Page 68 of A Literary Liaison
“Each morning, he would position himself beneath her window, bearing a fresh bouquet of wildflowers gathered at dawn. Like a foolish boy, he counted the seconds until she appeared, just to see her smile as she discovered them. What matter if his boots were soaked with dew or his fingers pricked by thorns? Her joy was worth every discomfort.”
Elisha had originally written in the margin:“Unnecessarily dramatic. What gentleman of sense would engage in such theatrical displays?”
Now, imagining a younger Steele—earnest and hopelessly in love—the scene touched her heart. She could picture him, probably feeling awkward and unsure, yet determined to show his affection in whatever way he could devise.
She turned to another marked passage:
“During a sudden summer storm, he draped his coat around her shoulders. The garment engulfed her slight frame, and she laughed at how the sleeves hung past her fingertips. That sound—her laughter—transformed the dreary day into something magical. He would have gladly stood there soaked to the skin, just to hear it again.”
Her earlier note read:“Maudlin sentimentality. Does the author believe readers will swoon over such obvious manipulation of emotions?”
But now she understood—this wasn’t calculated manipulation atall. It was simply truth, captured in all its raw, unpolished sincerity. He had written not to impress, but to remember.
Perhaps most revealing was the scene she had once considered the height of melodrama:
“When his father forbade their union, he vowed to build her a palace of books. Every evening, he would smuggle volumes into the hollow oak where they met—poetry, philosophy, adventures from distant lands. ‘Your mind should know no bounds,’ he told her, ‘even if our circumstances do.’ How naive he was, thinking love alone could triumph over the rigid constraints of their world.”
Her original critique had been scathing:“Absurd fantasy. The author assumes that a farmer’s daughter would see beyond paper and ink, seeing poetry and adventure instead. Only persons with the luxury of time and wealth could make this conjecture. The author stretches credibility beyond repair.”
Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized he had done exactly that. It wasn’t fantasy at all, but memory. A young man’s desperate attempt to give his beloved the one thing he could—the freedom found in books, even as their own freedom to love was denied.
The scenes she had judged most harshly as a critic were, in fact, the most honest. What she had dismissed as clumsy attempts at romantic manipulation were actually moments of pure, unguarded truth. She thought of her own review, how she had torn apart his earnest expressions of love with clinical precision, and felt a deep shame.
Reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, she began to compose her reply. This time, she would write not as a critic, but as a friend who understood, at last, the courage it takes to bare one’s heart, however imperfectly, to the world.
The candle burned low as she wrote, casting its gentle light over the letter and the book that had taken on such new meaning. Outside her window, the first hints of dawn began to paint the sky, but Elisha hardly noticed. She was lost in contemplation of how love—real,imperfect, human love—so often defies our attempts to judge it by literary standards.
20 July 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
Your letter has moved me deeply. I confess I found myself reading it several times over, each time struck anew by the raw honesty with which you shared your pain. To bare one’s deepest wounds requires tremendous courage, and I am both humbled and honored by the trust you have placed in me.
Lucia’s story has touched my heart in ways I scarcely expected. Your description of her spirit, her grace, and the profound impact she had on your life speaks volumes about both her character and yours. That you loved her so completely, so purely, makes the tragedy of her loss all the more devastating.
I recognize in your words the weight of the regret you carry, the endless questioning of “what if” that must haunt your quieter moments. While I cannot ease that burden, I want you to know that your story has given me a deeper understanding of both love and loss. The remorse you express over not fighting harder for her shows a depth of self-reflection that few possess.
Your experience has taught me that some choices, once made, leave permanent marks upon our souls. Yet from these wounds can spring profound wisdom and compassion.
I must also confess something that shames me greatly. After reading your letter, I returned to your novel with fresh eyes. Passages I had once dismissed as overwrought sentimentality now reveal themselves as moments of genuine truth. I fear I allowed my critical eye to blind me to the authentic emotion you poured onto those pages. You were not manipulating your readers’ feelings—you were sharing your own, raw and unguarded.
I realize now that the very scenes I criticized most harshly were likely the most difficult for you to write, drawn as they were frommemory rather than imagination. For this misunderstanding, and for any pain my harsh critique may have caused, I am truly sorry.
I am grateful that you felt able to share this part of yourself with me. Know that your confidence will be held sacred. In our continued correspondence, I hope you will feel free to be entirely yourself, without fear of judgment or misunderstanding. True friendship, I believe, is built on such trust.
With deepest sympathy and warmest regards,
E. Lovelace
As she sealed the letter, Elisha felt something shift within her—not just her understanding of Mr. Steele, but her understanding of herself. She had spent so long protecting her heart with the armor of critical detachment that she had forgotten the beauty of vulnerability, the courage required to love openly despite the risk of loss.
Perhaps it was time to lower her defenses, at least a little. After all, even the most scholarly critic was, at heart, simply human.
*
Edgar paced hisstudy at Lancaster Hall, Adams’ letter clutched in his hand. His friend had been swift with the promised information—Elisha was staying at Rosemount Cottage on the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells, a property owned by Steven Thornton.
But it was the second piece of information that made Edgar’s blood boil. Thornton had been spreading rumors in London’s social circles, subtle insinuations about Edgar’s “exploitation” and his “pattern” of involvement with women beneath his station. The man was systematically destroying Edgar’s credibility while positioning himself as Elisha’s protector.
