Page 114 of A Literary Liaison
“Come,” her dearest friend whispered, taking Elisha’s arm with gentle firmness. “Let’s get you away from here.”
Elisha allowed herself to be guided toward the side exit, her mind spinning with Edgar’s words and the impossible choice that lay before her. Behind them, Edgar remained on one knee, staring after the woman he loved disappear into the night without giving him an answer.
In the distance, church bells began to chime, marking the arrival of a new year.
Between Hope and Despair
The morning lightfiltered weakly through the heavy curtains of Edgar’s London townhouse as Hawkins moved about the master’s bedchamber with his usual quiet efficiency. Three days had passed since New Year’s Eve—three days since Edgar had knelt before half of London’s literary society only to watch the woman he loved walk away without a word.
Edgar sat motionless in the chair before his dressing table, staring at his reflection with something approaching horror. His hair hung past his collar in unkempt waves, while his beard had grown wild and unruly during his months of exile. He looked like a man who had wrestled with demons and lost.
“Well,” Hawkins observed dryly as he laid out his implements with surgical precision, “I see the romantic poet aesthetic has reached its natural conclusion. Shall I assume Your Grace wishes to maintain this… Robinson Crusoe appearance for your morning constitutional?”
Edgar’s laugh was hollow. “Does it matter? She’s probably already decided I’m beyond redemption.”
“Undoubtedly,” Hawkins agreed with cheerful brutality, running his fingers through Edgar’s tangled locks. “Though one might argue that looking like a vagrant could work in your favor. Nothing says ‘tortured by love’ quite like appearing as though you’ve been living in a cave.”
“Your sympathy is overwhelming,” Edgar muttered.
Hawkins began working a comb through the worst of the tangles, his movements gentle despite his sharp tongue. “Might I inquire what has been occupying Your Grace’s time these past three months, if not basic grooming?”
Edgar winced as the comb hit a particularly stubborn knot. “I’ve been… thinking.”
“Ah, thinking,” Hawkins repeated with mock enlightenment. “How very productive. And did this extensive contemplation yield any insights?”
“I needed time to process everything,” Edgar said defensively. “The deception, Thornton’s accusations…”
“Quite right,” Hawkins agreed, continuing his work patiently. “Nothing says ‘I am engaging in important reflection’ quite like neglecting one’s toilet.”
Edgar sat blankly while Hawkins worked his magic.
“They saved us both,” Edgar said quietly, watching hair fall to the floor around his chair. “I still can’t believe Dickens stood up like that. And Charlotte Brontë—she barely knows me or Elisha, yet she was willing to risk everything.”
“Writers,” Hawkins observed with philosophical detachment, “are peculiar creatures. They spend their lives crafting stories of justice triumphing over villainy. When presented with a real-life opportunity to play the hero, they can hardly resist the temptation.”
Edgar felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease as Hawkins worked. “Thornton looked… broken at the end. Almost pitiful.”
“Yes, well, there’s nothing quite like watching one’s carefully laid plans crumble in spectacular fashion to deflate the ego.” Hawkins moved to examine Edgar’s wild beard with professional assessment. “In front of London’s literary elite, no less. It’s almost as if he wanted to fail dramatically.”
“I think he was past caring about strategy,” Edgar said, remembering the desperation in Thornton’s eyes. “He was a man with nothing left to lose.”
“Unlike yourself, of course,” Hawkins noted, beginning to trim thebeard with careful precision, “who merely risks losing the love of his life, his reputation, and quite possibly his life.”
Edgar met his valet’s eyes in the mirror. “She walked away, Hawkins. Without a word. I knelt before half of London and laid my heart bare, and she just… left.”
Hawkins paused in his trimming, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. “Your Grace, if I may venture an observation? The lady in question has spent months believing herself in love with two different men, only to discover they were the same person. I imagine the poor woman feels rather like Viola in Twelfth Night—caught in a web of mistaken identities not of her own making.”
“You think she might forgive me?” Edgar’s voice carried a hope he was afraid to acknowledge.
“I think,” Hawkins said carefully, returning to his work, “that a woman of Miss Linde’s caliber is not likely to abandon such a connection over wounded pride.”
Edgar felt his heart lift slightly for the first time in days. “So you believe she’ll give me another chance?”
“I believe,” Hawkins replied with a slight smile, “that she’s probably sitting in her office at this very moment, wondering if you’re brave enough to come to her. The question is: Are you?”
As Hawkins put the finishing touches on Edgar’s transformation, Edgar studied his reflection. He looked like himself again—polished but not overly formal, respectable but approachable.
“There,” Hawkins announced with satisfaction. “No longer resembling a castaway, though I’ve maintained just enough dishevelment to suggest sleepless nights and tormented passion. One must strike the proper balance between respectability and romantic suffering.”
