for my “temper tantrum over lukewarm tea”, I assure you, madam, my complaints are reserved for matters of genuine substance. Such as critics who mistake cynicism for discernment.
Your reference to my charitable inclinations, while meant to wound, only reveals your own prejudices. Tell me, does the fact that I possess means to help others somehow diminish the value of doing so? Or perhaps you believe suffering alone grants one the right to speak on suffering?
Your ever intrigued opponent,
Mr. Steele
Edgar set down his pen, but the shame lingered. Each word he’d written as Steele felt like another betrayal, another layer of deception between them. He needed distance—from London, from the temptation to seek her out, from the constant reminder of his duplicity.
When Beckett arrived later that afternoon, Edgar barely looked up from his brooding.
“Your Grace,” his solicitor began carefully, “forgive the intrusion, but I’ve been observing your… state of mind these past weeks. Perhaps what you need is time away from the complexities of London Society. A chance to gain perspective on matters of the heart.”
Edgar’s head snapped up. “What are you suggesting?”
“Your Kent estate, Your Grace. The railway negotiations require your eventual attention, though not urgently. But a retreat to the countryside might provide the clarity you seek.”
The suggestion struck Edgar as both salvation and cowardice. “Perhaps you’re right, Beckett. I shall depart immediately.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
*
The next day,the grand dining room of Lancaster Hall echoed with the gentle clink of silverware and the low murmur of conversation. Despite the familiar comfort of his family estate, Edgar sat at the head of the table with his mind far away, barely registering the tender roast before him.
To his right, his mother presided over the meal with her usual grace. Edmund and Edwin sat opposite Essie and Eva, their youthful energy a stark contrast to Edgar’s distracted demeanor.
“I say,” Edwin suddenly announced, breaking through Edgar’s reverie, “I’ve had the most amusing idea.”
The table fell silent, all eyes turning to the second-born son.
“Do enlighten us,” Essie said dryly.
Edwin leaned forward, his blue eyes sparkling and voice lowered conspiratorially. “I’m thinking of writing to Miss Lovelace as Mr. Steele.”
Edgar’s head snapped up, his attention fully engaged for the first time that evening.
“What nonsense is this?” Essie exclaimed, her brows furrowing.
