Persuasion (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (5 page)

Mr. Shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the circumstances of the Admiral’s family, which made him peculiarly desirable as a tenant. He was a married man, and without children; the very state to be wished for. A house was never taken good care of, Mr. Shepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture might not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as where there were many children. A lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world. He had seen Mrs. Croft, too; she was at Taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all the time they were talking the matter over.

“And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she seemed to be,” continued he; “asked more questions about the house, and terms, and taxes, than the Admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with business; and moreover, Sir Walter, I found she was not quite unconnected in this country, any more than her husband; that is to say, she is sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once; she told me so herself: sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at Monkford. Bless me! What was his name? At this moment I cannot recollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelope, my dear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at Monkford: Mrs. Croft’s brother?”

But Mrs. Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot, that she did not hear the appeal.

“I have no conception whom you can mean, Shepherd; I remember no gentleman resident at Monkford since the time of old Governor Trent.”

“Bless me! How very odd! I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose. A name that I am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so well by sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, I remember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer’s man breaking into his orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the fact; and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an amicable compromise. Very odd indeed!”

After waiting another moment —

“You mean Mr. Wentworth, I suppose?” said Anne on an exhalation of pent-up breath.

Mr. Shepherd was all gratitude. No one had noticed the way Anne’s voice caressed every syllable of that name.

“Wentworth was the very name! Mr. Wentworth was the very man. He had the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or three years. Came there about the year — 5, I take it. You remember him, I am sure.”

“Wentworth? Oh! Ay, — Mr. Wentworth, the curate of Monkford. You misled me by the term
gentleman
. I thought you were speaking of some man of property: Mr. Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected; nothing to do with the Strafford family. One wonders how the names of many of our nobility become so common.”

As Mr. Shepherd perceived that this connexion of the Crofts did them no service with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all his zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their favour; their age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had formed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of renting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the happiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Elliot: an extraordinary taste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of Sir Walter’s estimate of the dues of a tenant.

It succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an evil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them infinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into allowing Mr. Shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still remained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen.

Sir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the world to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials, than Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer. So far went his understanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in the Admiral’s situation in life, which was just high enough, and not too high. “I have let my house to Admiral Croft,” would sound extremely well; very much better than to any mere
Mr.
— ; a
Mr.
(save, perhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of explanation. An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same time, can never make a baronet look small. In all their dealings and intercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence.

Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her inclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to have it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to suspend decision was uttered by her.

Mr. Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such an end been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to the whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed cheeks and to carry out a now necessary mission; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a gentle sigh, “A few months more, and
he
, perhaps, may be walking here.”

Her fingers passed over the bench where they had always met, and she knelt beside it to pull a box from the roots of the tree that had always sheltered them from prying eyes. The box would now be going with her. With a sigh, she settled the weight of the box on top of her thighs and steeled her courage. She could never touch it without opening it; could never open it without reading its contents; could never read its contents without despair.

She ran a finger across the initials carved in the lid:
F.W.
Slowly she opened the lid, and the aroma of old memories wafted upward. Countless letters lay inside, and she hesitated only a moment before reaching in and retrieving the one that lay on top. It was her favourite and the most read among its brethren for it contained the first declaration of his love.

The parchment trembled within her hand as she unfolded it, and she skimmed over the words in a familiar scrawl until she arrived at the very end —

Yours for ever,

Frederick

He
was not Mr. Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St. Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half a year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; his looks and personality were unrivaled at every gathering at which he appeared. Every lady swooned over his wind-swept blonde hair and blue-green eyes, but at each event, he found himself staring over the heads of the misses who were vying for his attention at a diminutive girl with dark eyes.

He asked around quietly and discovered her name, and he could not help thinking Anne an extremely pretty girl; however, one mere conversation with her and he knew she was more than a pretty girl. Anne was gifted with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted; he made sure to seek her out at every dinner party thereafter for at least one conversation, though in his heart, he knew the conversations were too short. Before long, he desired her company more than anyone else’s, and, once acquainted with this desire, he fell rapidly and deeply in love. He confessed his heart and sought her hand a very short time after first spotting her across a crowded ballroom, and she assured him she returned his love. It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.

A short period of exquisite felicity followed.

Memories bombarded Anne as she sat beneath the tree with her box of letters.

Young Anne had loved young Frederick with a passion that she never could have guessed she would possess. After Anne agreed to marry him, they arranged to meet each other in the gardens of Kellynch Hall each afternoon. As they parted each day, Anne gifted Frederick with a kiss. He would trail the back of his index finger down her cheek, smile that smile that tilted upright more on the left side, lean in, and brush his lips across hers so sweetly and tenderly that it stole her breath. And though she loved these kisses and looked forward to them every day, she soon discovered that his innocent touch kindled a need within her that she had no way of containing and no idea how to quench.

One afternoon, perhaps a dozen sweet kisses into their afternoon interludes, one particular kiss that started off as sweet and innocent lasted but a moment before Frederick ventured to take matters one step further by tilting his head and licking at the seam of her lips. The move was so tentative that it was apparent he expected her to be shocked by his action; he was soon shocked himself.

Anne had never felt a more wonderful phenomenon than Frederick’s tongue seeking entry into her mouth. She fisted her hands in the fabric of his jacket, pulled him even closer, and returned his tentative lick with a desperate one of her own. He made an incoherent noise deep within his throat, and in the next moment, her cautious lover disappeared. The large hands that had been trailing slowly down the slope of her back descended suddenly to the curve of her bottom where his fingers flexed, squeezing her tightly. He used this hold to pull her into his body even more, though she had not known they could be closer than they were. That was the moment she felt a sharp prodding to her stomach.

Anne gasped into Frederick’s kiss, and he jerked away with harried apologies dripping from his glistening lips. But Anne refused to give up her hold on his jacket, and he was forced to either stop his retreat or tear the fabric from her fingers. Anne stared down through the space between their bodies and felt her eyes widen.

Frederick’s fawn-coloured breeches barely contained a hard length that strained against the fabric so fiercely Anne wondered if it would rip.
Arousal
, Anne’s brain supplied, and she realized she was staring at the evidence of his desire for her. Something molten unfurled deep within Anne’s belly, and she heard a husky sound escape her parted lips.

“Oh, Anne,” he whispered in a low, distraught voice. “Darling, I am so sorry.” A few moments of awkward silence followed before he cleared his throat and with a self-conscious breath of laughter said, “I am trying to make it go away, but with you giving it so much attention, I haven’t a prayer of succeeding, darling.”

Like a scolded schoolgirl, Anne jerked her head up to meet his eyes. “Oh!” She felt blood stinging her cheeks. “I am not supposed to look at it, am I?”

That tilted smile of his made a broad appearance, and his hands, which had moved from her bottom to her upper arms when he had tried to step away from her, squeezed her gently as he tilted his head back, revealing a tantalizing corded length of throat, and emitted a deep rumble of laughter. His eyes met hers once again, brimming with amusement. “Anne, you can do anything to it that you want. Looking is the least licentious option.”

“
Anything
?” Anne realized the breathless whisper had, indeed, come from her mouth instead of staying inside her head like she had intended when his smile lost its mirth and his fingers flexed again, this time almost painfully.

“What did you have in mind?” The words were so quiet as to almost not exist.

“May I — ” Anne took a deep breath and forged ahead. “May I t-touch it?” Her focus had trailed down from his face as she stumbled over the words, and so she was looking at the
it
in question when she finished.

His arousal kicked up beneath the fabric of his breeches, and Anne felt her mouth go dry with absolute
want
.

Frederick’s ragged intake of air sounded somewhere above her head, and then he trailed one of his hands down from her upper arm to tug her hand up to his lips. She focused on his face once again as he pressed a soft kiss to her fingertips. He seemed to steel himself, and then he placed her hand flat against the area near of the top button of his waistcoat. As his hand, now done with its duty, returned to grasp her upper arm, she felt muscles she did not know a man would possess flex beneath her fingers. She could not prevent an exploratory rotation of her hand, and the muscles she had just discovered rippled even more.

She looked at his face once again and noticed his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down erratically. His lips were parted. His breaths were coming quicker than was usual, and his eyelids were lowered halfway.

She realized with a start that even this simple touch was affecting him greatly. Feeling a power that was both new and wonderful, Anne rotated her hand again, pointing her fingers downward, and slowly began to slide her palm down the plane of his abdomen.

His breathing increased in pace, and his lids lowered even more so that the lashes from top and bottom almost met.

Anne heard her own breathing increase, and she felt warmth swell at the apex of her thighs. Her fingers encountered the slight dip of his belly button, and then, right below it, the fabric of his breeches abruptly flared out. Her fingertips brushed against the blunt tip of his arousal, and he groaned sharp and deep and with such obvious pleasure that Anne dared to explore even further. She trailed her fingers down the outside of his breeches from the tip of his shaft and wrapt her hand around him as far as the fabric and his size would allow. She squeezed, and he made a noise that sounded close to a whimper.

It was so
hard
. She could not imagine how his body accommodated such a thing. “Does it hurt?” she asked in a whisper.

“
Yes
.”

She gasped, jerking her hand away. “I am sorry!”

He caught her hand and brought it back to the front of his breeches where, miraculously, his arousal had grown even harder. “Oh, Anne, it does not hurt that way.” He pressed her fingers against him. “It
aches
,” he said hoarsely. “For you.”