The Provocation
My Most Esteemed Miss E. Lovelace,
Your recent critique of my humble offering has prompted me to express my deepest admiration for your extraordinary literary perception.
Rarely have I encountered such economy of language in service of such devastating insight.
To reduce an entire novel to a mere paragraph while simultaneously revealing its every flaw demonstrates a talent that must surely be the envy of your colleagues.
I confess myself curious about the extensive body of work that has qualified you to judge matters of the heart with such authority.
Your confident dismissal of “overwrought sentiment” suggests intimate familiarity with genuine passion.
I’m positively quivering with anticipation that you may direct me to your published works on this subject, that I might benefit from studying a master’s approach to romantic expression.
I remain, with the utmost respect for your superior judgment,
Your most humble and obedient servant, Aengus Steele
Elisha shot up from her seat and paced the length of her study, Steele’s letter clutched in her fist. “I say, I’ve never heard such twaddle in all my days!” Her voice rose with indignation, causing Amelia to look up from her desk with raised brows.
Smoothing the now-crumpled letter, she read it aloud to her friend, her tone growing increasingly sour with each line. “‘Positively quivering with anticipation’? Heavens, the man writes as though he’s penning a letter to his mistress rather than engaging in literary discourse.”
Amelia’s lips twitched as she said, “He does have a certain charm.”
“Charm?” Elisha scoffed, tossing the letter onto her desk. “The only thing more inflated than his prose is his ego.” She dropped into her chair and yanked a fresh sheet of paper toward her. “Very well, Mr. Steele, if you wish to dance…”
Her quill flew across the page with practiced efficiency. Once she signed her name with a flourish, Elisha sat back, a satisfied smile playing at her lips. “There. Let him chew on that for a while.”
Amelia limped more than usual across their shared office, her injury acting up as it often did after long days at work and peered over her shoulder at the response. “Oh dear. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of this ending peacefully?”
“Ending peacefully?” Elisha’s lips thinned with determination. “My dear, I do believe this is merely the opening deluge.”
Amelia spoke hesitantly, glancing at her friend. “I believe I shall publish Mr. Steele’s letter.”
Elisha’s head snapped up. “For what purpose?”
“Your critique of Mr. Steele’s novel seems to have captured the public’s imagination.
We have experienced a marked increase in new subscriptions accompanied by praises of your review.
To capitalize on this, I propose we share his response to it, and you begin, hopefully, a regular correspondence with him. ”
“Are you suggesting we manufacture drama to gain notoriety?”
“It need not reflect poorly on us. It could be viewed as a friendly exchange of wit.”
“Amelia, you are well aware of my position on this matter. I steadfastly refuse to engage with authors, lest I find myself inundated with missives from writers who take issue with my critiques.”
“Indeed, I am cognizant of your stance. However, we have not generated such interest in some time. And…” Amelia fidgeted with the ribbon adorning her gown, winding and unwinding it about her finger.
“Amelia, what troubles you?” Elisha rose and approached her friend. “What has transpired?”
Large brown eyes met hers, and Elisha was relieved to find them free of tears.
“Steven has altered the terms of our remuneration to a percentage based on the net profit. At our current rate, we lack sufficient funds to sustain ourselves. I may be compelled to return to lodgings here with you.”
Elisha clasped her friend’s hands, roughened from years of handling parchment.
“I am most grieved to learn of your half-brother’s unconscionable behavior. I can well imagine how greatly this must distress you. When did this transpire?”
“He called on me at my residence yesterday,” Amelia replied, raising her eyes. “He declared our publishing house insufficiently profitable. Should we fail to increase our profits by ten percent each month, he threatens to shutter the establishment.”
“Surely he cannot do such a thing!”
“I fear he can, and indeed he shall. He is, after all, the proprietor,” Amelia said, her voice quavering. “Oh, Elisha, I am ashamed to admit it, but at times I find myself positively… disliking him. He is a kind brother but a ruthless businessman.”
“Any person of sound mind would be averse to him at least a little. I believed he was residing in India.”
“He was, but he contracted malaria. He has returned to recuperate. He plans to take a more active role in the gazette.” Amelia looked down at her hands, fidgeting with a kerchief.
Elisha’s stomach sank at the possible implications but dared not show it. “Do not despair, Amelia. We shall devise a means to increase our profits. In the interim, do you truly intend to return to lodgings here in the attic?”
Amelia shook her head. “Not immediately, but perhaps if our circumstances do not improve by next month.”
“I shall not allow that to come to pass. You have only just secured your own house. We shall manage, I assure you. I shall compose a new, most scandalous letter to Mr. Steele.”
Amelia looked up then, her countenance displaying sorrow and relief.
“I am deeply sorry, Elisha. I know how greatly you value your literary freedom and integrity.”
Elisha smiled for her friend’s sake. “It is but a small sacrifice. I only pray that it shall not transform our esteemed publication into a mere scandal sheet. We must strive to maintain the hard-earned respect we have garnered in literary circles. However, we must eat before we can fight a battle as big as that.”
*
The guttering candlelight cast long shadows across the stone walls of Edgar’s secret chamber, concealed deep within his estate. He stood bent over a makeshift escritoire, crushing the review page of the Metropolitan with his fist.
“‘Immerse yourself in works of genuine literary merit?’” he snarled at the offending paper.
“The presumption! The sheer, unmitigated gall!” He began to pace the confined space, his boots echoing against the stone floor.
“To lecture me on the sublimity of a sunset, as though I were some untutored schoolboy who has never lifted his eyes to the heavens. And that condescending tone—‘this counsel I offer not in malice.’ Ha!”
He slammed the crumpled paper onto his desk, disturbing the neat piles of salacious literature he had been sorting for distribution. “Well, Miss Lovelace, if you believe your lofty philosophical musings will cow me into silence, you are gravely mistaken. I shall—”
A coded rap interrupted his tirade. The distinctive pattern heralded the arrival of Patrick Adams—son of an exiled nobleman of Warsaw, a trusted friend, erstwhile military officer, and current protection officer for hire.
Adams entered the chamber through a concealed ingress, cleverly disguised as a humble outhouse. His mien, as ever, was one of grave solemnity and reserve. Attired in the garb of a common laborer, he had been tasked by Edgar to investigate the true identity of Miss Lovelace.
Adams’ eyes widened as he surveyed the workspace. “What is this cave? This is what you’ve been digging all this time? You have acquitted yourself admirably, Lancaster. Most admirably indeed.”
“Your approval is much appreciated. The toil was most arduous, but it shall prove worthwhile. We can now hide hundreds of erotic literatures and illicit tomes in here, ready to be distributed at a moment’s notice,” Edgar replied.
Adams nodded, fingering through the Metropolitan newssheets.
“Have you gathered any intelligence regarding the woman?” Edgar asked.
“The pressmen are a taciturn lot. None will disclose any particulars. She is rumored to reside in the Borough and has not been seen at the Metropolitan office. She could be someone in the office, however. Perhaps Miss Elisha Linde or Miss Amelia Thornton. It might prove most efficacious to blackmail the proprietor.”
“Nay to blackmail or any unlawful activities, Adams. I shall attend literary functions and attempt to uncover information about her.”
“How would identifying her benefit you?” Adams asked, leaning his broad frame against the wall. He was practically as wide as he was tall, like a bulldog, an intimidating presence for anyone.
Edgar folded his arms. “It would satisfy my curiosity. I’d also feel better knowing she is an aged spinster, perhaps adorned with a bushy mole on her nose. One look from her will likely freeze the sun.”
“Not very Christian of you,” Adams mused.
“Have I not been counseling you to make better use of your life before it’s too late?
But you paid no heed to my advice, choosing instead to pursue fleeting pleasures like selling erotic literature.
Do you never awaken the following day feeling hollow and disgusted with yourself? ”
Edgar regarded his friend with an impassive countenance, though the tension in his muscles betrayed a suppressed urge to deliver a sound thrashing.
“Pray, why should I heed the words of a man whose father was exiled from his own country? I have half a mind to ship you back forthwith to face the guillotine.”
“My father’s circumstance was the result of history beyond his control. You, on the other hand, could be taking a more active role as a member of Parliament.”
Edgar glowered at his friend, whose silent glare was more rebuking than any words he could have uttered.
“I am forging my own history,” Edgar spat.
Adams scoffed. “By selling tales of love and erotica?”
Edgar let his quill hover over Adams’ name on the member list. “I presume you are not partaking in the next release of ‘The Forbidden Diaries of Lady X’.”