Black
Pearl Tales
is the official archive of
Black Pearl Sails
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Pirates of the Caribbean
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a Reasons
to Believe by Hereswith |
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1.
A Matter of Trust |
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Chapter One He didn’t come. The appointed hour arrived, and passed, the day slowly lengthening into evening and then slipping, almost unnoticed, into a cloudless night. But he did not come. Elizabeth couldn’t sleep. Panic settled like the weight of a stone in the centre of her heart. Not immortal, she thought, and no longer all that young. He had only stayed away once before; when the Royal Navy had scoured the seas around Jamaica, but that was long ago and neither Norrington, nor her father, had spoken of any similar venture these last few months. She counted each breath, as she lay in her bed, clutching the black pearl in her hand. When she found out the truth, it was purely by accident, and not by design. A fragment of conversation caught the whole of her attention. A single voice carried through the air, as if the market had not been filled with voices. “Jack Sparrow.” Elizabeth flinched, a cold stab of fear running through her body. She stopped, not heeding any of the people around her and looked to the right, at the two marines standing at the corner of the street. “About time that damned pirate had a stroke of bad luck,” the younger man said, with considerable satisfaction. “I heard the Spaniards brought him down,” his companion replied. “Now, that’s one sparrow, for sure, that won’t fly again.” And they laughed. She wanted to kill them. She wanted to wake up. Had not wanted anything this badly, since wanting Will to live. And all her wishes had availed her nothing, then. They availed her nothing, now. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t know how to weep. Strange, that she should have forgotten. Jack. * A letter and a parcel were delivered to her door, soon after, by a small and quiet boy, who scraped his feet and would not meet her gaze. She offered him a slight, tired smile and he ducked his head, the coin that she gave him quickly disappearing into the folds of his clothes. After he had gone, Elizabeth went into the kitchen. She opened the letter first. It wasn’t signed, but she could guess who had had it written. Joshamee Gibbs. Not Anamaria, she had her own ship, and sailed with fairer winds. The letter was short and simple, it told her too much and yet, not nearly enough, but her imagination filled in the gaps, with such terrible ease, and she could see it in front of her, as clearly as if she was there. The Black Pearl, damaged and listing to one side. The Spanish warship and its Commander, dark of hair and skin, like Jack. Jack, the scoundrel, who was shot. Jack, the scalawag, the blackguard, who fell into the water and was swallowed by dusk and the white-crested waves, before any of his crew were able to reach him. And the Pearl, out gunned, out manned and bereft, was forced to put hope, as well as the Spanish warship, to their rudder. Elizabeth crumpled the letter up into a ball and tossed it onto the table. She closed her eyes, briefly, to steady herself, then set to removing the wrapping paper around the parcel. What emerged was an unexpected treasure. A tricorn hat; the brown leather faded, discoloured and cracked. Had it been anyone else’s, she would have thrown it away and taken care not to touch it. Bloody pirate. He loved that hat. Grief caught up with her, all at once. And it was not fit for a lady, that grief. Not fit for a Governor’s daughter. She screamed, like a sailor’s wife, into the face of the storm. * She dreamed of Jack, that night, though she remembered little of it, only the terrible sense of urgency and the blood. There had been so much blood. And she had been falling, or sinking, perhaps, she wasn’t entirely sure. Her right hand thumb strayed to her left palm, like it often did while she was thinking. She still bore the scar, a thin, white line that destroyed the lines a fortune-teller might have read. When she married Will, she had made her own fortune and she had sometimes pressed her palm against his, as if the wounds were open and they swore a binding oath. She had never done that with Jack, but she had seen his scar, and it was a match to theirs. She was sitting on the bed, legs drawn up under her, tricorn hat upon her head. It tended to come down over her eyes, when she bent her neck, but she didn’t take it off. Would not take it off. The day Will had died, she had been there. She had held him, mourned him and, in the end, surrendered his body to the earth. This was different. Her hand stilled on the scar and her jaw set in firm resolve. Once, she had been a person who was willing to do whatever was necessary. She needed to be that Elizabeth again. * The Aurora was a small and sturdy vessel, not meant for combat or speed, but rather suited to carry some merchant’s goods from one island to another. Her Captain, John Sutton by name, was a jovial man, red-haired and red-bearded, who took after his ship, in stature and built. She had been afraid he would know her for the Governor’s daughter, in spite of the worn cloak, the plain dress and the coif, but he didn’t question her. Nor did he behave as if he thought she was anything other than what she claimed to be: a townswoman, of no more than middling means. “You’re in luck, ma’am.” He took out his pipe, filling it as he talked. “We’re bound back to Tortuga on the morrow, now that our cargo’s been loaded. You’re welcome to a spare berth, as long as you can pay for the passage.” Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. “I have money enough, I hope.” The Captain lit the pipe, puffed on it a few times, then took a long draw. A stream of smoke escaped from between his lips and the heavy scent of tobacco spread through the air. “Must be important, ma’am. The reason you’re going, that is.” She nodded, giving him that much at least. “I’d rather not speak of it, Captain Sutton.” “Not my business, eh?” he said, with a dry chuckle, but he shrugged, settling with that. “I expect you to be here bright and early, ma’am. We’ll sail out of port at dawn, and no later.” “I understand.” All tension left her in a rush, and her heart thudded. “Thank you, Captain.” * “It’s an excellent idea.” Weatherby blew on the tea to cool it, and swallowed a mouthful. “And it’s all decided, is it?” “Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Charlotte’s only glad to have me stay with them for a week or so.” She felt a twinge of guilt, as the words left her mouth, even though it wasn’t a lie. Not quite. Charlotte would indeed have been glad, had she but known of it. “How many children do they have, by now? Two?” “Three,” she corrected. “Two boys and a girl.” “Three?” He shook his head. “And to think it seems like yesterday that the two of you were playing in the garden, mere children yourselves.” Weatherby heaved a small sigh, then added, almost as an afterthought, “You’ll give her my regards, won’t you?” “Your best regards, father,” Elizabeth reassured him. “You know that.” She lifted her cup to drink and, for a while, they both sat savouring their tea, in companionable silence. Elizabeth’s gaze travelled to the window, drawn by the glimpse of the bay and the glittering waves. Something tugged at her, deep inside, and she knew what it was. Would have recognised that particular craving, awake or asleep. Her legs longed for the sea. “Elizabeth?” She turned towards him and Weatherby cleared his throat, suddenly serious. “I spoke to James Norrington the other day. He told me that pirate—Jack Sparrow—has been killed.” Her hand tightened around the cup. “I heard rumours,” she said, evenly, keeping her eyes fixed on the pattern of flowers on the surface of that thin, delicate porcelain. “So, it’s true, then?” “I believe there was a skirmish with some Spanish warship,” Weatherby replied and she heard the chink of the spoon as he stirred it around. “Peculiar fellow. Had the most horrid breath, as I recall.” He hesitated. “A pirate, and a good man, isn’t that what William used to say?” Elizabeth looked up, startled by the question. “It was. I’m surprised you remember.” “I’m not that old, I’ll have you know,” he admonished, but there was no edge to his voice. “I don’t agree with the sentiment, still, the man did save your life, after all.” She swallowed sharply, so many things on the tip of her tongue. Words she could not say. “Yes.” Elizabeth set the cup aside, stretching her cramped fingers, and she rose. “It’s late. I really should be getting home.” And it might have been obvious she was running, as fast as she could, but she didn’t care. Should she stay, she would end up sobbing her heart out in front of him and that would be worse. “You must pack, of course.” Weatherby regarded her, steadily, with the slightest hint of concern. “It will do you good, I think, the change of scenery, as well as Charlotte’s company.” Elizabeth felt that twinge again, stronger than before and not all of it was guilt. She covered the distance between them and, without preamble, leaned down to kiss his cheek. “I love you, papa.” “Well, I’ve never—“ Weatherby exclaimed, flustered, but he reached out and enfolded her hand in his. “Dear child.”
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