Chapter 20 The Reform
The Reform
Dear Mr. Steele,
Your latest missive, with its personal attacks and grandiose challenges, amuses me. How like a man cornered by superior intellect.
Your accusation of inconsistency merely reveals your lack of nuance. One can appreciate and critique different aspects of an author’s work—a concept perhaps beyond your pulp romance sensibilities.
I accept your additional terms of the contest among our discerning readers, Mr. Steele. Prepare yourself. I shall expose the bankruptcy of your literary philosophy to London’s scholars. Perhaps I should draft your concession speech, given your prose quality.
Grateful for your shortcomings,
E. Lovelace
Edgar sat at a desk in the otherwise empty room, stroking Elisha’s name on parchment with his thumb. He found some reprieve since devising a stratagem with his friends, but waiting for his mother’s blessing forced him to keep his distance a little longer.
He missed her. His heart seemed to tighten along with his lungs every time he thought of her.
He wondered if she was suffering as he was.
She seemed so sure, confident about her decision to avoid him, avoid a potential assault on her heart.
She was right, of course. She had nothing, no protection, nothing to gain from an affair with no promise.
But with the strength of hellfire, he missed her.
The knock on the door awoke him from the gloom he felt, introducing Hereford. His friend walked in with the confidence of a crane, then stopped abruptly.
“Did someone pass away overnight?”
Edgar waved away the remark. Hereford, noticing the letter on the desk, brightened. “I see the source of your sour expression. So, Miss Lovelace does it again.”
Irked by Hereford’s brightness, Edgar stood and walked to the tunnel door.
“Pay attention, Hereford,” he said as he demonstrated the maneuvers necessary to open the hidden door.
“Brilliant! Who constructed this?”
“My steward. He’s sworn to secrecy.”
“Well, we know a place to bury him if he doesn’t keep his mouth sealed,” Hereford said jovially as he entered the passage.
The narrow tunnel was damp and musty, barely wide enough for a man to crawl through. Edgar led the way, his fine coat collecting dirt as he inched forward on his elbows. Behind him, Hereford suppressed a cough, the dust thick in the air.
“I say, Lancaster,” Hereford whispered, his voice reverberating softly in the confined space, “we’ve done a remarkably fine job excavating this tunnel.”
Edgar’s response was muffled, his face close to the earthen floor. “Indeed, I have. You were nowhere near.”
“And observe the precision of it all—right angles at every turn, as if carved by a master mason.”
“You may direct your praises to my steward for that particular feat.”
“I may have to entice him away to construct my own subterranean passage.”
“And, pray tell, what purpose would that serve?”
“To sequester myself from my future bride, naturally.”
“Ah, and who might the fortunate lady be?”
“That, my friend, remains a mystery even to me.”
“Your nuptials seem doomed from the outset.”
“Aye, I approach the altar with no small measure of trepidation.”
“Patience, old friend. You may yet mature into the role of husband.”
Edgar’s progress halted as his outstretched hand met a wooden panel.
With a soft click that seemed to echo their surreptitious purpose, it swung open, revealing a small chamber beyond.
The two gentlemen extricated themselves from the narrow passage, straightening to their full height in the low-ceilinged space.
With practiced ease, Edgar located the matches and lantern positioned by the door. As the flame flickered to life, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls, he moved with barely contained excitement toward a set of shelves lining the far wall.
Hereford, brushing the dirt from his once-immaculate trousers, muttered, “Good God, Lancaster, I do hope this tunnel justifies the lamentable state of my attire.”
“Oh, it does indeed,” Edgar replied, his voice low with conspiratorial glee. “Cast your eyes upon this, my friend.”
The shelves before them were laden with neatly stacked pamphlets and broadsheets, their titles barely visible in the flickering lamplight. As Hereford leaned in to examine them more closely, his eyes widened with shock.
“By Jove, Lancaster,” he breathed, “you’ve been busy, haven’t you? ‘The People’s Charter: A Call for Universal Suffrage,’” he read. “‘Irish Repeal: The Case for Self-Governance.’ Lancaster, these are not the erotic tales we discussed. These are…”
“Highly controversial and potentially treasonable,” Edgar finished, nodding. “Exactly. Which is why we must exercise the utmost discretion.”
Hereford picked up another pamphlet, its cover adorned with a stark illustration of a workhouse. “‘The New Poor Law: A Treatise on Institutional Cruelty.’ My word, if these were discovered…”
“It would mean ruin,” Edgar said grimly. “For us, and for the authors. Many of these writers are respected members of Society, secretly sympathetic to reform. If their identities were revealed…”
He left the sentence hanging, but Hereford nodded in understanding. In the charged political atmosphere, with Chartist uprisings and Irish unrest, such literature was dynamite.
“Now,” Edgar said, pulling out Miss Lovelace’s letter to lighten the mood, “What do you make of her response?”
Hereford scanned the letter, a smile tugging at his lips. “What do you know? She’s accepted the challenge. A brave soul, she is.”
“That she is, but…” Edgar sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t anticipate how it would feel to wound her, even in my guise as Steele.”
Hereford’s expression softened. “It is adorable to witness you wearing your heart on your sleeve. I do not believe I have seen you thus, not even when…”
Edgar nodded, understanding his friend’s intended words. “I loved Lucia but not with the urgency I feel now. Elisha, on the other hand… I care for her more than I should. More than is wise.”
Hereford clapped him on the shoulder. “The heart wants what it wants, old friend. But for now, we must focus on the task at hand. This wager will make Miss Linde the talk of London’s literary circles. It’s a step toward making her acceptable in the eyes of Society.”
Edgar nodded, squaring his shoulders. “You’re right, of course. We must see this through.”
Carefully replacing the pamphlets, Hereford paused. “Lancaster,” he said softly, “are all these,” he gestured at the controversial literature, “because of what Miss Linde said? This is dangerous.”
Edgar’s expression was somber as he nodded. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
“I must ask. What exactly is your purpose with these pamphlets?”
Edgar turned to face Hereford, his expression resolute. “My only duty is to store them. The Pioneer’s contacts will access them as needed.”
“Can they be trusted?”
Edgar nodded. “Adams has obtained a signed letter from the leader, leverage I can use for protection should it be required.”
“My next question is why are you showing me this?”
“These shall be hidden behind the erotic literature. I would not wish to disappoint any gentleman by giving them the wrong prohibited material. The letter from the leader is kept here.” Edgar pulled out a small brick from behind the desk.
Hereford exhaled loudly. “I do not mean any offense, but I thought you did not believe in radical changes.”
“That is true, but I am beginning to see that the reform is more urgently needed than I had believed. The Factory Act was a start, but it’s not enough. We need comprehensive labor reform, Hereford. Shorter working hours, better conditions, a living wage.”
“That’s a radical position for a duke.”
“It is, but I have a better chance of survival than all the others who are directly involved. These pamphlets are a way to spread the message but also to gauge the pulse of the reform movement. I must protect the authors who risk everything to speak out.”
Hereford opened his mouth agape as realization dawned. “She is one of the authors! You are doing this to protect her!”
Edgar nodded. “Aye.”
“Edgar, you’re a noble fool. You are risking everything for a woman? What would your family say?”
“They are unaware.”
Hereford puffed out air. “I must say, I did not realize how deeply you felt for Miss Linde. I cannot comprehend it.”
“I pray you will one day,” Edgar said. “Was it erroneous to involve you?”
Hereford shook his head. “No. The four of us have always helped each other in any way we could. You made the right decision by uniting as many powerful families as possible. It is about time my stuffy family did something good for others. I shall blame it on my least favorite uncle if I must.”
“Ah, the one with a penchant for groping boys?”
“Aye, that one. And now, to the most important question… What is happening with our original venture of erotic literature?”
Edgar’s eyes twinkled. “We continue as planned. We need a cover, more so now than before.”
“Excellent. That’s the spirit.” Hereford gestured to the tunnel. “Shall we return to the world above? It is rather damp in here.”
*
Metropolitan Review, 24 June 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I must commend you on your ability to wield sarcasm as deftly as a fencer wields a foil. Bravo! It seems you are capable of passion after all, even if it is merely the passion of indignation.
Your ever-eager servant,
Aengus Steele
P.S. I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a front-row seat for your eventual public reading. I do hope you’ll practice your enunciation. It would be a shame if my words were to lose their impact due to poor delivery.