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“I wonder where Jack is
today.”
It’s a phrase I hear quite often; it has become a favorite game
of hers, for us to sit here on the bluff overlooking the harbor
and speculate on the location and adventures of our friend.
It was a welcome question at first, a diversion from the awkwardness
of our first outings. For all the familiarity we developed while
on the high seas, back on land the barriers of station and propriety
came surging up again: I was courting her now, an honor
I could scarce comprehend. A mere blacksmith – or “pirate”, as
Elizabeth would laughingly insist – as the chosen one of the incomparable
Miss Swann? There were days when I could scarcely find it in myself
to speak. Yet when Elizabeth spoke of Jack Sparrow, the walls
would come falling down, and we would discuss him – full of enthusiasm
and laughter, imagining narrow and adventurous escapes from the
pursuit of Norrington.
The conjecture turned anxious at times, as Norrington’s quest
to capture Jack continued. No news is good news, I assured her,
but she would fret at the occasional rumor of capture or sinking.
There was barely-hidden glee behind the question when Norrington
and the Dauntless returned with no circumlocutory, staggering
prisoner aboard. Oh, there was concern for Norrington, for the
men he’d lost in a hurricane, the damage to his ship, and the
air of discouragement that hung over the commodore. Her tender
heart went out to the men for their losses, but when we were alone
she couldn’t hide the delight in her eyes that Jack had escaped.
When the pressure started to rise concerning the continued failure
to hang the feared pirate captain Jack Sparrow, Elizabeth’s voice
turned wistful. No longer content to envision where Jack might
be, she began to weave ourselves into her imagination, speaking
of freedom and simplicity and the call of the open sea. When Norrington
resigned in disgrace, it was her refuge, to stand next to me and
look out over the sea, weaving swashbuckling tales of us fighting
alongside Jack. I would have my eyes on her, on her perfect skin
and creamy throat and delicate hands, and not be able to comprehend
my goddess in such a rough and filthy life. Oh, I had seen it
before, seen the flash in her eyes as she held her own against
seasoned pirates. She was capable, of that I had no doubt. But
desiring such things? Only flights of fancy, I was sure, brought
on by adventures both read and experienced, and a desire to escape
the cloud that was beginning to hang over us.
It wasn’t until that cloud began to dissipate that I began to
dislike Elizabeth’s game. I would attempt to distract her, desiring
to speak on the fast-approaching wedding, and my plans to take
over Mr. Brown’s forge, and all the dreams and goals I had so
that I might be able to provide for my treasure, and the children
she would bear me. She would listen and smile and interject, and
we would bicker over how much work I would allow her to do. Yet
try as I might to paint the most wonderful, rewarding picture
of our future together, I couldn’t quite reproduce the light I
saw in her eyes when she gazed out at the sea.
Now, with our wedding on the morrow, her mind is still on that
man from almost a year ago, a certain longing in her eyes that
a sudden vicious urge in me wants to quash. “Probably far away,”
I say, and see the disappointment in her face that she tries to
hide. I know she is hoping he will come for the wedding, despite
it going against all sense. Perhaps that is why she thinks Jack
Sparrow might do it.
I hope he doesn’t. On the morrow Elizabeth becomes mine, and I
refuse to share her anymore.
~.~
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