Lt. F. Eccleston Justinian Spithead, Portsmouth 4 April 1792
Dearest Francis,
Has it been only a fortnight since we
parted? I confess it seems a lifetime to me. I am weak with
longing for you, my love, such that my only solace is to take up this
pen -- or else to close my eyes and touch where you have touched and,
swooning, dream of you. If anyone had predicted only a few months ago
that I would experience an interlude such as we have known these last
weeks, I would have thought that person utterly mad.
Even now, I shudder to think what
would have happened -- or rather not happened -- had I refused Lady
Rutledge's invitation to accompany her to Mrs. Norrington's that cold
February evening. It was the first social event I had attended
since I put off widow's weeds and I was truly reluctant to attend, but
Sarah did coax me so.
A silver lutestring gown might not
have been so very flamboyant, but it was far brighter attire than I had
been accustomed to, and a good deal lower cut as well (a fact that you
gallantly remembered to me on a later, more intimate occasion).
And I would be less than truthful if I did not admit that I look well
in that particular color; it does set off chestnut hair and a
pink-and-cream complexion to advantage.
Though the first words you said to me
as you bowed over my hand were completely conventional (I think they
were, "Your servant, madam") there was something so ardent in your blue
eyes, so genuine in your voice, and there was such admiration in your
expression, that I could feel myself blush and grow cold at the same
time. And you sensed it at once, I knew, for you held my hand a
bit longer than was quite the thing, forcing me to withdraw it, though
I could barely bring myself to do so.
The rest of the evening passed in a
haze. There was no dancing, of course, and you took someone else
in to dinner -- and how I envied her -- but I felt your eyes upon
me as the ladies left the dining room for their tea and gossip and I
hoped it would not be the last time we met.
I have always tried to be honest with
myself, you see, and I knew even then that I wanted you. I had
been a happy wife, though Harry was so much older than I, but it had
been a year, and I was -- I am! -- young. I wanted to feel alive
again. You did that to me with one look. How was I to know
how shy you were, how much encouragement you would need to be a lover
and not just an admirer? Never mind, dearest. It was my
pleasure to convince you.
Can you imagine the delight that
sprung up in me the next day when you happened upon me during my
morning ride in Rotten Row? (I realize now that Sarah Rutledge
must have had some hand in this.) I was unable to take my eyes
from you, for I do appreciate a fine figure of a man on horseback and
you ride like a country gentleman born rather than an officer of His
Majesty's Navy.
Oh, blast, why recount it all,
Francis dear, when you were in my bed within another three days?
You know what are the moments I want to relive. You came to dine
and ate nothing. I poured wine for you and you did not drink
it. I had never seen such a case of nerves in all my life.
Indeed, I cannot recall a single
detail of supper on that third evening, although I had fussed
extravagantly over the menu. Glancing at you as the candlelight
burnishes your dark gold hair, I could not think how to encourage you
to be bold and yet not diminish myself in your eyes. I yearned to
simply throw myself in your arms, but with someone so upright, so
chivalrous -- it would never have done.
Who would have believed that my
lifelong love of reading would provide the inspiration? I racked
my brain as we sat, at last, before the drawing room fire, seeking
warmth and comfort in that too-large, too-empty space. Poetry! I thought. I shall
woo this brave officer with poetry,
and decided I would make myself a sea-goddess for you:
My cabinets are oyster-shells, In which I keep my orient pearls;
To open them I use the tide, As keys to locks, which opens wide
The oyster shells, then out I take Those orient pearls and crowns do
make;
And modest coral I do wear, Which blushes when it touches air.
On silver waves I sit and sing, And then the fish lie listening:
Then sitting on a rocky stone I comb my hair with fishes' bone;
The whilst Apollo with his beams Doth dry my hair from watery streams.
His light doth glaze the water's
face, Make the large sea my looking-glass .
. . .
Even as the words tumbled out of my
mouth, my eyes were riveted on the rise and fall of your broad chest,
the strong column of your throat. My own Apollo, bathed in the
soft firelight, swallowing nervously. Nearly panting you were by
then, and I too was breathless. I felt rather than heard my voice
fairly squeak to a stop.
"Mrs. Trent," was all you said, your
own voice cracking. And you leaned forward and reached across the
interminable space between our two chairs to take my hand in
yours. I write to relive these moments myself as well as to
remind you, dearest. I quivered to hear you say my name. "Lydia.
Oh, sweeting! I have no right to ask, but dare I hope . . . ?"
Even as a girl, I was always too
forward. I really could not help myself from pressing your hand in
return, from rising out of my seat and then swiftly kneeling down next
to you. I wonder now if I may have contrived matters so that it
appeared you drew me there, but in that moment it seemed to me that you
did!
You were so dear to me then, a little
awkward (forgive me) and yet so desirable, gazing down at me as though
you had never seen a woman before. I felt like Eve, or at the
very least Calliope. My heart pounded as you raised my hand to
your lips.
Your eyes told me everything -- your
desires, fears, doubts. Naval lieutenants cannot hope to marry,
of course. And my trustees have too much power over my fortune to
allow me to turn that horrid, wasteful convention on its ear. And
so, my dear love, we took the only path open to us. Neither
society nor the world at large might approve, but no mortal could help
but envy the sublime pleasures that awaited us . . . .
Lydia sighed
as she put down her pen to turn the sheet. She fanned her burning
cheeks as a vision of those pleasures rose swiftly, vividly into her
mind. She had reached up to him then, feeling the constriction of
her stays against her swelling breasts and delighting in the sound of
his caught breath as he gathered her up in his strong arms and bent his
head to hers.
In only a
moment, she had pulled away, laughing, as he sputtered and began
flailing one arm. "Breathe, Francis," she had suggested, smiling
and stroking his golden hair. "You mustn't forget to breathe, my
love." Blushing and sheepish, he had taken her suggestion as
kindly as she had meant it, took two deep breaths and tried again.
Oh, Lord, he
was so sweet and he wanted her so much. She was on his lap now as
they began to kiss again, gently, slowly, and Francis's rather
impressive male member was making itself known through his britches as
well as her gown and two petticoats. Lydia's response was nearly
instant. She could feel her body melting, moistening as he pulled
her hard against him and moaned softly against her mouth. Then he
suddenly raised his head and her eyes flew open.
"Wh -- what
about the servants?" he whispered urgently. This time she could
not restrain her laughter at all. He shook his head gravely, at a
loss. "Won't they be bringing coffee at any moment? I must
think of your reputation . . . ."
"I am happy
to say that my servants -- in this case Robert, the footman -- are the
epitome of discretion. Robert will knock before he enters, not
because you are here but because he always does. And if anyone in
this house saw us just as we are now, it would not give me a moment's
concern. They might mention it to each other, but I do not
believe a single one of them would gossip about me. They all
loved Harry so much and are very, very good to me."
"Who could
know you and not love you?" Francis said, fixing her with his innocent
and therefore quite charming gaze. "And I am sure you are good to
them as well. But would they not feel protective at least -- you
know, believe I am compromising you?"
"Do you think
I need protection, sir?" Lydia said archly, kicking one
velvet-slippered foot as she leaned back in his arms. "Perhaps I
wish to be compromised."
She was most
gratified that her anxious lieutenant not only relaxed in reaction to
her playful tone, but at last seemed willing to enter wholeheartedly
into the spirit of the occasion.
"Ah," he
said, smiling shyly. "In that case, Mrs. Trent, may I inquire
whether you would like me to compromise you here or in your bedroom?