Page 45 of A Literary Liaison
I trust that your scholarly pursuits have not unduly diverted your attention from your literary endeavors. Pray, remember that but two months remain for the completion of your manuscript.
I remain, sir, your faithful correspondent, wishing you the very best of fortune in your authorial pursuits.
Your keen adversary,
E. Lovelace
She had just set aside her completed response when the tranquil atmosphere was shattered by a sharp rap upon the door, heralding the arrival of Steven Thornton.
Elisha observed how he cut a figure of unmistakable affluence and standing, attired in a perfectly tailored suit of the finest broadcloth, agold watch chain draped elegantly across his waistcoat, and highly polished Hessian boots that gleamed in the daylight. Every aspect of his appearance seemed meticulously curated to project an image of success and authority.
“Ladies,” he announced, inclining his head as he strode into the room. His gaze fixed pointedly upon Elisha. “I have been perusing your exchanges with this Steele fellow. What has become of the fire, the conflict? You are growing far too cordial for my liking.”
Elisha straightened, her chin lifting in defiance. “Mr. Thornton, I assure you, my correspondence with Mr. Steele is—”
“Is imperiling the foundation of this journal’s popularity,” Steven interrupted. “I implore you to maintain a more… contentious tone. The public craves a battle of wits, not a friendly discourse over tea.”
Elisha watched as Amelia rose to her feet, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Now see here, Steven. I am the editor, and it is my prerogative to determine the nature of the articles that grace our pages. What gives you the temerity to suddenly appear and begin dictating editorial policy?”
Steven nodded, and Elisha noticed a smile playing about his lips. “I am well aware of your position, dear sister. However, do I not have the right to voice my opinion for your consideration? Am I mistaken in requesting that Miss Linde adjust her style to maintain the satisfaction of our readership?” He turned back to Elisha. “I am not asking you to compromise your integrity as a writer. I merely entreat you to keep our readers in a state of breathless anticipation, to create more tension and suspense, as any accomplished novelist would.”
Before Amelia could utter another word, Elisha smiled warmly. “Of course, Mr. Thornton. I comprehend your concern. The last two missives were mere exceptions. I assure you, we shall soon return to our customary verbal thrusts and parries.”
She watched satisfaction spread across Steven’s countenance. “I am most grateful, Miss Linde.” Turning to Amelia, he said, “Now, thatwas not so dreadful, was it?”
Elisha observed Amelia cross her arms and fix her brother with a stern gaze.
“Miss Linde,” Steven said, his voice as smooth as silk, “might I prevail upon you to accompany me to select furniture at this instant? I find myself clueless about color palettes.”
Elisha blinked, momentarily nonplussed by the request. “Mr. Thornton, I fear that is quite impossible. Amelia—”
“I am fine. I can handle things from here, Elisha,” Amelia said, and Elisha caught the delighted look on her friend’s face. “Steven asked me to accompany him, but I suggested he take you instead. You are much better at that sort of thing.”
Elisha hesitated, glaring at Amelia for her obvious matchmaking efforts.
“Very well, Mr. Thornton,” Elisha acquiesced, reaching for her shawl. “A brief distraction might indeed prove beneficial.”
She noticed Steven’s smile widen with what appeared to be triumph. “Excellent. Shall we?” He proffered his arm with exaggerated gallantry.
“We shan’t be long, Amelia,” Elisha assured as she accepted his arm.
“See that you are,” Amelia replied, her tone carrying a teasing note that was not lost on either of them.
As they perused the aisles of Mortimer’s Fine Furnishings, the gaslit chandeliers casting a warm glow upon the polished mahogany and velvet upholstery, Elisha noticed Steven’s demeanor soften perceptibly.
“Miss Linde,” he began, his voice low and measured, “I am a self-made man. Nothing was ever bestowed upon me gratis, and I dwell in constant trepidation of returning to… to whence I originated.”
“And where might that have been?” Elisha asked, her gloved hand tracing the curve of a Queen Anne chair.
She watched his jaw tighten visibly. “The workhouse. A veritable inferno on earth, Miss Linde…” He trailed off, evidently lost in painful reminiscences.
Elisha’s heart squeezed beneath her corseted bodice. “I comprehend more than you might suppose, Mr. Thornton.”
His eyes snapped to her countenance, and she could see dawning realization in his gaze. “Of course. You and Amelia… you were ensconced there together, were you not?”
Elisha nodded, her bonnet ribbons quivering. “We were. Different workhouse than you, I’m sure, but the same cruel world.”
“I confess I am ignorant of the full extent of your and Amelia’s sufferings,” Steven said, his voice taut with what she perceived as suppressed emotion. “I remained unaware of her existence until after our parents… well, after their passing. I was dispatched to a workhouse in Manchester, commencing my labors in the textile mill. Fourteen hours daily, suffocating on cotton dust, my fingers rendered bloody by the unforgiving machines.”
