Page 119 of A Literary Liaison
Dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, Elisha crept quietly down the stairs to the office. There he lay sleeping, his long frame draped awkwardly across the small settee, one hand still reaching toward where she had been sitting.
Moving with infinite care, she settled herself beside him, curling against his chest and pulling the blanket over both of them. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear felt like coming home after a long journey through darkness.
Edgar stirred at her touch, lifting his head in momentary confusion. When he realized it was Elisha in his arms, she felt his sharp intake of breath, felt the moment when desperate hope bloomed in his chest.
“Did you read it?” he whispered against her hair, his voice thick with sleep and emotion.
“Every word,” she murmured against his chest.
His arms tightened around her as though he feared she may fly away from him. “Then you know,” he whispered into her hair.
“I know,” she whispered, and for the first time in months, she truly did.
They lay together in the growing light of dawn, listening to their hearts beat in perfect synchronization, each pulse a testament to a love that had survived doubt, fear, and separation to emerge stronger and more certain than before.
Epilogue
On a resplendentJuly morning, the grand cathedral of St. Paul’s stood adorned with cascades of white roses, delicate baby’s breath, and sprigs of lavender. The air was thick with anticipation as London’s elite, literary luminaries, and cherished friends gathered to witness the union of Edgar, the Duke of Lancaster, and Miss Elisha von Linde.
As the first notes of Handel’sArrival of the Queen of Shebafilled the vast nave, the assembled guests turned to behold the bride. Elisha, a vision in ivory silk and Honiton lace, glided down the aisle on the arm of Mr. Charles Dickens, her mentor and friend. Her gown, a masterpiece of elegance, boasted a fitted bodice adorned with seed pearls and a voluminous skirt that whispered against the marble floor. Atop her carefully coiffed locks sat a delicate tiara, from which cascaded a gossamer veil.
At the altar, Edgar stood tall and regal in his formal attire, his eyes never leaving Elisha as she approached. Beside him, the Marquess of Hereford, his best man, smiled broadly, his own joy evident. To the side, Amelia Carlisle, resplendent in lavender silk as maid of honor, held Elisha’s bouquet and beamed with tears of joy for her dearest friend.
The front pews were a gathering of notables. Edgar’s family sat proudly, his mother dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Amelia Thornton, who had risked her own position and defied herbrother’s wishes to support Elisha’s happiness, beamed at her dearest friend. Nearby, Charlotte sat with the Earl of Carlisle and Patrick Adams, her face aglow with happiness.
Among the guests, one could spot the crème de la crème of London’s literary circle. William Wordsworth and Lord Tennyson engaged in whispered commentary. Elizabeth Gaskell and the Brontë sisters added their own air of romantic sensibility to the proceedings.
Near the back of the cathedral, Steven Thornton stood quietly, his bearing markedly different from the desperate man who had tried to destroy them mere months before. When Edgar had approached him about the railway investment, Thornton had initially been suspicious, but the duke’s straightforward business proposition had gradually dissolved his skepticism. Now, watching Elisha approach Edgar, Thornton’s countenance betrayed something resembling resignation and serenity.
As Elisha reached the altar, Edgar took her hand, his touch gentle yet sure. The Archbishop of Canterbury began the ceremony, his sonorous voice echoing through the cathedral.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”
The vows were exchanged with clear voices and unwavering gazes. Edgar’s deep baritone resonated with emotion as he pledged his life and love to Elisha. In turn, her melodious tones carried to the farthest reaches of the cathedral as she promised herself to him.
As the newlyweds turned to face their guests, a figure near the side caught Elisha’s eye. Jonathan Rochford, the boy whose life had been changed by their literary contest, stood tall and proud in a fine new suit, his transformation from street orphan to promising young scholar evident in his confident bearing.
The Archbishop’s voice rose in proclamation: “I now pronounce you man and wife. Your Grace, you may kiss your bride.”
As Edgar drew Elisha into a tender embrace, the cathedral erupted in joyous applause. The peals of bells rang out across London, heralding not just a union of two hearts, but the dawn of a new era—one where love could bridge the divide between classes and literature had the power to transform lives.
*
“To which estateare we headed?” Elisha asked once their carriage pulled away from the church.
“Patience, my dear wife,” Edgar said, his voice warm with amusement.
“I’m not getting any younger,” she complained playfully.
Edgar pulled his bride close to his side, pressing a tender kiss below her ear. “You look as beautiful as a summer garden in full bloom.”
“Such poetry from my literary husband,” she teased, settling into his embrace.
As the carriage drew to a halt before the bustling train station, Edgar’s eyes twinkled with anticipation. He stepped out first, then turned to extend his hand to Elisha with a gentlemanly flourish.
“My dear wife,” he said, his voice low and warm, “allow me to assist you.”
Elisha placed her gloved hand in his, her brow furrowing in curiosity. As she alighted from the carriage, her gaze swept across the station, taking in the steam and clamor of the railway platform.
