Parries and Thrusts
Dear Mr. Steele,
How wonderful that you believe yourself to have loved ardently. However, upon careful examination of the rather shallow emotional depths plumbed in your literary offering, I am obliged to inform you, with no small measure of regret, your claim may be somewhat erroneous.
I beseech you not to be disheartened by my assessment, for I am certain you are not to blame.
Since I have your attention, I believe it to be my duty to rectify your misconception that every soul possesses the faculty for ardent affection.
I assure you, sir, that your passion shall pale to mine.
It is my sincere hope that an acceptance of this reality may serve to ameliorate any undue suffering you may encounter in matters of the heart.
I remain your most humble critic,
E. Lovelace
“Your passion shall pale to mine.” The words slammed into Edgar’s chest, making his hand tighten around the Metropolitan Review until the paper crackled, threatening to tear.
She had no idea. No bloody idea what she was talking about.
The memory hit him without warning—Lucia’s face, radiant with laughter as she spun in the meadow behind her father’s cottage. The way her hand had trembled in his when he’d first dared to kiss her. The agony in her eyes when his father had torn them apart with threats of disinheritance and ruin.
Edgar lurched to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor.
He stalked to the window, his reflection ghostlike in the glass.
In the years since losing her, he’d wandered through life like a man walking through fog—everything muted, distant, half-real.
The eligible young ladies thrust before him seemed like pale watercolors compared to Lucia’s vivid warmth.
And now this critic dared suggest he’d never loved at all.
“If only you knew, Miss Lovelace,” he whispered to his reflection. The hollow ache in his chest flared—that old wound that never quite healed. “Though perhaps it’s better you don’t.”
A knock interrupted his brooding. Hereford sauntered in without ceremony, helping himself to brandy before settling into a chair with the casual arrogance of twenty years’ friendship.
“No curtsy, Hereford?”
“Go hang yourself, Your Grace.” Hereford’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he picked up one of the erotic pamphlets scattered across Edgar’s desk. “No time for formality when there’s literature of the highest standard to review.”
“Perhaps I should edit them. The grammar is nearly as vulgar as the content.”
“Absolutely not. The errors add authenticity—one can truly believe a courtesan scribbled this after rolling from her lover’s bed.
” Hereford leaned forward, scanning the pamphlet with obvious relish.
“This bit about the stable master’s skilled hands is positively tantalizing.
Though I must say, these adventures pale beside your recent exploits.
Your name’s been mentioned with alarming frequency in the scandal sheets.
Brothels and gaming hells? You make me look positively saintly. ”
Edgar’s jaw tightened. “Making up for lost time.”
“Lost time?” Hereford’s expression grew serious, his fingers drumming against the chair arm. “Does this mean you’re finally ready for courtship?”
“It means I’m ready to divert myself with the fairer sex without becoming attached.”
“Christ, Edgar. When will you do your ducal duty and produce an heir? You’re practically ancient.”
“I’m five months older than you, you ass.” Edgar’s voice carried an edge. “At one and thirty, I’ve years left to raise children. But taking only one woman to wife still feels like…” He trailed off, unable to voice the word betrayal.
“Like betraying Lucia’s memory?” Hereford’s voice gentled. “It’s been five years, my friend.”
“She still lives within me.”
“Does she? Or does your guilt live within you?” Hereford leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “There’s a difference.”
Edgar turned away, facing the window. “I can no longer tell.”
“Her birth to a farmer wasn’t her fault. Society’s rigid rules weren’t yours to break at twenty-six. Lucia wouldn’t want to see you torturing yourself like this.”
“I know.” The words came out rougher than intended. “What I truly regret is my cowardice. My failure to stand against my father.”
“You were young. We all were.” Hereford’s voice carried the weight of shared memories. “Courage isn’t about never failing—it’s about what you do after you’ve fallen. What will you choose now?”
Silence stretched between them until Hereford brightened deliberately. “Perhaps your recent… diversions… will prepare you for your future duchess. Or at least distract you long enough to sire an heir.”
Edgar’s laugh held no humor. “I pray she’ll be fertile so I can fulfill my duty quickly and be done with it.”
“Provided there’s a duchess willing to have you after you’ve scandalized half of London.”
“Seduction should be as easy as taking a garter from a courtesan.”
“Clearly you haven’t met my courtesans. They guard their possessions with admirable tenacity.”
“Then I’m the superior seducer.”
“Your women are simply more desperate.” Hereford grinned, then grew thoughtful.
“Speaking of ladies, I’m hosting a charity event for Dickens.
Something more stimulating than the usual soirées.
A literary contest, perhaps—men versus women to make it interesting.
Lady Faulkner could organize the ladies’ team. ”
Edgar’s pulse quickened. “Now you have my attention.”
“You’ll attend?”
“I will. Though I make no promises about my behavior.”
“I’ll ask Lady Faulkner if she knows Miss Lovelace. Just try not to be discovered in a compromising position.”
“I’ll be as colorless as dishwater.”
As Hereford departed, Edgar returned to his desk. Miss Lovelace wanted to know about passion? Very well. He would tear open old wounds if necessary to show her what real love looked like—and perhaps, in the process, discover if his heart was truly as dead as he’d believed.
*
Metropolitan Review, 12 February 1840
My Most Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I confess, your most recent retort elicited a surge of exhilaration within my breast. However, this sentiment proved ephemeral, for I quickly recalled that the tip of an iceberg cannot be set aflame no matter how fervently one believes in its possibility.
You, Miss Lovelace, possess the constitution of such an iceberg. You may affect a delicate and radiant demeanor, but the credit for such luminosity belongs solely to the sun. You remain an expansive mass of ice, immovable even as life flourishes all around you.
While you may have deemed me a shallow spring, consider that the relentless assault of life upon my riverbed has inevitably led to a broadening and deepening of my channel. My love, my passion, now possess the potential to stir the very soul.
If this fundamental truth has thus far eluded your comprehension, I can only surmise that you have yet to be truly sculpted by the transformative power of love. For this lamentable circumstance, I find myself filled with profound sympathy.
I remain your most humble and sympathetic servant,
A. Steele
The letter shook in Elisha’s hands as she read it a second time. An iceberg. The audacity—the sheer, breathtaking arrogance—of this man to suggest she was cold, untouched, incapable of passion.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. He had no idea. No idea of the fire that burned beneath her careful composure, or the reasons she’d learned to bank those flames.
“Another missive from your devoted correspondent?” Amelia looked up from her desk, quill poised.
“He calls me an iceberg.” Elisha’s voice emerged steadier than she felt. “Suggests I’ve never been ‘sculpted by love’s transformative power’.”
Amelia winced. “Rather presumptuous of him.”
“What troubles me isn’t his presumption—it’s that he’s unknowingly struck a nerve.” Elisha sank into the chair opposite her friend, the letter still clutched in her fingers. “To claim I’ve never loved…”
“You’re thinking of Mark.”
The name affected her still. Elisha closed her eyes, remembering. “Do you know, I was sixteen when I realized what it meant to be seen—truly seen—by another person?”
Amelia set down her quill, attention fully focused.
“Mark had a way of appearing whenever the stones grew too heavy for me to carry. Never making a show of it, never expecting gratitude. Just… there.” Elisha’s voice grew soft. “I didn’t understand it was love at first. It crept up like dawn—gradual, then suddenly overwhelming.”
“You never told me about him.”
Heat bloomed in Elisha’s cheeks. “He was my first kiss. Behind the laundry shed. I thought my heart might explode from my chest.” She laughed, but the sound held old pain.
“What happened to him?”
“He’s done well for himself. He is a foreman at a factory not too far from here.
” She smiled wryly. “He’s married now with three children.
” Elisha’s fingers traced the edge of Steele’s letter.
“Perhaps that’s why this rankles so. Mr. Steele assumes my heart is untouched simply because I don’t parade my feelings for public consumption. ”
They sat in comfortable silence until Amelia spoke wistfully. “Do you ever wonder why we haven’t attracted eligible suitors? Are professional women so frightening to men?”
“More likely we’re too occupied with this enterprise to notice them noticing us.” Elisha stretched, working out the kinks in her back. “Perhaps we should attend lectures where intellectual gentlemen congregate.”
Amelia’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. “I’d settle for any man who loves books as much as I do. Intelligence and integrity matter more than social standing.”
“You want marriage.”
A blush stained Amelia’s cheeks. “I want a family. Children of my own to love and protect.”
Something tight in Elisha’s chest loosened. “I want that too. Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible for women like us.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”