Page 56 of A Literary Liaison
Beside her, Amelia nearly bounced on her toes while watching the fencers, and Elisha noticed her friend’s earlier pain seemed forgotten in her enthusiasm. Despite the physical reminder of her accident, Amelia moved with a grace born of determination, her pale blue morning dress swishing softly as she shifted her weight.
“Isn’t it exhilarating?” Amelia gushed, turning to her friend. Elisha could see her eyes sparkling with barely contained delight as she watched a particularly skilled pair of fencers execute a complex series of attacks and parries. “I’m so glad you agreed to come with me. Just think of the practical applications, Elisha. We could learn to defend ourselves if ever accosted!”
But Elisha barely registered her friend’s words, her attention wholly consumed by the letter. The paper trembled slightly in her hands, betraying the depth of her agitation. “‘A heart as cold as a Siberian winter,’” she muttered, each word dripping with disdain. “The nerve of the man!”
“What’s that?” Elisha noticed Amelia’s enthusiasm dim as she registered her distress. Her friend moved closer, her limp more pronounced with the quick movement. “Another letter from Mr. Steele?”
“The very same,” Elisha thrust the paper at her friend, her voice tight with controlled fury. “Just last week he was writing about the nature of love, and now this! Look how he accuses me of having a heart ‘as cold as a Siberian winter’! The man is utterly baffling.”
Elisha watched Amelia’s expression shift from curiosity to outrage while she scanned the letter. The delicate skin around her friend’s eyestightened with anger.
“These insults! Such ungentlemanly conduct. And after his recent letters were so different.”
“He would likely argue I’m no gentlewoman,” Elisha replied, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. The sound carried across the practice floor, and she noticed several fencers pause mid-bout.
“Is there a problem, ladies?”
The cultured voice cut through their conversation like a blade. Both women turned to find themselves face to face with the Marquess of Hereford. Elisha observed how he cut an imposing figure in his fencing attire, the white jacket emphasizing his broad shoulders and athletic build. Though he had removed his mask, his expression remained as guarded as if he still wore it.
“My Lord!” Amelia gasped, dropping into a hasty curtsy. Elisha watched her friend’s cheeks flush pink with embarrassment as she slightly lost her balance, steadying herself against a nearby column. Elisha followed suit with a more controlled curtsy, though she kept her eyes defiant.
“We had no idea you were a member here, my lord,” Elisha managed, straightening with practiced dignity.
Elisha felt Hereford’s dark eyes regard them with measured gravity, lingering particularly on her. “Not just a member, Miss Linde. I’m the instructor today.” His gaze flicked to the letter still clutched in Amelia’s hand before returning to Elisha’s face. “Now, I assume you ladies are the reporters I was warned about. You seem to be in distress. We could all hear you over the metal clanging. Is there something I can help you with?”
Elisha noticed Amelia step forward slightly, her earlier excitement about fencing completely forgotten. “I beg your pardon, my lord. We did not mean to be disruptive.”
Elisha watched the marquess’ eyebrows rise slightly, his mouth tightening at the corners. “Whether you meant to or not, MissThornton, the result is that you are distracting the students and putting their safety at risk. May I ask that you keep your voices to a minimum? Thank you.”
With a curt nod that spoke volumes about his opinion of women in his fencing club, the marquess turned on his heel and strode back to his students, his boots clicking sharply against the wooden floor.
“What crawled up his backside and died?” Amelia muttered once he was out of earshot, and Elisha could see her earlier enthusiasm was thoroughly dampened.
Elisha didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes followed the marquess’ retreating form, her mind already formulating a plan. Finally, she straightened her shoulders, a determined glint in her eye. “I shall show him,” she declared, tucking the offending letter into her reticule. “I shall show him and all of London that my cold Siberian heart burns with a passion for literature that his overheated prose could never match.”
As Elisha’s words rang with quiet conviction, the morning sun continued its journey across the practice floor, illuminating the dust motes that danced in its beam like so many scattered dreams. The rhythmic sound of steel on steel resumed, providing a martial counterpoint to the battle of words and wits that was about to unfold.
But more than that, Elisha felt something stirring within her—a fierce determination not just to respond to Steele’s challenge, but to prove herself worthy of standing among London’s literary elite. If he wanted a public battle, she would give him one he would never forget.
The Reform
Metropolitan Review, 17 June 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
Your latest missive, with its personal attacks and grandiose challenges, amuses me. How like a man cornered by superior intellect.
Your accusation of inconsistency merely reveals your lack of nuance. One can appreciate and critique different aspects of an author’s work—a concept perhaps beyond your pulp romance sensibilities.
I accept your additional terms of the contest among our discerning readers, Mr. Steele. Prepare yourself. I shall expose the bankruptcy of your literary philosophy to London’s scholars. Perhaps I should draft your concession speech, given your prose quality.
Grateful for your shortcomings,
E. Lovelace
Edgar sat at a desk in the otherwise empty room, stroking Elisha’s name on parchment with his thumb. He found some reprieve since devising a stratagem with his friends, but waiting for his mother’s blessing forced him to keep his distance a little longer.
He missed her. His heart seemed to tighten along with his lungs every time he thought of her. He wondered if she was suffering as he was. She seemed so sure, confident about her decision to avoid him, avoid a potential assault on her heart. She was right, of course. She had nothing, no protection, nothing to gain from an affair with no promise. But with the strength of hellfire, he missed her.
