Page 67 of A Literary Liaison
Edmund nodded. “I believe you are right. Well… Father is no longer with us. And it seems to me that this lady, whoever she may be, has already affected a positive change in you.”
As the last light faded from the sky, the two brothers sat in companionable silence, each lost in thought. For Edgar, his brother’s unexpected support was a beacon of hope in the tumultuous sea of his emotions.
The next morning brought an unexpected visitor. Adams arrived at Lancaster Hall, his usually composed demeanor betraying hints of urgency. Edgar received him in his study, noting the tension in his friend’s shoulders.
“Adams,” Edgar said, rising from his desk. “This is unexpected. What brings you to Kent?”
“I’m afraid I bring troubling news, Lancaster.” Adams accepted the offered seat but remained on edge. “Miss Linde has been sent away from London.”
Edgar’s blood ran cold. “Sent away? By whom?”
“Steven Thornton. My contacts inform me she departed for Tunbridge Wells three days ago. Thornton claims it’s to provide her uninterrupted time to complete her novel for the wager, but…” Adams paused, choosing his words carefully. “The circumstances seem suspiciously convenient.”
Edgar’s hands clenched into fists. “Convenient how?”
“The timing coincides perfectly with your absence. And Thornton has been making inquiries about your whereabouts.” Adams leaned forward. “I believe he hopes to eliminate any competition for MissLinde’s affections.”
Edgar realized with clarity that he’d been too impassive in the face of Thornton’s machinations: the false reports about his activities, the timely railway matter, Thornton’s possessive behavior at the Reform Club. The man had been maneuvering them like chess pieces.
“Where in Tunbridge Wells?” Edgar asked, his voice deadly quiet.
“I’m still gathering details, but I should have the exact location within the day.” Adams studied his friend’s face. “What do you intend to do?”
Edgar was already moving toward the door to summon his valet. “What I should have done from the beginning. Fight for her.”
*
The flickering candlelightcast dancing shadows across Elisha’s spacious bedchamber in Steven Thornton’s cottage in Tunbridge Wells. She sat at her small escritoire, a letter trembling slightly in her hands. The familiar script of Mr. Steele had arrived that morning, but this missive felt different—heavier somehow, weighted with emotion she hadn’t expected.
15 July 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your kind and empathetic words have touched me deeply. I find myself both heartened by your understanding and compelled to reciprocate your openness with a confession of my own. You inquired about the battle of the heart I alluded to in my previous letter, and I feel I owe you the truth, painful though it may be to recount.
Some years ago, I found myself irrevocably in love with a woman Society deemed far beneath my station. Lucia was her name—a name I did not utter aloud for years, yet one that echoes in the chambers of my heart with each beat. She was the daughter of a struggling farmer, possessing neither wealth nor noble lineage, but rich beyond measurein spirit, intellect, and grace.
Our love bloomed in secret, away from the prying eyes of Society and the disapproving glares of my family. For a time, I believed our affection strong enough to weather any storm, to overcome any obstacle. How naïve I was, how foolishly optimistic.
As rumors of our attachment began to circulate, the pressure from my family and peers became unbearable. I was reminded constantly of my duty to our name, to our legacy. The weight of generations of expectation bore down upon me, and to my eternal shame, I buckled beneath it.
In a moment of weakness, of cowardice I shall regret until my dying day, I severed our connection. I told Lucia we could no longer be together, that our worlds were too far apart, that I had responsibilities I could not ignore. The look in her eyes as I spoke those wretched words haunts me still—an assortment of disbelief, hurt, and a deep, abiding sorrow that seemed to dim the light in her heart. Two days later, her body was found in a nearby river.
The grief that followed was all-consuming, Miss Lovelace. It was a pain so profound, so shattering, that I feared I might never emerge from its shadow. In truth, I am not certain I ever have fully escaped its grasp.
If I could turn back the hands of time, if I could relive those fateful days, I would act differently. I would stand firm against the tide of disapproval, I would fight for Lucia with every fiber of my being. I would ensure she knew, beyond any doubt, that she was loved, cherished, and worthy.
This, Miss Lovelace, is the weight I carry, the regret that colors my every interaction, my every thought on matters of the heart. It is why I implore you not to give up hope, why I encourage you to fight for love if you believe it to be true. For the pain of loss, great as it may be, pales in comparison to the agony of regret.
I share this tale not to burden you, my dear friend, but to illustrate the depths of my conviction when I speak of love’s power and importance. We live in a world bound by rigid rules and expectations,but I have learned, at great cost, that there are some things worth defying Society for.
I hope you can forgive the somber tone of this letter. Know that your friendship and understanding have been a balm to my long-wounded heart, and I am grateful for the confidence we share.
Your servant with deepest regard and utmost sincerity,
Aengus Steele
Elisha’s throat felt tight with emotion as she read his words about Lucia for the third time. On her desk lay a well-worn copy ofWhispers of the Heart, its pages marked with her critical annotations from months ago. With new eyes, she opened the novel to a passage she had once dismissed as overwrought:
