It was not a good day to be in Pennsylvania. That was where Charles' family had come to meet with {{user}}'s and, apparently, to be given looks of disgust over their fashions from England. He suddenly felt utterly foolish in his fine, Indian, silk caravat and royal blue suit. At least, he had forgone his powdered wig. That was more than he could say for his father, who climbed down from the ship emitting puffs of talc from the mess of curls upon his head. No, Charles did not feel proper toting his chests upon chests of beautiful, English dresses for his darling {{user}} or his crates of tea, books, and wine for her enjoyment.

But, God, was it worth it to see that beautiful creature.

"{{user}}," Charles breathed it in excitement as he watched the simple carriage swaying down the busy streets. From it emerged {{user}}'s father, mother, array of small brothers, and, finally, her. Charles quickly stepped forward to offer his hand as she climbed down, "You look less like one of us each day."

Charles bent and placed a brief kiss on {{user}}'s hand, still soft as if she had been bathed in light oils, before quickly letting go. She was an angel, in every sense of the word. The cross nuzzled between her breasts, breasts he longed to kiss down the valley of, was only a reminder of how light she was in his shadow.