Little Lordie Part Eighteen
Title: Little Lordie Part Eighteen
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 1,611
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Not a happy, fluffy ending.
Characters: Lord Beckett and several OCs
Pairing: Beckett/OC
Chapter Summary: Lord Beckett returns Maggie to bonny Scotland.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry, Hindley Swinton and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Well, this is the last chapter of “Little Lordie”. I am actually somewhat relieved to have finishedUnder another story, though I don’t think anyone will care for the ending. I do have a short, ten chapter sequel planned and outlined, but when I begin writing all depends on how much work my professors give me this semester. I would like to thank everyone who read this story and those that commented. You guys are the best, really and I am so very grateful for your support. As always, I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!
Beckett decided at once that he did not like Hindley Swinton. The man was not overly smart and certainly more of a moron than anything else. But he was bonny, so very bonny as Maggie had said and he sat with his long legs crossed in the chair before Beckett’s desk.
“I fear I cannot rightly express my gratitude,” he said in the clear, concise voice of an Englishman. Mr. Swinton had not the babbling, nonsensical way of the Scots. “Martha MacFerran was always so very dear to me.”
Beckett stared at the new silver inkwell by his right elbow. A gift it had been, from a colleague. He had received many gifts upon his return to England, including laurels from his counterparts in the Company. The pirate lords were no longer faced with extinction, but entombed by it. Humph, just as Maggie had promised.
“Martha?” Beckett cleared his throat and tried to be polite. Swinton was staring at him with feigned appreciation, although there was little light behind the man’s dark eyes.
“My sister-in-law, my lord.”
“Ah, yes.” So Maggie was not her name after all. Beckett almost laughed. Had she ever been entirely honest with him?
Yes.
Something tightened about his heart and his blood throbbed in his veins. Heat made his skin tingle.
She had loved him, yes, that was no lie.
But not now. No, her guards reported her as cold, haughty and more likely to quarrel than submit quietly. She was fury itself. Beckett had not dared to visit her, even though temptation gnawed at his reason. He would rather her go unseen from his presence.
“Ten years.” Swinton clapped a large hand on his knee. He was dressed like a gentleman farmer in tan breeches and a burgundy coat. “It has been so very long. Do you think she remembers me?”
“Of course.” Beckett could not stay seated. He rose and paced. The shutters had been drawn over the arched windows, though a draft seeped in through the cracks. Rain spilled from the heavens in a cold, unceasing spray. The fire in the hearth brought little warmth to the room.
“And it was on a ship you found her, my lord?” Swinton had turned about in his chair and was staring at Beckett like some witless monkey. Beckett could hardly believe that the man had cheated Maggie-Martha-and won. And yet, first impressions were always deceiving.
“I did, sir,” he said, some measure of despondency in his voice. He had recounted the story a dozen times and was weary, so very weary. Concocted during the crossing to England, he had woven his own web of deceit to avoid complications…and protect her. Maggie would stick with it if she wished to live, though he half expected her to go mad when she learned of her fate. She did not yet know of Hindley Swinton….
Beckett sighed and gathered himself. The fire gnawed away at several sooty logs. “She was sailing with a man by the name of Henry King.” He paused just long enough for Swinton to exclaim ‘the bounder!’. No, Beckett thought, not a bounder, not a ruffian. Henry King had tried to be a gentleman, but alas, his head had not been set on straight and he took the deceiving path to sin.
“Many a good turn she did me,” Beckett continued, “and it seems only fair now to do the same for her. I expect you will take good care of her, Mr. Swinton.”
For the first time, Beckett thought he detected a bit of licentiousness in the man’s smile. “Of course, my lord, I shan’t let her stray from my sight.”
“Then those are my terms.” Beckett ran the toe of his boot along the ashy edge of the carpet. Embers glowed on the flame-scarred hearthstones, burning brightly then fading into nothingness.
Nothing, yes, that was what he felt. Empty. He could not care for Maggie if he felt empty and he never had. It had all been a grand rigmarole, a game. And in the end, she had lost. There was no use in complicating things with emotion.
“Also, I should like you to keep her away from England,” Beckett continued after a time. “Unfortunately, Mr. Henry King was associated with-”
“Highway thievery?” Swinton put in.
Beckett glanced over his shoulder and for some strange reason, he found he disliked the man. “Yes.”
“Piracy?” Swinton seemed to be enjoying himself. He shook his head a little, looking obscenely smug. Beckett turned away from the hearth, put the fire to his back and his shadow stretched over the floor.
“No, he wasn’t a pirate.”
Swinton looked almost disappointed. “Oh, but he was a ne’er do good when I knew him. Put some foolish, romantic notions in Martha’s head, but she was never quite all there to begin with, a bit flighty, you know.”
Beckett set his jaw, a muscle twitching in his neck. Why was he angry? Why did he care what the mindless man said? He was right, after all.
“She is a bit out of sorts,” Beckett managed to mumble. “I would suggest somewhere quiet, peaceful…secluded.”
Swinton nodded. “Consider it done, my lord.”
But Beckett was not satisfied. “You’ll take care of her?” he asked. “Good care of her, that is.”
For the first time, Swinton seemed taken aback. He uncrossed his legs and rubbed his hands together. “Yes, my lord. What a thing to ask! Of course, I am duty-bound. But it is rather unseemly for her to abide with me. After all, her dear sister, my blessed wife is no more. It would be preferable, then, for me to marry her outright. I can protect her, you see and we might live comfortably.”
Beckett felt he could not stand to hear anymore of the man’s babbling. It rubbed his nerves raw and made him feel as though he were still afloat amidst the ruin of the Endeavour, waiting, hoping to be snatched from the water by a merciful hand.
Maggie had been merciful, but he would be cruel.
He rounded his desk and sat. “Married or not, that is your business. I only ask that she is provided for.”
Swinton inclined his head and shoulders in a small bow. “Of course, my lord.”
For a moment, Beckett searched for the man’s eyes, hoping to find sympathy, concern, decency. He found naught.
And in the end, he called for the guards and sent for Maggie. She had left him no choice, after all and would have been smart to let him drown.
Beckett almost wished he had….
She came into the chamber not as Boadicea, but Dido, defeated, her head bowed, her arms limp and listless. Beckett could not see her face at first and thought perhaps she was a different woman. They had dressed her in a pretty gown with a flowered pattern. The maid had artfully arranged her hair, swept it up underneath a neat hat and tamed the harsh red with bland powder. And she did not look ill or abused, but almost plump. Cared for, yes, like a lady.
Beckett stood as did Swinton. He wanted to speak first though, wanted her to hear his voice and perhaps be pulled back to him. But Swinton was already rushing forward, his arms outstretched.
“Martha!”
Her head snapped up, her mouth falling open, lips quivering. And then she was shaking all over.
Beckett thought she might break before him, as she when he had first forced her down to the brig and endured her banshee wails.
“Maggie,” he said, ignoring Swinton’s affronted grunt. But she would not look at him. Instead she shook herself free of the guards and walked, death-like, an empty corpse into Swinton’s arms. He embraced her and chattered away like the fool he was, telling her that they would return to bonny Scotland and live off her father’s land and thus be content. Yet he was rough with her, his hands around her wrists, giving her a good shake as if to make her understand. And she did not speak.
Beckett felt as though he had died. The earth closed over him, swallowed him, smothered him in a musty grave. The silver inkwell on his desk caught the light of the fire and glared at him, mocked him with an opulent smile. Gifts, treasures, he was surrounded by wealth. But what had he lost?
He did not notice her draw near. A hand fell over his, a cold hand that froze his skin. She turned her head to the side and did not look at him, but her lips moved, her passionless, chilled lips.
“Tyburn Hill, eh?”
“No,” he replied, the word lodged in his throat along with his heart. “I saved your life.”
“You are a liar, Cutler Beckett. You lied to Harry. You lied to me.” And she faced him. His eyes met hers and the world collapsed. Beckett did not see anger, only sorrow, resignation and his own guilt mirrored back at him. “And now you lie to yourself,” she said. “I feel sorry for you, so very sorry.”
Swinton took her from him then, wrenched her away out into the hall. Beckett saw only a hint of her flowery gown, a flash of her dull red hair. He ran to the window, numb fingers undoing the shutters and revealing the faded London streets. They were already in the coach and the horses were whipped up. They trotted away down the long crowded avenue. Beckett fell against the window and watched them go. It was raining, still raining.
The End
Dido was the Queen of Carthage featured in Virgil’s “Aeneid”. When her lover Aeneas abandoned her to continue on his journey to found Rome, she went insane with grief and committed suicide.
Tyburn Hill was a village made infamous for its gallows and was the principle site for most of London’s public hangings. It was usually the last stop for most highwaymen and therefore, when Maggie alludes to Tyburn, she alludes to her greatest fear.