The Meeting
Steven Thornton leaned back in his plush leather chair, his eyes fixed on Elisha with an intensity that made her slightly uncomfortable. The office seemed to shrink under his scrutiny.
“Miss Linde,” he began, his tone deceptively casual, “I find myself in need of your particular talents this evening.”
Elisha raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what talents might those be, Mr. Thornton?”
A smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “Your journalistic acumen, of course. There’s to be a function at the Reform Club. Several prominent members of Parliament will be in attendance.”
“I see. And your interest in this gathering?”
Thornton leaned forward, his voice lowering conspiratorially.
“You may not be aware, but I’ve been negotiating the purchase of the Royal Mail Coach Company.
This event presents an opportunity to… shall we say, gauge the political climate surrounding the potential acquisition.
I’d like you to accompany me,” Thornton said smoothly.
Elisha hesitated, her mind racing. The thought of possibly seeing the Duke of Lancaster again made her pulse quicken both with excitement and dread. However, he had denied having strong feelings about the reform. Perhaps he wouldn’t be in attendance.
Sensing her hesitation, Thornton pressed on.
“There shall be opportunities to interview the Members of Parliament for the gazette, insider information on potential reforms. It is a chance to legitimize our paper as something more than a literary publication, for reform does not only apply to housing and working conditions, but education and literature as well.”
Elisha became more alert at the mention of education. “Very well, Mr. Thornton. I shall accompany you to this function.”
Thornton’s smile widened, warmth spreading to his eyes. “Excellent. I’ll have a carriage sent for you at seven o’clock this evening. And one more thing, Miss Linde. I’ve been considering your wager with Mr. Steele, and I believe I have a proposition that might interest you.”
Elisha’s eyebrows rose in curiosity. “Indeed, Mr. Thornton? Pray, do enlighten me.”
“I wonder if you might benefit from a period of uninterrupted solitude to focus on your novel. Say, perhaps, a month away from the bustle of London?”
Elisha’s eyes widened in surprise. “A month? That’s a generous offer, Mr. Thornton. But I’m not certain I can afford to be away from my duties at the Metropolitan for so long.”
Steven waved away her concern. “Consider it an investment in your talent, Miss Linde. Amelia tells me that she can manage in your absence, you shall continue to receive your wage, and I’m more than willing to fund this creative retreat.”
“Mr. Thornton… I’m not sure what to say. Your generosity is overwhelming.”
He smiled with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Think nothing of it. However, I would suggest keeping this arrangement private. We wouldn’t want you to be disturbed by well-meaning friends or colleagues. This is work, after all, not a leisure trip.”
Elisha nodded, still somewhat dazed by the offer. “Of course, that makes perfect sense. But where would I go? I’ve no experience in seeking out suitable locations for such an endeavor.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of making arrangements in Tunbridge Wells,” Steven replied smoothly.
“Tunbridge Wells?” Elisha echoed, her brow furrowing slightly. “Why there, if I may ask?”
Steven’s smile widened. “I have a property there that would suit your needs admirably. It’s a tranquil locale, far removed from the clamor of London.
The people there are discreet, accustomed to respecting the privacy of visitors.
You’ll find it the perfect environment for focusing on your work without distraction. ”
As he spoke, Elisha imagined writing by a window overlooking the tranquil countryside. It seemed like a dream.
“It sounds ideal.” Excitement crept into her voice despite her effort to remain neutral. “But are you certain you can spare me for so long?”
“My dear Miss Linde,” his tone was warm like melted butter, “I consider it my duty to nurture your considerable talents. The Metropolitan will benefit greatly from the fruits of your uninterrupted labor, I’m sure.”
As she left his office, Elisha couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just agreed to something far more complicated than a simple evening of interviews or writing a novel.
The prospect of seeing the duke again, coupled with Thornton’s ulterior motives, made her wary of potential pitfalls and unexpected revelations.
*
The Reform Club’s grand hall hummed with the carefully modulated voices of power.
Crystal chandeliers cast their glow over mahogany panels and gilt-framed portraits of past Prime Ministers, their stern faces watching the evening’s proceedings with painted gravity.
The air was thick with tobacco smoke and ambition, each carefully orchestrated group below marking their territory like pieces on a chessboard.
Elisha drew in a steadying breath as she entered on Steven’s arm.
“The Factory Act supporters are gathered by the fireplace,” Steven murmured, his breath warm against her ear as he nodded toward a cluster of Whig politicians. “Lord Melbourne seems particularly animated this evening. Perhaps the latest child labor reports have finally stirred his conscience.”
Elisha followed his gaze, noting how the Home Secretary’s usually languid demeanor had indeed given way to emphatic gestures as he addressed his circle.
The Reform Club had arranged the hall with deliberate hierarchy—a raised dais at one end where the most influential Members of Parliament held court, while the rest of the gathering ebbed and flowed across the main floor like elaborate social currents.
Steven guided her through the crowd with practiced ease, his tailored evening wear and commanding presence drawing appreciative glances from the ladies they passed.
There was something almost predatory in his grace, Elisha thought, watching him work the room.
Each greeting, each perfectly timed laugh, served a purpose in his carefully constructed world.
“Miss Linde,” he said, procuring two glasses of champagne from a passing footman, “I believe you’ll find Lord Holland particularly interested in your latest article about the workhouse conditions in Manchester. His constituency has been… shall we say, restless since the Poor Law Amendment Act.”
The subtle emphasis on “restless” spoke volumes. Elisha had heard whispers of riots in the northern manufacturing towns, of desperate workers and even more desperate measures. She accepted the champagne, using the moment to survey the room more carefully.
In one corner, Conservative Members of Parliament huddled like ravens, their black evening coats forming a barrier against unwelcome reform.
She recognized Lord Wellington among them, his military bearing unchanged since his days commanding armies.
Now he marshaled political forces instead, though with perhaps less success.
“The Chartists have them rattled,” Steven commented, following her gaze. “Six demands for reform, each more radical than the last. Universal male suffrage?” He clicked his tongue softly. “They fear it would upset the very foundations of Society.”
“And would that be such a tragedy?” Elisha asked quietly, thinking of the faces she’d seen in the workhouses—men and women who had no voice in the laws that governed their lives. “Perhaps some foundations need shaking.”
Steven’s hand tightened slightly on her arm, though his pleasant expression never wavered. “Careful, Miss Linde. Such talk might be tolerated in our gazette, but here…” He let the warning hang unfinished as Lord Breckenridge approached.
It was then that she saw him.
The Duke of Lancaster stood in conversation with several Members of Parliament, his commanding presence drawing eyes even in this gathering of powerful men.
His evening attire, impeccably tailored, emphasized the athletic build that spoke of regular fencing and riding rather than the soft indolence of many nobles.
But it was his expression that caught and held her attention—intense, focused.
For a moment, their eyes met across the crowded room. The jolt of recognition, of connection, nearly caused her to stumble. The past weeks of silence stretched between them like an uncrossable chasm.
“Miss Linde?” Steven’s voice brought her back to the present. He was watching her with concern but also calculation. “Shall we make our way to Lord Holland? I believe he’s about to address the gathering about the latest reform proposals.”
Elisha straightened her spine, grateful for the years of practice masking her emotions. “Of course, Mr. Thornton. Lead the way.”
As they moved through the crowd, she could feel Edgar’s gaze following their progress.
The weight of it pressed against her shoulders like a physical touch, reminding her of all that remained unsaid between them.
But there were more immediate concerns demanding her attention.
The Reform Club might present itself as a genteel gathering place for politicians, but tonight it was a battlefield. And she had her own war to wage.
The gathered Members of Parliament arranged themselves in a loose semicircle as Lord Holland took his position before the fireplace.
The flames cast dramatic shadows across his aristocratic features as he cleared his throat.
The rustle of silk and whisper of feet on carpet faded to expectant silence.
“Gentlemen—and ladies,” he added with a perfunctory nod toward the feminine portion of his audience, “we gather at a crucial moment in our nation’s history.
The clamor for reform grows louder by the day.
The Chartists march in our streets. The Factory Question divides our Parliament.
Even now, children as young as nine labor in our mills. ”