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A Woman Like You

by Pandaimonia
August 6, 2005

Josephine. Anna. Josette. Marguerite. Many more whose names he cannot remember or never knew. No woman’s features are truly unique: this one’s lips, that one’s hair, this one’s arching of her back, each one has its twin on some other face or body. The curve of her neck and shoulders speaks to him of a French whore he never had—too expensive, too good for him—and always regretted that fact. The shape of her breasts, full, ripe like the apples he hasn’t tasted in years, is like to that of a good Catholic woman, down on her luck, who needed to buy bread for her children. There was shame in her eyes afterward, though none in his; he has been beyond shame for too long to surmise when he lost it.

It is fitting that he chose this dress for Elizabeth, for it had been Catherine’s, and in the end, she is most akin to this Miss Turner, who is in fact, Miss Swan. That flash of defiance in her eyes, that way she bares her teeth and lifts her chin, daring him—all that was Catherine to his mind.

He never had her either, and he hates her for it in his memory. He wanted her from the moment he set eyes on her at some port city—it may have been Port Royal, though this could be his memory playing tricks on him. It was a long time ago, after all, when he still thought he was master of his own ship, his own destiny, the whole world even. Such is the arrogance of youth that he thought he could have this woman who bore herself like a queen. He had already known many women, and would have many more after that, but he never desired another women like he did her. The sound of her skirts rustling, the quick sighting of a glimpse of her ankle, the back of her neck peeking out from under her so-soft-looking piles of hair. These sights at once aroused him and angered him, raising his desire and yet giving him nothing.

She was another man’s, never his; as much someone else’s property as a fleet of ships or a set of priceless cargo. He is not a poet or some pirate-bard, but he has thought up comparisons for her not a few times: Chinese silks, perfume from Araby, ivory and the finest Egyptian cotton and jewels and rare baubles, and he finds them all lacking. He can only think of a women like her in metaphors. Skin like a fine china teacup. Lips like rosebuds, like a true cupid’s bow, words he never thought he would apply to a woman’s feature. And that neck, that waist, those breasts…fury pricks at him with these remembrances, the knowledge of what he can no longer experience needling him along with the memory of what was denied him.

He slashed her officer (high-rank, full decoration and honors—only the best for that one) through the heart and left him to bleed out his crimson life all over the wreckage of his own ship. It was one more of a long, long litany of scenes that parade through his memory at will, and sometimes against, and those are just the ones he remembers.

Catherine should count herself lucky for all the things that didn’t happen to her, the things that happen to women everywhere when they’re at the mercy of pirates. He wouldn’t let his men have her, not even to touch or strip down and eye hungrily. They might not like it, might mutter dismissively at a man who has no stomach for violence, who won’t strike a woman unless her tongue is truly sharp, but there are things they don’t know. He remembers the smell of smoke and women screaming, the stories he heard—tongues sliced out, breasts lopped off and shoved into the mouths of screaming women when pirates sacked their homes.

He had a mother, once, and two sisters. Things like that can be pushed down, but they don’t disappear. He remembers them, their soft, round faces and higher voices, murmurs he fell asleep to each night. Their handiwork, spinning, weaving, and sewing, clothed him. It was women who cared for him when he was young, who made sure he was clean and fed and protected; it was women’s hands who bathed him and changed his diapers and picked him up when he stumbled and cried. It was women who knew him when he was small and weak, and in the end, it was women who could not keep him safe, who could not protect him from the world any longer. He has not forgotten these lessons.

He remembers Catherine, even if he’s not sure he wants these memories : the slip-slide of her silky dress, the trembling of her hands—fluttering to her face, then her neck, then to each other as she clasped them in an attempt to hide the shaking—the acrid smell of fear and sweat under her perfumed scent.

"I’m no man’s whore," she had insisted, proud and defiant, "and I will not be treated like one. I’m not a bought woman that you can have like this."

"What are you then? Oh, I’m sure they have a fine name for women like you. A courtesan perhaps, or some other fancy word for a whore whose upkeep could keep a family of eight alive for five years?"

"I never thought I would hear a pirate sneering at me for what I’ve done to provide for myself. I’ve never murdered, never hurt anyone the way you would without thinking twice." She went on to enumerate his cruelties and crimes as he watched her blankly. Truly he had never met a woman like her—and wouldn’t again, not for many years.

Even now, his jaw clenches when he thinks of her words. He had offered her her freedom, more freedom than a woman like that should even imagine having, but she had thrown his offer back in his face. Damned stubborn, foolish woman.

"What other choice does a woman like you have?" he had finally said, in anger.

"There’s always another choice," she replied, "always." After this statement, a new calm seemed to come over her. He wasn’t sure what this resolution was or what it meant for him, but he soon found there was little he could do with her mind set this way. Catherine refused his food, his drink, all signs of hospitality. She would not sleep on the bed he offered her (in a room separate from his own chambers, even, for he was trying to show her courtesy) or take any of the clothes he offered her. The last glimpse he ever had was of her in that dress, its skirts stiffened from sea spray caught in the breeze that rose around her as he opened the door. She was backlit by the light, the rays of the sun glinting off her jewelry and her hair, leaving her hardly more than a silhouette. He never did know what expression she wore as he wished her a good night.

When they looked for her the next morning, she was gone. Somehow, she had slipped out under their watch during the night—not a great feat necessarily, considering how drunk the men on board had been. She had left her jewelry behind: pearl earrings in gold settings, necklaces and rings and bracelets that she had almost seemed glad to give up when they had first taken her into the hold. Her dress was a swell of plum silk on the floor. When he picked it up, he almost expected it to still be warm from her body, but of course it had been too long for that. Her hair combs that just hours before had nestled against her head were dropped on the night table, as if she would be returning in a few minutes to fetch them.

They saw the sheets that went out the window, leading down to the water. She must have slipped into the sea, quietly, quickly, too softly for anyone to hear and pull her out. Mutinous to the end, that one. He could imagine the look in her eyes, wide and so determined to mask whatever fear she had. He’s seen that same expression reflected in Elizabeth’s eyes.

It is enough indulging in idle thoughts for now; his memories all only turn sour with time. Elizabeth will walk the plank, he decides. It is only just, and a fitting punishment for her. But he will not kill her outright, only send her to the island with Jack. Whatever happens after that shall happen, but he does not want to know. Let the ocean write the next chapter in the story. He has given up trying to understand or force women when they have their mind set, for it is no more successful than attempting to redirect the currents of the sea. He leaves this woman’s fate to the wind and the water, and the power of her own will.

~.~

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