Crushing Bones
Dear Mr. Steele,
Your latest missive provided a moment of levity amid my productive writing. Your attempts at wit amuse me until pity overtakes. Do continue trying, sir.
Your concern for my emotional recognition is misplaced. A critic illuminates, not weeps. A surgeon doesn’t cry over incisions yet retains compassion. Don’t strain your limited imagination; take my word for it.
As for your comments on the complexities of the human heart, it is precisely because I comprehend the intricacies of human nature that I am able to discern the difference between authentic emotion and overemotional sentimentality in prose.
From shucking oysters at the age of five, picking oakum, crushing bones, to finally breaking stones when I was older, I have encountered many emotions firsthand and witnessed the suffering of many other downtrodden souls.
I doubt you have made your I-shall-donate-1000 pounds-sterling-for-my-amusement wealth by crushing bones, have you, Mr. Steele?
Your temper tantrum over lukewarm tea does not suffice, sir.
Your ever composed adversary,
E. Lovelace
Edgar sat at his desk, Elisha’s letter in his hands. His eyes scanned the words again and again, a mix of emotions playing across his face.
At first, a smile tugged at his lips, appreciating Elisha’s sharp wit and clever retorts.
But as he read on, his expression grew more serious, even pained.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as the weight of her words sank in.
He had known of her humble beginnings, but to read her stark description of the trials she had faced… it shamed him deeply.
“Crushing bones,” he murmured, shaking his head. The contrast between her experiences and his privileged upbringing had never been so apparent.
Edgar set the letter down on the desk, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He had started this correspondence for pride and monetary gain. But now, faced with the reality of Elisha’s life and the depth of her character, he felt foolish and small.
“What have I done?” he whispered to the empty room. The dual identity he had created now felt like a trap of his own making. How could he continue goading and insulting her, knowing the pain and struggle she had endured?
Edgar stood, pacing the room as he grappled with his conflicting emotions. Pride in Elisha’s strength and resilience warred with shame at his own actions. Admiration for her clashed with fear of losing her once the truth came to light.
Finally, he returned to the desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. He had to respond as Steele and persist in his plan. Eventually, he would find a way to reveal the truth and hope that Elisha could forgive him.
With a heavy heart and a trembling hand, Edgar began to write:
Metropolitan Review, 3 July 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your account of childhood labor provides fascinating insight into your critical disposition.
One might say you’ve gone from crushing bones to crushing spirits, though I confess your particular brand of brutality possesses a certain charm.
How fortunate that your early experiences with oyster shucking prepared you so thoroughly for prizing open the shells of literary works to expose their true value.
I shall not bore you with tales of my own upbringing as you’ve already painted such a vivid picture of my supposedly pampered existence.
I will point out that experiencing hardship is not the sole path to understanding human nature.
Some of us achieve insight through observation and contemplation rather than manual labor.
Your assertion that a critic need not weep to illuminate rings hollow. Would you apply the same logic to authors? Must they remain emotionally detached to create work of merit? I suspect not. Yet you demand this curious double standard of critics.
As for my “temper tantrum over lukewarm tea”, I assure you, madam, my complaints are reserved for matters of genuine substance. Such as critics who mistake cynicism for discernment.
Your reference to my charitable inclinations, while meant to wound, only reveals your own prejudices. Tell me, does the fact that I possess means to help others somehow diminish the value of doing so? Or perhaps you believe suffering alone grants one the right to speak on suffering?
Your ever intrigued opponent,
Mr. Steele
Edgar set down his pen, but the shame lingered. Each word he’d written as Steele felt like another betrayal, another layer of deception between them. He needed distance—from London, from the temptation to seek her out, from the constant reminder of his duplicity.
When Beckett arrived later that afternoon, Edgar barely looked up from his brooding.
“Your Grace,” his solicitor began carefully, “forgive the intrusion, but I’ve been observing your… state of mind these past weeks. Perhaps what you need is time away from the complexities of London Society. A chance to gain perspective on matters of the heart.”
Edgar’s head snapped up. “What are you suggesting?”
“Your Kent estate, Your Grace. The railway negotiations require your eventual attention, though not urgently. But a retreat to the countryside might provide the clarity you seek.”
The suggestion struck Edgar as both salvation and cowardice. “Perhaps you’re right, Beckett. I shall depart immediately.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
*
The next day, the grand dining room of Lancaster Hall echoed with the gentle clink of silverware and the low murmur of conversation. Despite the familiar comfort of his family estate, Edgar sat at the head of the table with his mind far away, barely registering the tender roast before him.
To his right, his mother presided over the meal with her usual grace. Edmund and Edwin sat opposite Essie and Eva, their youthful energy a stark contrast to Edgar’s distracted demeanor.
“I say,” Edwin suddenly announced, breaking through Edgar’s reverie, “I’ve had the most amusing idea.”
The table fell silent, all eyes turning to the second-born son.
“Do enlighten us,” Essie said dryly.
Edwin leaned forward, his blue eyes sparkling and voice lowered conspiratorially. “I’m thinking of writing to Miss Lovelace as Mr. Steele.”
Edgar’s head snapped up, his attention fully engaged for the first time that evening.
“What nonsense is this?” Essie exclaimed, her brows furrowing.
Edwin grinned. “Just imagine it! I could have the letter printed in the papers, surprise the lady by confessing my undying love for her. Wouldn’t that be a lark?”
Eva gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Edwin, you couldn’t! It would be terribly cruel to toy with her emotions so!”
“Oh, come now,” Edwin said, leaning back in his chair, “it could be quite entertaining. The talk of the town, no doubt.”
The duchess cleared her throat, her disapproval evident. “I hardly think such deception is becoming of a gentleman of four and twenty, Edwin.”
All eyes turned to Edgar, awaiting his opinion on the matter.
He sat with his countenance betraying nothing, though his heart raced with panic.
“I believe it would be unwise to interfere in Miss Lovelace’s professional affairs.
Her correspondence with Mr. Steele is a matter of public interest, not a playground for our amusement.
It seems to me you have too much time on your hands, Edwin.
We shall discuss your future after dinner.
It is not too late to consider the military as an option. ”
Edwin’s face fell. As the conversation moved on, Edgar couldn’t shake the unease that had settled over him. The thought of anyone else stepping into the role of Steele, even in jest, filled him with protective fury.
“I would like to discuss a matter of the heart,” Essie began, her voice tinged with wistful longing. “I find myself longing for a sister-in-law, Edgar. A confidante to whom I might turn for counsel, one who would offer her shoulder in times of sorrow.”
Edgar paused mid-bite, taken aback by this unexpected entreaty. His brothers, ever quick to seize an opportunity for mischief, affected exaggerated sobs and clasped their hands in mock plea.
“I, too, would welcome a sister-in-law,” Edwin added. “Preferably before your hair begins to silver, Edgar.”
The duchess cast a pointed glance at her taciturn son while deftly reducing her roast to more manageable morsels.
“Have you, perchance, a lady in mind who might prove a suitable addition to our family?” Edmund asked.
Edgar hesitated, then gestured toward his brothers. “Should you wish to enter into matrimony first, I would raise no objection.”
Eva, the youngest of his siblings, placed a hand on her heart and regarded him knowingly.
“Nay, sister, I no longer mourn for Lucia,” he assured her softly.
Eva and Essie both covered their mouths behind their hands, joyful tears pooling in their eyes.
“Edgar, whatever happened to that farmer’s daughter? Do you remember? Lily, was it?” Edwin asked, followed by, “Ow! What?”
“Think, you imbecile!” Edmund barked.
“That will be pointless since there is nothing in that brain of his,” Eva said.
“Someone tell me, or I shall make the same mistake again!” Edwin protested.
Just as Edmund was about to deal him an elbow to his side, Edgar said, “It’s all right, Edmund.
” Directing his attention to Edwin, he continued, “You were away at school, so likely heard about her in bits and pieces. I do not fault you for not remembering. Her name was Lucia. She and I had an understanding, but it was not to be due to the vast differences in our stations.”
Edwin frowned, the crease between his brows deepening as he sat pensively.
Essie snickered. “You snuck down to the village at every opportunity to steal moments with her.”
Edgar sighed and leaned back in his chair, recalling the story which had lived in his mind for years.
“For three glorious years, I believed we might defy the constraints of our stations. But Father…” He paused, his jaw tightening.
“Father made it abundantly clear that such a union was not to be countenanced. He threatened to ruin her family if I persisted in my foolishness.”
A hush fell over the table as he reached for his wine glass.
“I am so sorry, Edgar,” Eva said gently.
“No, no, that is not whom I meant,” Edwin said at last. “Perhaps she was a baker’s daughter. She followed you everywhere when she was a child. Do you not recall, Edgar? She was only two or three years your junior. Then, one day, I chanced upon you two in a rather compromising embrace.”
“Edwin!” The duchess’ voice snapped like a whip. “Have you no sense of propriety in the presence of your sisters?”
“We are not entirely ignorant of such matters, Mama,” Eva said.
“Speak for yourself,” Essie retorted.
“Indeed, I shall. I witnessed you with—ouch!”
“Essie, you and I shall have words after dinner,” the duchess said.
“Whatever became of her?” Edwin pressed, glancing around the table at the blank expressions. “The baker’s daughter!”
“Her name was Lily. You were correct in that,” Edgar said, clearing his throat. “We were young. It was mere youthful folly, nothing more.”
“I encountered her just last year with her infant. She had married a physician in a neighboring parish. She appeared content,” Essie offered.
Edgar smiled, grateful for the happy news. “I am relieved to hear it. In truth, I harbored guilt for causing her pain. I learned the harsh lesson that love, no matter how pure, often falters in the face of societal expectations.”
“You seem to have a predilection for ladies of common birth, Ed—ow!” Edwin glared at Edmund while rubbing his side.
Edgar sighed inwardly. The pattern had not escaped his notice. Lucia. Lily. And now Elisha. Here he was, repeating history yet again. Or was he? This time he was maintaining his distance before misleading her, before they formed an attachment. All because he feared what his family stood to lose.
But his friends’ voices echoed in his mind: Elevate her to the most sought-after woman in London. Increase her popularity, and the ton shall accept her.
A sudden, disquieting thought struck him—while he sat idly at his family’s supper table, paralyzed by old fears and family patterns, he might be relinquishing Elisha to Thornton.
The man had been positioning himself as her protector, her patron, her guide through London Society.
Steven Thornton, with his wealth and influence, could offer her everything Edgar hesitated to provide.
The realization filled him with a sense of dread that cut through his comfortable retreat. Distance had indeed revealed what truly mattered—and what he stood to lose through his own cowardice.
Edgar set down his wine glass with trembling fingers. Perhaps it was time to stop repeating the mistakes of his past and start fighting for his future.