Chapter 19 The Duchess of Lancaster #2
The ticking of the mantel clock seemed to echo the rapid beating of Edgar’s heart as he awaited his mother’s response. Each second stretched like an eternity, pregnant with the weight of generations of tradition and expectation.
The duchess remained silent for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if seeing him truly for the first time in years.
When she spoke, her voice carried both gentleness and authority.
“My dear boy, your words move me deeply. It gladdens my heart to see you so impassioned, so full of life once more.” She paused, and Edgar could see her choosing her next words with care.
“However, we must tread carefully in matters of the heart, especially when they intersect with matters of duty and station.”
Edgar’s face fell, but his mother held up a hand to forestall his despair.
“I do not say no, Edgar. But neither can I give you my blessing without further consideration. Your marriage, should it come to pass, would impact not only you but our entire family. Your sisters’ prospects, our standing in Society, our fortune—all could be affected. ”
She leaned forward, taking his hand in hers.
The afternoon light caught the ancestral rings on her fingers, symbols of the very tradition they discussed.
“We must meet this lady, Edgar. Your brothers, sisters, and I. We must assess her character, her suitability not just as your wife, but as a future Duchess of Lancaster. It is a heavy burden, and not one to be undertaken lightly.”
Hope warred with apprehension in Edgar’s chest as he nodded. “I understand, Mother. And I thank you for not dismissing the notion outright.”
Edgar watched his mother’s expression grow grave.
“There is another matter we must consider, my dear. It pains me to speak of it, but you must be aware. There are those in Society who would seek to use such a match against us. In the most extreme cases, they might even attempt to have you declared…” she hesitated, the word clearly distasteful to her, “…insane.”
Edgar recoiled, shock evident on his face. The word seemed to echo in the suddenly too-small room. “Insane? Surely not!”
His mother nodded solemnly, her face shadowed by the fading light. “It has happened before, to nobles who have made matches deemed too far beneath their station. While rare, it is not unheard of.”
Edgar’s jaw clenched, anger flashing in his eyes as he processed this new threat. He felt his mother pat his hand soothingly. “Do not do anything hasty until we have a plan. Our family must present a united front, and your chosen lady must be beyond reproach in her conduct and character.”
She straightened, her voice taking on a more optimistic tone. “Now, tell me about this woman who has so thoroughly captured your heart. What is her name? How did you meet?”
As Edgar began to speak of Elisha, his heart lit with joy. He watched his mother dab at her eyes with her handkerchief, hope blooming clearly in their depths.
*
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the London Fencing and Athletics Club, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors.
The air hummed with the distinctive song of steel meeting steel, punctuated by the measured footfalls of fencers advancing and retreating along the piste.
The scents of leather and polish mingled with the subtle musk of exertion, creating an atmosphere both refined and vital.
Elisha stood at the edge of the practice area, the letter from Mr. Steele crumpling in her white-knuckled grip.
Her usual composure had cracked, allowing a glimpse of the passion she typically kept carefully contained.
The morning light caught the copper highlights in her carefully pinned hair, and she could feel the heat in her green eyes as she re-read the offensive missive.
Metropolitan Review, 10 June 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I’ve read your critique of Zanoni in your so-called esteemed gazette.
You praise the author’s “masterful interweaving of mystical elements with human emotion,” yet in the same breath, you decry the plot as “overly convenient.” Make up your mind, madam!
Or is consistency too much to ask of a critic who clearly prefers tearing down the works of better writers to creating anything of substance herself?
Your eloquent argument belies a heart as cold as a Siberian winter. Your clinical dissection of prose and laughable assertions on the human condition reveal your ivory tower isolation.
I humbly propose that we raise the stakes of our challenge to display our literary merits before Society.
Let us arrange a grand literary salon at which our respective works shall be presented for discerning judgment.
Select passages may be performed by the finest theatrical talents, ensuring accessibility to those of modest means.
All participants would then engage in scholarly discourse regarding the relative merits of each tale, with a handsome prize purse to be awarded to the most eloquent of opinions.
Such an event would not only elevate the literary arts but provide entertainment of the highest caliber for all of London Society.
I do wish you would put your money where your overactive quill is or admit defeat and spare us your highbrow pontificating. Prove you’re more than a sharp tongue and bitter heart, or retreat to your shadowy perch like a coward.
Your exasperated servant,
Aengus Steele
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 eyes tightened 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, Miss Thornton, 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.