Sparrowhawk- Ch. 1 (ish)
I always thought the little silver bird on the chain was a christening present- a dove maybe. I’d had it ever since I could remember; I never took it off.
My father was an Admiral in the Royal Navy; my mother was a local girl, who he married, briefly. She caught a fever a few weeks after I was born, and never recovered. I don’t remember her, and father rarely speaks of her. He has two “proper” portraits of her (sitting still, in a green dress, dark eyes staring forward, a slight smile on her lips) and one of them together, on the lawn, laughing, her hand on his arm, black hair flying in the wind, he without the Wig. She was a beautiful woman, my mother- straight backed, her hands big but elegant and practical, her eyes proud.
Where-ever I go, I am met with stares, from middle aged, disapproving ladies and tittering society chits. I know what some people call me: Mulatto. Half-caste. I used to look up at my mother’s picture and take her expression as a challenge- “if she could cope with them, then so can I”. I don’t really mind them any more. As father said, they can go hang. The opinions of the brainless are only worth listening to if you desire light entertainment- like a penny dreadful. I remember Millie (Millicent) Turner, age six, breaking Eleanor Basset-Jones’ nose, the first time she dared use the words.
That evening Mr. Basset-Jones had stormed around, red faced, to talk to my father. Papa showed him into the drawing room. I stood behind outside with Mrs. Culpepper, the Irish cook.
“And I tell you another thing, Norrington! It’s bad enough that you flaunted your affair with that wild Carib harlot- and then paraded her about society as your wife. If it weren’t for your rank, it would never have been tolerated. And having her buried at sea, like a pirate, not even a Christian burial. And now you let your” He spat the word, “child run riot around Port Royal. Well, I tell you Norrington, I won’t stand for it.”
There was a protracted silence- I imagined my father collecting himself, “In any case, I believe, Mister Basset-Jones, that it was Millicent Turner who hit your daughter. And having heard hers and Evelyn’s side of the story, I have to say, had it- for instance- been you saying the same to me, I would have been hard pressed not to have done the same, if not more. I do not condone violence, but I will not blame my daughter for something her friend did. And I will not blame Millicent for loyalty to her friend. I am interested to know, however, where such a proper little girl like Eleanor picked up such disgusting array of words.”
Basset-Jones blustered a bit, “Well- I can see you’re not going to do anything, I’ll be on my way- it’s despicable…”
I heard my father stand up, to show him to the door.
“Oh, and Mr. Basset-Jones?” his voice was bright and cheery, “The way you talk with your vile dinner party friends is your own business, of course, but don’t let me hear you talking about Anamaria in such a disrespectful manner ever again.”
I was fourteen when I first noticed Millie’s brother Sam. Up until then he had merely been a nuisance- he stuck my plaits in ink bottles, and hid my dolls, and wrote filthy things on the cover of my copy book.
Millie and I were setting up to ride, and he appeared in the stable doorway, asking to accompany us.
We rode a while, taking a picnic lunch with us, and talked whenever circumstances of pace allowed.
I had never noticed until then how muscular his back was, or how intelligent his eyes were, or how funny his comments were. I liked how he helped me off my pony at the end of the day. I liked how elegant he was, how his every gesture and movement was fluid.
That evening, after Sam had walked me home, I heard my papa in his study, talking to someone. He rarely entertained, and I stopped to listen, curious.
“I have missed you, you know.” He seemed a little breathless.
“’Course you have, course you have- an’ I missed you an’ all. Four months was too long.” A man’s voice. Interesting.
“Aye…too long by half.” My father’s polished accent sometimes slipped- he was, after all, a sailor, and had been to too many places to not have picked up some strange and wonderful inflections.
“You should come away with me Jamie.” Jamie? “We could go anywhere-anywhere at all. Persia- India...”
“Jack...” there was a rueful, warning note in my father’s voice.
“Yeah...I know. Couldn’t tempt you away. You’d be welcome anytime. After all that business with Beckett... Barbossa sez he wouldn’t mind... not that what he thinks matters... And the rest of the crew- knowing what you meant to Ana.” My eyes widened.
Through the crack in the door, I saw a man with a leather coat, and a tri-corn hat, sitting in my father’s chair. On my father.
“EVELYN” Mrs. Culpepper came bustling up the stairs, looking for me. I drew away from the door, and hurried to her by a roundabout route, troubled, not so much by what I had seen, but at the very presence of strange Jacks who sat on my father’s lap.
Over the next three years, two things occupied my mind: Samuel Turner and the identity of my father’s lover- for that was the only conclusion I could come to. I was familiar with the works of Plato- my father having had me properly educated- and had come to the conclusion that what was good enough for Classical philosophers was good enough to me. I know it is blasphemous to say it, but I secretly considered Symposium a far worthier authority on the morality of the subject, than anything the Bible had to say. In short, I found nothing disquieting in my father’s relationship with another man, save the fact that I had no idea, beyond a first name, who he was.
Sam was a different matter entirely. The first year, we danced around each other shyly. A minuet at the ball to celebrate my father’s retirement, a walk along the river at weekends, to discuss literature and music. I played the violin, and he once asked me whether I wrote music, whether I would play for him sometime. Always very respectable.
The first day he sailed with the Merchant Navy at sixteen, along with Commodore Groves’ son,
His parents, Milli and I went to see him off. Well… Millie actually had gone to see Bertie Groves- the couple had been besotted with each other ever since her parents’ anniversary ball and I knew for a fact he was trying to broach the subject of marriage with her father.
He was a nice boy- good looking, witty, kind.
“Well, Sam- I wish you a safe voyage” Why do I sound so cold?
“Thank you Miss Norrington, it shouldn’t be anything to worry about.” Couldn’t he call me Eve? Just this once?
“I trust you will take me riding when you get back, so I may hear all about it.”
“I would consider myself a fool to refuse.” A whistle blew, “I must go- If I may.” He took my hand; his big pale fingers curled around my slim dark ones, and he kissed it. It was not a formal kiss, but a kiss that suggested, in some obscure way, that he would have preferred it to be longer and more passionate, but we were in public, and to do so would have been showing off. “Good day, Miss Norrington.”
With a burst of courage, I squeezed his hand a little, “Safe sailing, Mr. Turner.”