Snippet Twenty - Confiding in you
Title: The Adamant Snippet Twenty
Author: namu_chewy
Summary: Both Andrew and James attempt to confide in others who, at the same time, attempt to confide in them their own issues.
Genre: Romance/Angst
Characters: James Norrington, Andrew Gillette, Weatherby Swann
Pairings: Gillington
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Snippets continue immediately after Curse of the Black Pearl, but not following its sequels. None of the official characters belong to me, I only adapt them for entertainment.
The thin, wooden panelling barely separated them from the sounds of productivity upon the rest of the mess desk. Unlike dining with his old company, here the officers preferred to keep to themselves, and spared barely a word of conversation with one another. Andrew wondered if the men were acting reserved because of his presence. He chewed the morsels of salted meat before swallowing and picking up his glass, taking the chance to glance around the table. The wardroom aboard the Adamant was smaller than that upon the Dauntless, naturally, but the layout was the same, with its central dining table serving as the main area of congregation. At the moment it seemed discussing orders would prove easier than embarking on any rigorous means of conversation. His eyes took in each solemn expression in turn, the men’s faces made somewhat severe by the shadows cast from the lone lantern hung overhead. It squeaked terribly with the ship’s movements, and he wondered why it hadn’t been oiled. Without the noise of conversation the sound was almost painfully conspicuous, and yet nobody but him seemed to notice.
“I hear you have battled the undead, Mr Gillette,” someone spoke up at last, and he looked up from his stew to a somewhat sallow-looking man sat further down the table. Quickly he searched his memory for a name and title; Harris, the Royal Marine officer. He looked too youthful for his post, though he seemed to carry a certain world-weariness upon his sharp, bony features. His dark eyes glinted as they watched him, and Andrew tried not to seem too eager to break the silence by taking his time with a sip of wine.
“Yes,” he said, swallowing and dabbing his mouth with the napkin. “As strange as it may sound.”
Someone snorted loudly, and a man leant back from the table, cradling a glass in his hand. It was the ship’s surgeon, Mr. Phillips. Like the others, he wore a strangely dreary look in his eye, accentuated by dark and severe eyebrows. They were drawn into such a tight knot that Andrew found it impossible to imagine them forming a more amiable line; perhaps Mr. Phillips had never been inclined to stop looking habitually harassed, which was understandable considering his profession.
“There are far too many strange tales of the sea,” the surgeon commented dryly as he raised his glass and gulped a large mouthful. The three deep and distinct lines in his brow looked as though they had been put there by a blade; the receded hairline showed them off like battle scars. Andrew noticed how nobody else at the table seemed to be listening in, most of them continuing to finish their meals as though it were just another task to be completed. Even the officer who had spoken first, now had his eyes turned away with indifference.
“Perhaps you would care to share some?” he suggested lightly, and found the cold, beady gaze falling upon his person.
“I apologise, Mr Gillette, but I'm not a very good story teller.”
Andrew felt himself stiffening under the surgeon’s tone; it was not openly hostile, and yet it was laced with scepticism nonetheless.
“What did they look like, the undead?” a new voice joined in from his right; Mr Wilson, who had thus far received his new senior lieutenant with a total of one utterance and two terse nods, was now regarding him with a bored look. Andrew felt himself beginning to bristle under the skin. Someone lowered their cutlery noisily against the plate, and the clatter sliced through the air, which had suddenly seemed to become laden with unpleasant undertones. He wanted to change the subject. Both Phillips and Wilson seemed to be challenging the credibility of his account; the subtlety of their manners did not escape him one bit, having gained much experience from attempting to read the commodore’s mind through his each and every grimace. Luckily he was saved by the late appearance of the first lieutenant. The bustle from the men at their mess tables poured in immediately through the panel doors as the tall figure let himself in. Mr. Phillips cleared his throat softly, and Wilson turned his eyes upon his superior like the rest of them who nodded briefly and uttered their quiet addresses.
“Mr Fry,” Andrew addressed him similarly as the elder man strode over to take his seat at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen,” he returned the formality as the steward brought out his stew. They sat and finished eating in the senior lieutenant’s presence, staying long enough for another drink or two, and the odd game of cards before one by one they dismissed themselves from the table. Andrew watched as Harris yawned and shuffled the cards in those peculiarly delicate and pale hands of his. The Marine officer glanced up and met his eye.
“Shall I leave them for your use?” he asked.
“No, it’s-” Andrew began to say, when the other remaining company broke in.
“If you don’t mind, Mr Harris. I would like to play a hand or two with Mr Gillette.”
“Very well. The queen of hearts is missing, though,” the young man broke into a somewhat sly smile, and Andrew saw Fry chuckling as he raised another spoonful to his lips.
“So long as the king remains, all will be well.”
Andrew caught the worn, tatty pack as Harris slid it down the table effortlessly; the servant boy managed to raise the pitcher out of its way just in time.
“I’m sure. Good evening to you gentlemen,” the officer dipped his chin before raising from the table and making his way over to the door of his cabin.
“So,” the low voice drew his attention back to the table, and he found himself watching the heavy mess of scars criss-crossing almost every knuckle. Andrew glanced briefly down at his own hands and noted how relatively clean they were in comparison. “How do you find her?”
“Very well. The men seem exceptionally disciplined…I was a little surprised to find that my presence did not stir a single brow. Indeed, they carried on as though I had always been their instructor.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” said Fry as he picked up his glass; Andrew saw that he had finished his meal in a matter of minutes. Dining itself was not a leisurely act, then, at least not for the officers of the Adamant. “Of course, if they behaved any different I daresay they would feel it,” the man murmured, and Andrew tapped the cards out into his hand.
“I understand the captain prizes himself on discipline.”
“Naturally. It is the backbone of conduct, after all.”
“Yes, I agree,” he tapped the worn edges against the table and smoothed back some folded corners.
“Although not all of us are perfect exemplars, I’m afraid.”
“No…” Andrew uttered as he shuffled, remembering Mr. Phillip’s almost accusatory comments, and wondering whether Fry had the same individuals in mind.
“Tell me, Mr Gillette,” he leant forwards upon his elbows, swirling the last sip in his glass. “Was your old wardroom ever as fun as ours?” he smiled ironically, and Andrew lofted his brows at the rare expression, taking it as a sign for one to relax. He sucked in a breath and released it noisily; the sound said it all, and Fry chuckled. Andrew began to feel increasingly at ease within the other man’s presence. As serious as he appeared, he did not make you feel as self-conscious and constantly on guard as the others did.
“The general display of stoicism is admirable,” Andrew said lightly, and the lieutenant snorted before gesturing to the boy for a refill.
“Funny, but the triviality of banter hadn’t crossed my mind until you came along."
Andrew blushed and cleared his throat, tapping the cards loudly against the table.
“If I remember correctly it was in fact you who approached first with lines of poesy,” he retorted mildly, and saw the fair brows lofting.
“Ah, yes, you are right, I suppose romance could be considered my weakness…” the voice retained its ironic tone, and yet the pale eyes drifted thoughtfully onto the glowing lantern. “…as hard as it is to believe. One wouldn’t usually marry stoicism with romance, I don’t think.”
Andrew suddenly thought of his commanding officer, and wondered what he was doing this very moment.
“I think all men are susceptible to the gentler natures of the human heart, despite the grim truth of experience which often works against them…” he murmured.
“Spoken like a true romantic.”
Andrew was about to protest when Fry released a heavy sigh and leant back in his chair.
“My wife used to play tunes like Greensleeves all the time…it used to drive me mad,” he grunted, “she had an ear for melancholy, a guest once said, and I asked her never to play it again lest people suspected there was something wrong with our marriage…”
Andrew laughed politely, turning the deck of cards slowly in his hands.
“And did she stop?” he asked.
“Not a chance. The woman continued to ignore my protests until the very end.”
“Ah…” Andrew stopped playing with the cards and studied the eight of clubs.
“Came back from one disastrously long voyage and she was gone. Had been for a year.”
“How terrible…” he uttered quietly. There was a pause as Fry fell to musing; Andrew looked over and saw those pale eyes narrowed and locked upon the lantern, which was squeaking all over again upon its hinge. Perhaps the incident of his wife’s death was the main cause of the lieutenant’s scepticism for the ignorant romanticising of the navy.
“Are you a married man, Mr Gillette?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Waiting upon the perfect creature with connections in the Admiralty?” asked Fry dryly as he watched Andrew with a face devoid of emotion.
“Well I…have met with such a creature…” he began to say before he could stop himself, “…most respectable connections…yet…” Andrew paused and glanced down at the cards, clearing his throat as he realised how ridiculous he sounded.
“So you were lying before.”
“Well-”
“Clearly she must be of notable status, for you to react so defensively.”
Andrew felt his brow contorting and he picked up his glass to take a long sip of wine.
“…I suppose that is true,” he spoke quietly, almost into the glass itself, “to an extent…”
Fry suddenly chuckled, spreading out his large hands upon the table to smooth out the faintest crease in the tablecloth before gesturing for the cards.
“I apologise,” he said as Andrew handed over the deck. “I do not mean to pry.”
“No, it’s quite alright…it is…quite refreshing, I think…in a way…to speak on it.”
“I see. There is the saying, I believe…a trouble shared, is a trouble halved.”
Andrew snorted as he watched him deal.
“In my experience it is rather doubled…”
“Is that so.”
He pushed his glass to one side and rested his elbow upon the table.
“Neither of us can seem to break free from our confines…at least, that’s the trouble we share,” Andrew murmured as he leant his head against his hand, eyes upon the growing pile of cards in front of him. “At times I cannot help feeling as though there’ll always be something on the verge of…well…perhaps I am simply exaggerating. But it can be hard, nonetheless.”
“Not as hard as apprehending the vagueness of your words. Ah, there I go again. I seem to do it without knowing. Perhaps that is why Mr Wilson prefers to keep his distance.”
Andrew thought about how he much preferred Fry's company to that of the younger lieutenant’s; there was an air of hidden arrogance about the latter which didn’t sit well with him.
“It’s quite alright…though I would only bore you to tears if I carried on. Come, let us play. I do believe you owe me a story, Mr Fry.”
The man arched a fair eyebrow as he spread his hand into an even fan.
“I prefer not to encourage further lovesickness in a fellow officer,” he muttered, scratching his jaw as he regarded the cards coolly. Andrew turned his own eyes upon his hand and reached up to itch his wig with a frown.
“Mr. Phillips apparently knows an abundance of sea tales,” he grunted at the memory of the suspected slighting, “though he is not keen on sharing any of them, it seems.”
“A man of his profession is bound to be less susceptible to superstition than others, Mr Gillette, especially if one considers the amount of men he has witnessed dying upon his table over the years…you don’t get a harder truth than that.”
“I suppose you are right,” Andrew nodded as he shifted a couple of cards to the right, wondering whether he had in fact read too much into the surgeon’s behaviour earlier.
“After you, Mr Gillette.”
~+~
As usual, James was on stand-by at the fort, ready for the occasion when his men would come seeking his consent for action, even his personal aid if it was required. After a detour down to the docks to check up on the progress of the repairs being done to the brigs, James made his way back briskly to the coolness of his own office, followed by a flustered-looking Weatherby.
Once they closed the door to his office, James shrugged hurriedly out of his coat and immediately opened the bottom drawer of his desk whilst the governor plunked himself down in the chair opposite, and started pulling out a white cloth from his sleeve to dab at his brow. James straightened up again to slide two clean glasses onto the desk, a bottle clutched in his other hand.
'Afternoon top up?' he asked, and the other man half sighed, half laughed in relief.
'Ohh, yes, before one wilts.'
As James poured, Weatherby took of his hat, and he did think the feathers on it were drooping more than usual. He also couldn't help thinking how much excess heat the other man's wig must have trapped. If he thought his head itched terribly, imagine how bad it must have been for someone wearing such a generous amount of pretty curls.
'So a matter of weeks, you say?” asked Weatherby as James came over and handed him his glass.
“Yes, although if you recall your own journey, one hardly notices,” James replied with a smile before raising his own glass to his lips. Weatherby leant back slowly in his chair, and appeared to stare off into his thoughts as he took a sip.
“I suppose…although knowing old Bess, she'd probably kick up a fuss about something or other,” he murmured to himself, and James leant his hip against the edge of his desk, wondering about the governor's familiar nick for Lady Bertram. He gave his glass a swirl, but Weatherby didn't continue, instead looking a little more solemn the more he concentrated on his thoughts. James followed the man's line of sight, and found it focused on a painting of some ships hung on the wall behind him. It was easy to see he wasn't admiring it, though.
“You are anxious about something, governor?”
'Hm?' Weatherby uttered as his eyes darted away from the painting and onto the figure stood opposite.
'I said, you seem somewhat anxious,' repeated James.
'Oh, just to see them, I suppose,' he said, glancing off into some unfathomable distance again. James shifted his weight onto the other foot as he waited for the pause to pass again. 'It has been too long, really, and dear Frederick...well...the lad only came up to about here, the last I,' he was saying, but paused with his arm half outstretched to indicate how tall the younger Frederick would have been. He sank back against the chair again with a sigh, and closed his eyes as he rubbed at his brow with his knuckles. James glanced down thoughtfully at the contents of his glass.
“By all means, governor, you may feel at ease to speak of whatever you wish in my company.”
'I fear I talk too much in your company, in all honesty,' chuckled Weatherby with a somewhat worried expression. 'You are almost like a father to confide in at times, I daresay.'
'Feel most free to confess your sins to me any time,' joked James, but what he said seemed to have hit a nerve, for the governor suddenly frowned and gave out a quiet groan as he leant forwards upon the arm of the chair and pressed his lowering brow into a hand. Worried, James felt his back stiffen as he lowered his glass to the desk.
'Are you quite alright?'
'I should have got myself a real father,' Weatherby grunted, and dropped his hand to meet James in the eye. 'Do I come across as a hypocrite to you?'
A little surprised by the question, James paused.
'I...wouldn't say so...'
'Hmph, well 'lisbeth will disagree with you, I'll bet you anything,' muttered the governor. 'Although this time she might actually have a point.'
Intrigued now, James gripped the edge of his desk with his hands to keep himself from beginning to pace around his room, something he always did when he tried to suss out puzzles and mysteries. He took a mild relish in the pondering, since such intrigues were usually rare to come by. That, or this somewhat uncharacteristic interest in another man's affairs was proof of his building desire for another's constant company.
'What reason would Elizabeth have to judge you...?' asked James, and was further thrown by Weatherby's brief, troubled laugh, before he met with an expression in the elder man's eyes that seemed to be assessing whether or not he could trust James with his answer.
'Well I'm guessing she will no doubt question my authority in choosing what I deem to be the best possible suitor for her, once she learns her own father had been just as stubborn as,' he was beginning to explain, but then stopped with a sharp, aggitated sigh and a dismissive flick from his hand. 'Oh I was young then, name me a man who hasn't made mistakes in his youth!'
James felt a bit embarrassed by the other's small outburst, but didn't want to discourage the governor from his talk, nor the impression the man had of James as someone trustworthy enough to confide in about his less glamorous affairs - perhaps even in the literal sense. At least that was what this all appeared to be heading towards, James thought to himself, and sure enough he could see what the governor meant about Elizabeth reacting in a non-too mild way if she were to find out.
'Please, forget I said anything, I do prattle on most foolishly at times, I think it's the heat, you know,' said Weatherby hurriedly with a shake from both his head and hand. He moved so fast, the last mouthful of his claret swished out of his glass and made a damp spot on the carpet where it landed. Gripping at the ends of the armrests, he was about to stand when James spoke up to try and put him more at ease.
“It's quite alright governor, I suppose they say speaking one’s problems aloud can help put them into proportion,” said James, and he pondered over the advice, believing it sounded convincing yet contradictory to his own personal preference to do just the opposite; brooding on his problems alone, keeping all at a constant arm’s length away. 'And you can be sure I will not speak a word of your troubles to anyone.'
'Yes, well,' said Weatherby quietly as he stood up and knitted his eyebrows together whilst he itched under his wig. 'I trust you won't.'
After the governor left the office, James paced over to the nearest window and gazed out at the bay, and the busy bodies littered around it. He couldn't help comparing the weight of wrongdoing in what he suspected was an affair in the governor's case, with that of his own. The timing of an old flame's return, along with child, was curious, and James didn't much like the thought of Elizabeth getting grief from learning this, but still he could not help feeling that these troubles of the Swanns paled in comparison to the fears of discovery which continued to plague him constantly, no matter how much he tried to forget about it.
And now that Andrew had left with the Adamant, he noticed he was suddenly and most irrationally missing him and longing for him far too early, and far too much for his own liking. This new slavish pining of that weaker part of his resolve both irritated and worried him, and he knew that come night, alone in his bed, he would not be able to sleep again until he had prayed for with the one he feared the most, beseeching him to protect and return to him the one person who he hadn't realised could ever come to mean so much to him.
Author: namu_chewy
Summary: Both Andrew and James attempt to confide in others who, at the same time, attempt to confide in them their own issues.
Genre: Romance/Angst
Characters: James Norrington, Andrew Gillette, Weatherby Swann
Pairings: Gillington
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Snippets continue immediately after Curse of the Black Pearl, but not following its sequels. None of the official characters belong to me, I only adapt them for entertainment.
The thin, wooden panelling barely separated them from the sounds of productivity upon the rest of the mess desk. Unlike dining with his old company, here the officers preferred to keep to themselves, and spared barely a word of conversation with one another. Andrew wondered if the men were acting reserved because of his presence. He chewed the morsels of salted meat before swallowing and picking up his glass, taking the chance to glance around the table. The wardroom aboard the Adamant was smaller than that upon the Dauntless, naturally, but the layout was the same, with its central dining table serving as the main area of congregation. At the moment it seemed discussing orders would prove easier than embarking on any rigorous means of conversation. His eyes took in each solemn expression in turn, the men’s faces made somewhat severe by the shadows cast from the lone lantern hung overhead. It squeaked terribly with the ship’s movements, and he wondered why it hadn’t been oiled. Without the noise of conversation the sound was almost painfully conspicuous, and yet nobody but him seemed to notice.
“I hear you have battled the undead, Mr Gillette,” someone spoke up at last, and he looked up from his stew to a somewhat sallow-looking man sat further down the table. Quickly he searched his memory for a name and title; Harris, the Royal Marine officer. He looked too youthful for his post, though he seemed to carry a certain world-weariness upon his sharp, bony features. His dark eyes glinted as they watched him, and Andrew tried not to seem too eager to break the silence by taking his time with a sip of wine.
“Yes,” he said, swallowing and dabbing his mouth with the napkin. “As strange as it may sound.”
Someone snorted loudly, and a man leant back from the table, cradling a glass in his hand. It was the ship’s surgeon, Mr. Phillips. Like the others, he wore a strangely dreary look in his eye, accentuated by dark and severe eyebrows. They were drawn into such a tight knot that Andrew found it impossible to imagine them forming a more amiable line; perhaps Mr. Phillips had never been inclined to stop looking habitually harassed, which was understandable considering his profession.
“There are far too many strange tales of the sea,” the surgeon commented dryly as he raised his glass and gulped a large mouthful. The three deep and distinct lines in his brow looked as though they had been put there by a blade; the receded hairline showed them off like battle scars. Andrew noticed how nobody else at the table seemed to be listening in, most of them continuing to finish their meals as though it were just another task to be completed. Even the officer who had spoken first, now had his eyes turned away with indifference.
“Perhaps you would care to share some?” he suggested lightly, and found the cold, beady gaze falling upon his person.
“I apologise, Mr Gillette, but I'm not a very good story teller.”
Andrew felt himself stiffening under the surgeon’s tone; it was not openly hostile, and yet it was laced with scepticism nonetheless.
“What did they look like, the undead?” a new voice joined in from his right; Mr Wilson, who had thus far received his new senior lieutenant with a total of one utterance and two terse nods, was now regarding him with a bored look. Andrew felt himself beginning to bristle under the skin. Someone lowered their cutlery noisily against the plate, and the clatter sliced through the air, which had suddenly seemed to become laden with unpleasant undertones. He wanted to change the subject. Both Phillips and Wilson seemed to be challenging the credibility of his account; the subtlety of their manners did not escape him one bit, having gained much experience from attempting to read the commodore’s mind through his each and every grimace. Luckily he was saved by the late appearance of the first lieutenant. The bustle from the men at their mess tables poured in immediately through the panel doors as the tall figure let himself in. Mr. Phillips cleared his throat softly, and Wilson turned his eyes upon his superior like the rest of them who nodded briefly and uttered their quiet addresses.
“Mr Fry,” Andrew addressed him similarly as the elder man strode over to take his seat at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen,” he returned the formality as the steward brought out his stew. They sat and finished eating in the senior lieutenant’s presence, staying long enough for another drink or two, and the odd game of cards before one by one they dismissed themselves from the table. Andrew watched as Harris yawned and shuffled the cards in those peculiarly delicate and pale hands of his. The Marine officer glanced up and met his eye.
“Shall I leave them for your use?” he asked.
“No, it’s-” Andrew began to say, when the other remaining company broke in.
“If you don’t mind, Mr Harris. I would like to play a hand or two with Mr Gillette.”
“Very well. The queen of hearts is missing, though,” the young man broke into a somewhat sly smile, and Andrew saw Fry chuckling as he raised another spoonful to his lips.
“So long as the king remains, all will be well.”
Andrew caught the worn, tatty pack as Harris slid it down the table effortlessly; the servant boy managed to raise the pitcher out of its way just in time.
“I’m sure. Good evening to you gentlemen,” the officer dipped his chin before raising from the table and making his way over to the door of his cabin.
“So,” the low voice drew his attention back to the table, and he found himself watching the heavy mess of scars criss-crossing almost every knuckle. Andrew glanced briefly down at his own hands and noted how relatively clean they were in comparison. “How do you find her?”
“Very well. The men seem exceptionally disciplined…I was a little surprised to find that my presence did not stir a single brow. Indeed, they carried on as though I had always been their instructor.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” said Fry as he picked up his glass; Andrew saw that he had finished his meal in a matter of minutes. Dining itself was not a leisurely act, then, at least not for the officers of the Adamant. “Of course, if they behaved any different I daresay they would feel it,” the man murmured, and Andrew tapped the cards out into his hand.
“I understand the captain prizes himself on discipline.”
“Naturally. It is the backbone of conduct, after all.”
“Yes, I agree,” he tapped the worn edges against the table and smoothed back some folded corners.
“Although not all of us are perfect exemplars, I’m afraid.”
“No…” Andrew uttered as he shuffled, remembering Mr. Phillip’s almost accusatory comments, and wondering whether Fry had the same individuals in mind.
“Tell me, Mr Gillette,” he leant forwards upon his elbows, swirling the last sip in his glass. “Was your old wardroom ever as fun as ours?” he smiled ironically, and Andrew lofted his brows at the rare expression, taking it as a sign for one to relax. He sucked in a breath and released it noisily; the sound said it all, and Fry chuckled. Andrew began to feel increasingly at ease within the other man’s presence. As serious as he appeared, he did not make you feel as self-conscious and constantly on guard as the others did.
“The general display of stoicism is admirable,” Andrew said lightly, and the lieutenant snorted before gesturing to the boy for a refill.
“Funny, but the triviality of banter hadn’t crossed my mind until you came along."
Andrew blushed and cleared his throat, tapping the cards loudly against the table.
“If I remember correctly it was in fact you who approached first with lines of poesy,” he retorted mildly, and saw the fair brows lofting.
“Ah, yes, you are right, I suppose romance could be considered my weakness…” the voice retained its ironic tone, and yet the pale eyes drifted thoughtfully onto the glowing lantern. “…as hard as it is to believe. One wouldn’t usually marry stoicism with romance, I don’t think.”
Andrew suddenly thought of his commanding officer, and wondered what he was doing this very moment.
“I think all men are susceptible to the gentler natures of the human heart, despite the grim truth of experience which often works against them…” he murmured.
“Spoken like a true romantic.”
Andrew was about to protest when Fry released a heavy sigh and leant back in his chair.
“My wife used to play tunes like Greensleeves all the time…it used to drive me mad,” he grunted, “she had an ear for melancholy, a guest once said, and I asked her never to play it again lest people suspected there was something wrong with our marriage…”
Andrew laughed politely, turning the deck of cards slowly in his hands.
“And did she stop?” he asked.
“Not a chance. The woman continued to ignore my protests until the very end.”
“Ah…” Andrew stopped playing with the cards and studied the eight of clubs.
“Came back from one disastrously long voyage and she was gone. Had been for a year.”
“How terrible…” he uttered quietly. There was a pause as Fry fell to musing; Andrew looked over and saw those pale eyes narrowed and locked upon the lantern, which was squeaking all over again upon its hinge. Perhaps the incident of his wife’s death was the main cause of the lieutenant’s scepticism for the ignorant romanticising of the navy.
“Are you a married man, Mr Gillette?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Waiting upon the perfect creature with connections in the Admiralty?” asked Fry dryly as he watched Andrew with a face devoid of emotion.
“Well I…have met with such a creature…” he began to say before he could stop himself, “…most respectable connections…yet…” Andrew paused and glanced down at the cards, clearing his throat as he realised how ridiculous he sounded.
“So you were lying before.”
“Well-”
“Clearly she must be of notable status, for you to react so defensively.”
Andrew felt his brow contorting and he picked up his glass to take a long sip of wine.
“…I suppose that is true,” he spoke quietly, almost into the glass itself, “to an extent…”
Fry suddenly chuckled, spreading out his large hands upon the table to smooth out the faintest crease in the tablecloth before gesturing for the cards.
“I apologise,” he said as Andrew handed over the deck. “I do not mean to pry.”
“No, it’s quite alright…it is…quite refreshing, I think…in a way…to speak on it.”
“I see. There is the saying, I believe…a trouble shared, is a trouble halved.”
Andrew snorted as he watched him deal.
“In my experience it is rather doubled…”
“Is that so.”
He pushed his glass to one side and rested his elbow upon the table.
“Neither of us can seem to break free from our confines…at least, that’s the trouble we share,” Andrew murmured as he leant his head against his hand, eyes upon the growing pile of cards in front of him. “At times I cannot help feeling as though there’ll always be something on the verge of…well…perhaps I am simply exaggerating. But it can be hard, nonetheless.”
“Not as hard as apprehending the vagueness of your words. Ah, there I go again. I seem to do it without knowing. Perhaps that is why Mr Wilson prefers to keep his distance.”
Andrew thought about how he much preferred Fry's company to that of the younger lieutenant’s; there was an air of hidden arrogance about the latter which didn’t sit well with him.
“It’s quite alright…though I would only bore you to tears if I carried on. Come, let us play. I do believe you owe me a story, Mr Fry.”
The man arched a fair eyebrow as he spread his hand into an even fan.
“I prefer not to encourage further lovesickness in a fellow officer,” he muttered, scratching his jaw as he regarded the cards coolly. Andrew turned his own eyes upon his hand and reached up to itch his wig with a frown.
“Mr. Phillips apparently knows an abundance of sea tales,” he grunted at the memory of the suspected slighting, “though he is not keen on sharing any of them, it seems.”
“A man of his profession is bound to be less susceptible to superstition than others, Mr Gillette, especially if one considers the amount of men he has witnessed dying upon his table over the years…you don’t get a harder truth than that.”
“I suppose you are right,” Andrew nodded as he shifted a couple of cards to the right, wondering whether he had in fact read too much into the surgeon’s behaviour earlier.
“After you, Mr Gillette.”
~+~
As usual, James was on stand-by at the fort, ready for the occasion when his men would come seeking his consent for action, even his personal aid if it was required. After a detour down to the docks to check up on the progress of the repairs being done to the brigs, James made his way back briskly to the coolness of his own office, followed by a flustered-looking Weatherby.
Once they closed the door to his office, James shrugged hurriedly out of his coat and immediately opened the bottom drawer of his desk whilst the governor plunked himself down in the chair opposite, and started pulling out a white cloth from his sleeve to dab at his brow. James straightened up again to slide two clean glasses onto the desk, a bottle clutched in his other hand.
'Afternoon top up?' he asked, and the other man half sighed, half laughed in relief.
'Ohh, yes, before one wilts.'
As James poured, Weatherby took of his hat, and he did think the feathers on it were drooping more than usual. He also couldn't help thinking how much excess heat the other man's wig must have trapped. If he thought his head itched terribly, imagine how bad it must have been for someone wearing such a generous amount of pretty curls.
'So a matter of weeks, you say?” asked Weatherby as James came over and handed him his glass.
“Yes, although if you recall your own journey, one hardly notices,” James replied with a smile before raising his own glass to his lips. Weatherby leant back slowly in his chair, and appeared to stare off into his thoughts as he took a sip.
“I suppose…although knowing old Bess, she'd probably kick up a fuss about something or other,” he murmured to himself, and James leant his hip against the edge of his desk, wondering about the governor's familiar nick for Lady Bertram. He gave his glass a swirl, but Weatherby didn't continue, instead looking a little more solemn the more he concentrated on his thoughts. James followed the man's line of sight, and found it focused on a painting of some ships hung on the wall behind him. It was easy to see he wasn't admiring it, though.
“You are anxious about something, governor?”
'Hm?' Weatherby uttered as his eyes darted away from the painting and onto the figure stood opposite.
'I said, you seem somewhat anxious,' repeated James.
'Oh, just to see them, I suppose,' he said, glancing off into some unfathomable distance again. James shifted his weight onto the other foot as he waited for the pause to pass again. 'It has been too long, really, and dear Frederick...well...the lad only came up to about here, the last I,' he was saying, but paused with his arm half outstretched to indicate how tall the younger Frederick would have been. He sank back against the chair again with a sigh, and closed his eyes as he rubbed at his brow with his knuckles. James glanced down thoughtfully at the contents of his glass.
“By all means, governor, you may feel at ease to speak of whatever you wish in my company.”
'I fear I talk too much in your company, in all honesty,' chuckled Weatherby with a somewhat worried expression. 'You are almost like a father to confide in at times, I daresay.'
'Feel most free to confess your sins to me any time,' joked James, but what he said seemed to have hit a nerve, for the governor suddenly frowned and gave out a quiet groan as he leant forwards upon the arm of the chair and pressed his lowering brow into a hand. Worried, James felt his back stiffen as he lowered his glass to the desk.
'Are you quite alright?'
'I should have got myself a real father,' Weatherby grunted, and dropped his hand to meet James in the eye. 'Do I come across as a hypocrite to you?'
A little surprised by the question, James paused.
'I...wouldn't say so...'
'Hmph, well 'lisbeth will disagree with you, I'll bet you anything,' muttered the governor. 'Although this time she might actually have a point.'
Intrigued now, James gripped the edge of his desk with his hands to keep himself from beginning to pace around his room, something he always did when he tried to suss out puzzles and mysteries. He took a mild relish in the pondering, since such intrigues were usually rare to come by. That, or this somewhat uncharacteristic interest in another man's affairs was proof of his building desire for another's constant company.
'What reason would Elizabeth have to judge you...?' asked James, and was further thrown by Weatherby's brief, troubled laugh, before he met with an expression in the elder man's eyes that seemed to be assessing whether or not he could trust James with his answer.
'Well I'm guessing she will no doubt question my authority in choosing what I deem to be the best possible suitor for her, once she learns her own father had been just as stubborn as,' he was beginning to explain, but then stopped with a sharp, aggitated sigh and a dismissive flick from his hand. 'Oh I was young then, name me a man who hasn't made mistakes in his youth!'
James felt a bit embarrassed by the other's small outburst, but didn't want to discourage the governor from his talk, nor the impression the man had of James as someone trustworthy enough to confide in about his less glamorous affairs - perhaps even in the literal sense. At least that was what this all appeared to be heading towards, James thought to himself, and sure enough he could see what the governor meant about Elizabeth reacting in a non-too mild way if she were to find out.
'Please, forget I said anything, I do prattle on most foolishly at times, I think it's the heat, you know,' said Weatherby hurriedly with a shake from both his head and hand. He moved so fast, the last mouthful of his claret swished out of his glass and made a damp spot on the carpet where it landed. Gripping at the ends of the armrests, he was about to stand when James spoke up to try and put him more at ease.
“It's quite alright governor, I suppose they say speaking one’s problems aloud can help put them into proportion,” said James, and he pondered over the advice, believing it sounded convincing yet contradictory to his own personal preference to do just the opposite; brooding on his problems alone, keeping all at a constant arm’s length away. 'And you can be sure I will not speak a word of your troubles to anyone.'
'Yes, well,' said Weatherby quietly as he stood up and knitted his eyebrows together whilst he itched under his wig. 'I trust you won't.'
After the governor left the office, James paced over to the nearest window and gazed out at the bay, and the busy bodies littered around it. He couldn't help comparing the weight of wrongdoing in what he suspected was an affair in the governor's case, with that of his own. The timing of an old flame's return, along with child, was curious, and James didn't much like the thought of Elizabeth getting grief from learning this, but still he could not help feeling that these troubles of the Swanns paled in comparison to the fears of discovery which continued to plague him constantly, no matter how much he tried to forget about it.
And now that Andrew had left with the Adamant, he noticed he was suddenly and most irrationally missing him and longing for him far too early, and far too much for his own liking. This new slavish pining of that weaker part of his resolve both irritated and worried him, and he knew that come night, alone in his bed, he would not be able to sleep again until he had prayed for with the one he feared the most, beseeching him to protect and return to him the one person who he hadn't realised could ever come to mean so much to him.