Fic: 'Stormalong' (8/8 - J/E - 'R')
COMPLETE!!!! And a day before my (self-imposed) deadline. Not only the fic, but my 10_hurt_comfort table, too!
Thanks, as always, to my dear beta reader hereswith, who not only has the sharpest eye for errors and repeated words, but has such wonderful suggestions on phrasing, characterization, etc. My work in vastly improved through her expert assistance.
~ Stormalong ~
Chapter One: Errand
Chapter Two: Disaster
Chapter Three: Shadows
Chapter Four: Persuasion
Chapter Five: Trouble
Chapter Six: Complications
Chapter Seven: Darkness
Chapter Eight: Morning
What a difference a fortnight made!
Soeur Marguerite out of danger. Jamie nearly his lively, mischievous self again. And Elizabeth could at last take the time to enjoy a morning's leisure in her cabin on the Empress.
She was sipping her coffee and was half way through the dispatches that had arrived from the Cove the evening before when there was a scratch upon the door and Father Anselm was announced. She stood up as he came in, and returned his bow gravely enough, though her eyes twinkled at his pinched, disapproving expression. "Will you sit down and take coffee with me, Father?"
"No, I thank you," he replied, stiffly. "Capitaine Swann, I have come to lodge a protest, to implore you to use whatever power and influence may be yours in curbing the untoward behavior of your colleague, Capitaine Barbossa!"
Elizabeth widened her eyes. "But Father! I was under the impression he'd been on his very best behavior these three weeks and more, since his arrival on the Île. He and his men have joined in the rebuilding of your town with the greatest good will!"
The priest frowned. " I do not speak of that. We are, of course, infinitely grateful for the assistance your people have lent in this regard. The rift between the Cove and the Île is ended. Better than ended. As if it had never been! But Barbossa's sin is grave nonetheless, showing favor, nay, tempting a holy woman! A woman who should be beyond reproach in the eyes of all! A woman who most certainly should not be exposed to the vile blandishments of a… of a pirate! You will forgive my candor on this head."
Will I, indeed? Elizabeth's smile had vanished, but she ignored the general insult, for the moment, and focused on the more specific one. "And is she not beyond reproach, Father? You speak of Soeur Marguerite, I take it, but I am not aware that Captain Barbossa has done ought but converse a little with her in the evenings, and arrange that flowers be brought to the church to bring her joy, and joy to everyone who has been ill. Is his sin so grave?"
Father Anselm reddened, and he looked quite severe. "He should not thus single her out! Scandalous enough that he laid unclean hands upon her when she first succumbed to the malady!"
"Should he have let her fall to the ground and perhaps be injured?" Elizabeth protested.
"She is a bride of Christ, and should not have been touched by such an one. He should have called for help, leaving her to those more worthy."
Elizabeth's eyes blazed, but with an effort she controlled her wrath. "Father Anselm, your people have never shown anything but the greatest love and respect for Soeur Marguerite, from the day I arrived to this. As for her association with Hector Barbossa, I can only point out that her actions are most in keeping with those of He to whom she's wed, He who did not scorn to befriend sinners. But content yourself, Father! The rebuilding is well in hand and the townsfolk are quite capable of completing it on their own. The plague has run its course. We will be leaving within the week, and I daresay you will find it a great relief to no longer have your town overrun by pirates."
*
Jack came into the cabin as Father Anselm was bowing himself out. Having observed the priest's face, and now seeing at Elizabeth's he raised a brow and gave a low whistle. "Lord, what did he say to you? You look ripe for murder."
"I am!" she asserted. She sat down and put her hands to her head. "Oh! He's such a… a…"
"Hypocrite?" Jack suggested, perching on the edge of the table, beside her. He picked up her cup of coffee and took a sip.
"Yes!" She looked up, outrage swelling. "Would you believe it? He told me Soeur Marguerite should have fallen to the ground unaided rather than be manhandled by Barbossa!"
"And this surprises you?" Jack set the cup down again and smiled, all fond indulgence. "You're still such an innocent, love."
"I'll swear no one else here is of that opinion!"
"Probably more'n you'd think hold with it, though it ain't general, and only the priest dares to broach the subject. But it's time to take our leave, darlin'. Don't want to wear out our welcome."
"No." Elizabeth leaned back, and she could not help it, her heart grew lighter for love of the man before her, his strange beauty, his courage, his wit. If ever a monarch had an ideal helpmeet, it was Elizabeth Swann, King of Pirates. But she said only, "I wonder what he'll say when he learns Henri is coming with us?"
Jack shrugged. "Don't much care, and I doubt Henri does, either. He's a right one, is Henri. And not just because he's taken such a liking to Jamie, though I can't think of a finer tutor for the lad. A man of parts, is Henri Pontchartrain."
"Yes, he's a worthy opponent in chess as well, I gather." Elizabeth grinned. "He and Ragetti have a contest going, and Ragetti says Henri is 'up to every rig and row'."
"Aye! Can't beat 'im more'n three out of five meself. Told him I'd teach him swordplay, too, which should be amusing."
"Perhaps Barbossa would be better suited to that task," Elizabeth suggested, slyly, standing. She slipped a teasing hand under his coat, along his ribs.
He started, scowled, and stood up himself, pulling her hard against him. "Are you implying my swordplay ain't what it should be, you scurvy wench?"
She chuckled. "That's King scurvy wench to you, knave!"
He grinned. "So it is, Your Nibs," he agreed, his voice full of love and laughter, and he kissed her.
*
Barbossa's eyes were focused on the bright sea ahead as the Maid left the harbor of Île Sainte-Thérèse behind. Always did him good to be at sea. Washed the decks clean, brushed the cobwebs away. A month on land was too much for a man. No wonder Jack'd gone a bit mad - madder - during that time he'd spent in the Locker.
But this last month had been a strange one, no question, and maybe he'd gone a bit mad himself.
Smitten by a nun, of all things.
She'd reminded him of a lass he'd known, long ago, when he'd been no more'n a lad himself. Growing up in the same village, he hadn't thought much of her. She were quieter than the other lasses, slender and dark, with a sober look in her eye, though the expressive, beautiful lips had a humorous curve 'round the edges. But she did him a kindness, once, though he was beneath her notice, she being the daughter of the local reverend and him just the youngest of Maggie Washer's fatherless brood.
He was set to go to sea, but after that kindness he'd begun to eye the lass, and wonder about her. And though it were a terrible risk for both of 'em, he'd gotten to know her some, in a friendly way, and then… well, more serious. He couldn't deny it. Hadn't touched her, he'd at least had that much sense, though he'd ached with wanting it, and near the end had nigh strained his wrist seekin' solitary relief in out of the way corners. Not that there weren't plenty of willing lasses to ease him, if he'd had a mind. But in a village that small, she'd have heard, and thought less of him, and that he couldn't have.
So it'd been nothin' but talk between 'em, sweet but less than satisfying, until the last night, before he was to take the highroad for Bristol. She'd kissed him. And he'd kissed her.
You wouldn't think just a kiss would make that much of a mark on a man.
A year later she was gone. Same plague that'd taken his mother and youngest sister. That'd been a hard time. A hard time, and no mistake.
Well, Marguerite was safe. He'd seen to that. Helped with it, anyway. It'd please him to set his cook makin' all sorts of dainties for her when the fever'd left her so weak but on the mend, and the children of the village to gathering flowers, armloads of 'em, fillin' every vase and bowl they could find. Better'n that bloody incense. Made up some for that wound he'd taken so long ago, too, as had their conversation, of an evening. She was a treasure, sure enough.
He knew that damned priest had gone to Lizzie about it, though she'd never said anything. Fella probably set up her back - he was that sort. His expression had been priceless when Hector'd walked into the church carrying Marguerite. Scum o' the earth. Hector'd ignored the blackguard. Oh, he'd been circumspect enough in his dealings, and never moreso than that very morning, when he and Marguerite had bid each other adieu. A look, a brush of his lips on the back of her hand. Nothin' more than that. But that hadn't been for fear of the priest, but for love of the lady.
Love! Hector shifted a bit, his hands tightening on the spokes of the wheel. Maybe that wasn't the right word.
But then again, maybe it was.
Finis