“Your skin is so soft, Fanny,” he murmured. “The blush rises to your cheek at my slightest touch. Did you know, you are very pretty, indeed?” His finger traced her delicate collarbone, then trailed down to the gentle rise of her bosom. “So soft. Here. And here.”
“Mr. Crawford, pray, stop.” Fanny whispered, her breath catching in her throat.
He laid his hand on one breast.
“What’s this? What do I feel? A wildly fluttering little heart? Afraid?” Crawford’s lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Come, my timid little girl. You long to know, do you not? Allow me to show you.”
She turned her head away from him, and tried to will her arms and legs to move. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, and intimately nuzzled her neck. She could hear his ragged breath as his warm hands slowly slid her gown off one shoulder, then the other.
“Ah, Fanny. You are truly lovely.”
With a painful, desperate effort, Fanny pushed him away, and awoke with a gasp, with the most peculiar sensations flooding through her, so that she could hardly meet the eyes of the housemaid who came in soon after to help her dress.
Chapter Six
Dear Cousin Edmund,
The Crocodile is making for Portsmouth. We stop over in Gibraltar, so this note may reach you by packet before I return to England. In any case, I shall write again to confirm my safe arrival, and to repeat the message I am sending in this letter.
As you know, many of our crewmen have died, owing to the fevers and plagues of Africa. To this list I must add, with the greatest sorrow, our well-respected commander, Capt. Columbine. He always treated me in a most kind and fatherly fashion, and I feel his loss exceedingly.
When our poor Captain became so ill he was unable to carry out his duties in Sierra Leone, he resigned the governorship and we took ship for England, but he passed away last night, and we have just sent his body to the deep. His wife and little daughter died in Africa.
My heart is full as I write, and the deepest sorrow overpowers me. Cousin Edmund, whatever were once my wishes, and my hopes, the example of Captain Columbine and his family has brought home to me the conviction that the risks and dangers facing any lady who marries a naval officer are so considerable, that her friends ought to caution her against it. Furthermore, no man of sense or humanity would want to visit such miseries on the head of the woman he loved and esteemed.
This was my late Captain’s advice to me, cousin Edmund, almost his last words, and I intend to take them to heart.
How would it be an act of love to ask a lady to wait, in anxiety and loneliness, while her husband engages in war? For her to be a wife only in name, for perhaps years at a time? Nor could I imagine placing any woman, least of all one I loved, in the path of danger.
You will therefore understand my reasons for continuing in bachelorhood and denying myself the happiness of matrimony. Believe me most sincerely, it is not so I may avoid pain and unhappiness, but so that I do not inflict either on someone I most tenderly love and treasure.
I send you all my sincere prayers for your continued health and happiness.
I have the honour to remain, Sir,
Your obedient servant and friend,
Cousin William
Edmund sat at the breakfast table, with William’s letter in his hands, thankful that Julia had slept late that morning, as it gave him time to harden himself to the necessity of telling her that her lieutenant—the man she dreamt of and waited for—would not be coming to claim her.
He decided it would be better to give her William’s note to read for herself. Solitude would be her best friend in her first effusions of sorrow; his sympathy would be her surest comfort in the days to come, but, when the news first broke upon her, he did not wish to force her into restraint. Accordingly, later that day, he pressed the note into her hand, kissed her forehead, and assured her that he was nearby in the event she wished to speak with him.
Hours passed. Julia did not come downstairs for dinner, and a tray left outside her room remained untouched. The household did not see her until night had fallen, and Edmund was sitting by the fire, with just a few candles to keep the darkness at bay, when Julia entered the drawing room, quiet and composed, but with reddened eyes.
“This letter, Edmund, this letter, it is in William’s hand, but these are not his words. He cannot be in earnest, he cannot intend to be so cruel to me.”
“What shall you do, Julia? Do you wish me to answer his letter? What do you wish me to say?”
“Edmund, I hope you will not think less of me, if I say these ridiculous, stupid conventions which prevent me from speaking plainly, directly and from the heart to the—to the person who loves me—these ideas are artificial and absurd. I suppose I am expected to say nothing, and to go up to my room, and do my needlework, and never, never, attempt to change his mind.” Julia grew angrier as she spoke; her eyes flashed, and she paced up and down, speaking in a fierce whisper so that the servants should not overhear.
“Well then, Julia—speaking plainly, can you think of any reason why we should not go to Portsmouth? I can write to our Aunt Price, and say we are coming to pay a brief visit. You have never met her, and I am sure you would wish to make her acquaintance and to meet the rest
