Between Hope and Despair
The morning light filtered weakly through the heavy curtains of Edgar’s London townhouse as Hawkins moved about the master’s bedchamber with his usual quiet efficiency.
Three days had passed since New Year’s Eve—three days since Edgar had knelt before half of London’s literary society only to watch the woman he loved walk away without a word.
Edgar sat motionless in the chair before his dressing table, staring at his reflection with something approaching horror. His hair hung past his collar in unkempt waves, while his beard had grown wild and unruly during his months of exile. He looked like a man who had wrestled with demons and lost.
“Well,” Hawkins observed dryly as he laid out his implements with surgical precision, “I see the romantic poet aesthetic has reached its natural conclusion. Shall I assume Your Grace wishes to maintain this… Robinson Crusoe appearance for your morning constitutional?”
Edgar’s laugh was hollow. “Does it matter? She’s probably already decided I’m beyond redemption.”
“Undoubtedly,” Hawkins agreed with cheerful brutality, running his fingers through Edgar’s tangled locks. “Though one might argue that looking like a vagrant could work in your favor. Nothing says ‘tortured by love’ quite like appearing as though you’ve been living in a cave.”
“Your sympathy is overwhelming,” Edgar muttered.
Hawkins began working a comb through the worst of the tangles, his movements gentle despite his sharp tongue. “Might I inquire what has been occupying Your Grace’s time these past three months, if not basic grooming?”
Edgar winced as the comb hit a particularly stubborn knot. “I’ve been… thinking.”
“Ah, thinking,” Hawkins repeated with mock enlightenment. “How very productive. And did this extensive contemplation yield any insights?”
“I needed time to process everything,” Edgar said defensively. “The deception, Thornton’s accusations…”
“Quite right,” Hawkins agreed, continuing his work patiently. “Nothing says ‘I am engaging in important reflection’ quite like neglecting one’s toilet.”
Edgar sat blankly while Hawkins worked his magic.
“They saved us both,” Edgar said quietly, watching hair fall to the floor around his chair. “I still can’t believe Dickens stood up like that. And Charlotte Bronte—she barely knows me or Elisha, yet she was willing to risk everything.”
“Writers,” Hawkins observed with philosophical detachment, “are peculiar creatures. They spend their lives crafting stories of justice triumphing over villainy. When presented with a real-life opportunity to play the hero, they can hardly resist the temptation.”
Edgar felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease as Hawkins worked. “Thornton looked… broken at the end. Almost pitiful.”
“Yes, well, there’s nothing quite like watching one’s carefully laid plans crumble in spectacular fashion to deflate the ego.” Hawkins moved to examine Edgar’s wild beard with professional assessment. “In front of London’s literary elite, no less. It’s almost as if he wanted to fail dramatically.”
“I think he was past caring about strategy,” Edgar said, remembering the desperation in Thornton’s eyes. “He was a man with nothing left to lose.”
“Unlike yourself, of course,” Hawkins noted, beginning to trim the beard with careful precision, “who merely risks losing the love of his life, his reputation, and quite possibly his life.”
Edgar met his valet’s eyes in the mirror. “She walked away, Hawkins. Without a word. I knelt before half of London and laid my heart bare, and she just… left.”
Hawkins paused in his trimming, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.
“Your Grace, if I may venture an observation? The lady in question has spent months believing herself in love with two different men, only to discover they were the same person. I imagine the poor woman feels rather like Viola in Twelfth Night—caught in a web of mistaken identities not of her own making.”
“You think she might forgive me?” Edgar’s voice carried a hope he was afraid to acknowledge.
“I think,” Hawkins said carefully, returning to his work, “that a woman of Miss Linde’s caliber is not likely to abandon such a connection over wounded pride.”
Edgar felt his heart lift slightly for the first time in days. “So you believe she’ll give me another chance?”
“I believe,” Hawkins replied with a slight smile, “that she’s probably sitting in her office at this very moment, wondering if you’re brave enough to come to her. The question is: Are you?”
As Hawkins put the finishing touches on Edgar’s transformation, Edgar studied his reflection. He looked like himself again—polished but not overly formal, respectable but approachable.
“There,” Hawkins announced with satisfaction. “No longer resembling a castaway, though I’ve maintained just enough dishevelment to suggest sleepless nights and tormented passion. One must strike the proper balance between respectability and romantic suffering.”
Edgar rose from the chair, feeling lighter than he had since New Year’s Eve.
Hawkins began tidying his implements with meticulous care while talking almost to himself.
“If the lady rejects Your Grace after everything you’ve been through together, I shall personally pack your bags for an extended tour of the Continent.
Sometimes strategic retreat is the only option left to a gentleman. ”
Edgar paused at the door to his dressing room. “And if she forgives me?”
A genuine smile crossed Hawkins’ weathered features. “Then I shall begin preparing for a wedding, Your Grace. Though I do hope you’ll give me adequate notice—orchestrating a ducal wedding requires significantly more effort than trimming an overgrown beard.”
As Edgar allowed Hawkins to complete his transformation as a duke, he felt something he hadn’t experienced in months: hope.
Whether Elisha would accept his apology, whether she could forgive his deceptions, remained to be seen.
But for the first time since New Year’s Eve, he believed it might be possible.
An hour later, the morning sun was crisp and bright over London’s rooftops when Edgar presented himself at the Metropolitan Review, his appearance once again befitting a duke in love.
As he approached the imposing building, he noticed a slim figure huddled near the entrance. He recognized young Jonathan from the literacy contest, his clothes showing signs of a night spent outdoors. The boy’s eyes widened in recognition.
“Your Grace,” Jonathan whispered, ducking his head in deference.
Edgar paused, studying the young man’s worn appearance. “You’re the book wizard from the contest, are you not? What brings you here at such an early hour?”
“Mr. Thornton offered me a job at the gazette but didn’t specify when he expected me.”
After a brief exchange about Mr. Thornton’s promise and Jonathan’s daily vigil since, Edgar’s heart softened. “Come, let us make our inquiries together.”
Taking a deep breath, he raised the brass knocker and announced their arrival. The young man’s wide-eyed anticipation seemed to equal his own.
“Your Grace! What a pleasant surprise!” Amelia said with a bright smile. “And I remember you. You are Jonathan, the famous book wizard.”
Jonathan smiled shyly at the compliment, shifting from right foot to left.
As Amelia Thornton ushered them into the office she shared with Elisha, Edgar’s eyes took in every detail of the room.
He developed a new appreciation for the small space, though he’d seen it before, likely because he wasn’t certain if he’d see it ever again after today.
The office bore the unmistakable touches of care and refinement.
He noted the simple paintings of vases of wildflowers, their simple beauty an indication of the inhabitants’ sensibilities.
Settling onto the worn settee, Edgar felt an unfamiliar flutter of nervousness in his chest. He had faced down lords and ladies in the most intimidating of social situations, yet here, in this unpretentious setting, he found himself battling thousands of butterflies in his gut.
Jonathan mirrored his own apprehension, remaining standing while shifting his weight.
When Elisha entered the room, Edgar’s breath caught in his throat. Her simple day dress and hastily pinned up hair only served to enhance her natural beauty in his eyes. He rose to his feet, summoning every ounce of his ducal composure.
“Miss von Linde,” he began, allowing a hint of playfulness to color his tone, “I come to report for duty as your personal assistant, as per the terms of our wager. I am a man of my word, after all.”
Edgar cleared his throat, his eyes moving between Elisha and Jonathan. “I happened upon young Jonathan quite by chance. As I approached the Metropolitan’s offices, I observed him standing near the entrance.”
He turned to Jonathan with a gentle smile. “I recognized him from the literacy contest, of course. Upon inquiry, he shared his daily vigil, awaiting Mr. Thornton’s promised opportunity.”
Elisha’s brow furrowed as she processed this information. “Mr. Thornton hasn’t been in since the contest. I am sorry you waited all this time. Why did you not ask someone for help?”
Jonathan looked at Edgar as if to ask for permission to speak. Upon his nod, the boy said, “I asked a man fixing the machine, Miss, but he chased me away.”
After a moment of contemplation, Elisha addressed Edgar, her tone businesslike yet tinged with warmth. “Very well, Your Grace. Since you’ve volunteered your services, I believe we should put them to good use.”
She glanced at Jonathan, taking in his filthy appearance with compassion. “Our first order of business shall be to attend to the young man’s immediate needs. Your Grace, I task you with assisting Jonathan in refreshing himself. The washroom is just down the hall.”
Edgar’s eyebrows rose slightly, uncertain how to go about washing away weeks, if not months, of grime using a wash basin, but he nodded in acquiescence.