Chapter 16 Suffering and Courtship #2
“How can it be thus,” Edgar said between jabs, his breath coming in short gasps. “I scarcely know her, not in any true sense. Can one truly succumb to the throes of love with such a dearth of knowledge about the object of one’s affections?”
Adams grunted, dodging Edgar’s next strike. “Love is a capricious thing,” Adams said, intensifying his assault with a flurry of well-aimed blows. “It seldom awaits formal introductions or considers the niceties of courtship.”
They continued their bout in silence for several moments, the only sounds their labored breathing and the dull thud of gloved fists meeting flesh.
“Your counsel, as always, is invaluable,” Edgar said.
“Does this mean I have a free membership to your pleasure den?”
“This means you can own the pleasure den.”
“Truly? Being in love does not mean you need to become old and shackled.”
“Yes, it does, my friend. Yes, it does.”
*
The Metropolitan’s office bustled with activity, the scratch of quills on parchment and the rustle of papers filling the air as Elisha and Amelia labored diligently, their heads bent over their respective tasks.
Elisha had just finished reading Mr. Steele’s latest letter, his philosophical questions about love weighing heavily on her mind.
Metropolitan Review, 20 May 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
A love worthy of the name should ignite a fire within the breast of man, while drawing forth the gentlest tears from the eyes of woman.
Similarly, a tale of love, when masterfully woven, ought to evoke these powerful responses from its readers.
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, a gold 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, that was 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.”
“For us, it was the arduous task of breaking stones and bones, shucking oysters,” Elisha replied softly. “Our hands were raw and cut beyond recognition.”
A weighty silence descended upon them, and Elisha felt the shared comprehension of past suffering forge an unexpected bond amidst the opulent surroundings.
Steven cleared his throat, straightening his cravat. “It is the impetus behind my relentless drive, my… protective stance toward all I have constructed. But I entreat you to understand, I genuinely desire what is best for Amelia, yourself, and our business ventures.”
As they moved through the furniture emporium, Elisha scrutinized his countenance, contemplating the sincerity she perceived in his expression. “I am most appreciative of your sentiment, Mr. Thornton.”
“However,” he continued, his gaze intensifying as he ran a hand along the back of a Chippendale settee, “I meant what I articulated regarding your correspondence with Mr. Steele. It is of paramount importance to our business ventures that you perpetuate the conflict. Moreover, I find myself experiencing a tinge of… jealousy.”
Elisha felt a rush of warmth suffuse her cheeks, her hand instinctively reaching for her fan. “Mr. Thornton, we are scarcely acquainted.”
“That may be true,” he conceded, adjusting the fit of his kid gloves, “but I certainly feel as though I know you intimately. Amelia has extolled your virtues on countless occasions, and upon our initial meeting a fortnight hence, I was utterly captivated by your beauty.”
Elisha felt her breath catch in her throat, taken aback by the directness of his declaration. “Mr. Thornton, I… I am most flattered, but I must confess I find your words rather… unexpected.”
Steven’s gaze softened, and she observed a gentle smile playing about his lips as he gestured toward a display of fine china. “I apologize if I have discomposed you, Elisha. It was not my intention. I merely wished to express my admiration and… my hope that we might become better acquainted.”
As they continued their perusal of the furnishings, Elisha found herself in a state of conflicted emotions. On one hand, Steven’s shared history and apparent sincerity touched her deeply. On the other, his sudden declaration of interest left her feeling uneasy.
“Mr. Thornton,” she began carefully, adjusting her shawl, “while I am touched by your words, I must remind you that my primary focus is on my work with our business ventures and our literacy program. Any… personal considerations must remain secondary to that purpose.”
Steven nodded, and she observed a look of understanding cross his features as he examined an ornate Regency-style mirror.
“Of course, Miss Linde. I would expect nothing less from a woman of your dedication and principles. Perhaps, in time, you might come to see that our goals are not so very different.”
As they made their way toward the exit of Mortimer’s Fine Furnishings, Elisha tried to banish thoughts of the duke from her mind.
She realized with a start that she had found genuine pleasure in her discourse with Steven and was begrudgingly developing a measure of respect for him.
Despite his humble origins, he had clearly procured a substantial education, and his opinions on literature were surprisingly astute.
She found herself chuckling at his wry observations regarding London Society.
“I am most grateful for this enlightening excursion, Mr. Thornton,” she said as they paused by a display of Wedgwood china. “It has been… most illuminating.”
He took her gloved hand, raising it to his lips in a gentlemanly salute. “The pleasure was entirely mine, Miss Linde. I do hope we might have the opportunity to engage in such discourse again in the near future.”
As Elisha observed his figure approaching a shop staff member, she wondered about this enigmatic man who seemed at once charming and calculating, then vulnerable and guarded. She found herself quite at a loss as to how to regard him.
One thing, however, remained certain. He was not the Duke of Lancaster.
The comparison arose unbidden in her mind, and Elisha chided herself for allowing her thoughts to stray in such a direction.
Yet she could not help but notice the stark differences between the two men.
Where the duke exuded a natural, almost effortless charm, everything Mr. Thornton did felt studied and carefully crafted, though no less sincere for that calculation.
As she stepped into the carriage waiting outside, Elisha found herself feeling an inexplicable sense of loyalty to the duke—a man who, she reminded herself sternly, had no claim on her affections, especially given the recent scandal sheets.
“How was your outing?” Amelia asked when Elisha entered their shared office, her tone laced with barely suppressed curiosity.
Elisha paused, considering her response carefully. “It was… enlightening,” she replied, echoing her words to Mr. Thornton. “Your brother is a more complex man than I had initially supposed.”
As she dipped her pen in ink, Elisha resolved to focus on her work, pushing thoughts of both men to the recesses of her mind. After all, she reminded herself, she had business ventures to manage and a literacy program to nurture. Matters of the heart would have to wait.